Crazy Good

by Rachel Robinson

  Crazy Good

  by

  Rachel Robinson

  CRAZY GOOD

  Copyright © 2014 Rachel Robinson

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Kari at Cover to Cover Designs

  http://covertocoverdesigns.com/

  Cover photography by Tatum Kathleen Photography

  http://www.tatumkathleenphotography.com

  Edited by Wendy Callahan

  http://www.wendylcallahan.com

  Formatted by Polgarus Studio

  http://www.polgarusstudio.com

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  For the wives. You know who you are. (Hint: you have dead hooker bags and cold weather gear filling your storage closets.)

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Other titles by this Author:

  Chapter One

  Windsor

  Present Day

  My mother is a bitch. Was, is, will always be. It’s never been a question of love. She’s my mother. I grew in her body—she loves me. But for her, it’s always about instilling something more simple. Something more primal.

  It’s about survival.

  You do what you have to do to get by and you don’t let anyone look down their nose at the decisions you make. Actually, if I were taking a page from the Kathy Forbes playbook, it would be to not even spare a passing glance at anyone else. They don’t matter. Only look forward. Only look up. Always be competitive. Always snatch up opportunities that come forth.

  I realized the dose of tough love she was imparting when she moved onto her third husband. I was twelve years old, angry, and made up of half her DNA. Everything she was, was everything I would not be. By the time her fourth marriage was in shambles because I was irrevocably unhappy, I’d learned well. I knew I caused the fourth divorce, maybe even the third. I’ll give her the credit for that one, though. You don’t marry a vegan and request steak at the wedding reception. At the tender age of fourteen even I could see doom and gloom when shoved in my face.

  When I reached adulthood I knew it didn’t matter what I said or did with regard to her past conquests. She ruined relationships all on her own. You see, it was all about the competition. The opportunity. From one relationship to the next, she took what she needed or wanted and then left. They say people come into your life for a reason. I know my father came into my mother’s life to give her me. I know husband number five came into her life to bring her back down to reality. He ruined her. He made her fall in love with him. Then he started giving her a taste of her own medicine. He threatened to leave her every chance he got. He still does it. If you’ve been there, you know it’s a horrible place to be. With the help of a wine bottle, and her emotional scars she morphed into a person unrecognizable.

  I’m not sure what I want out of life, but I know it’s not what she has; a charade game and marriages of no consequence. When she finally did find herself it was too late. Number five locked her away and swallowed the key. I don’t visit. I can’t visit. All I know is she is a bitch who finally got something that drowns out what she couldn’t find. I can’t tell you what she learned along the way. All I can tell you is she survived. She taught me well because right now, in this moment, all I want to do is survive.

  People always say life is too short to be unhappy. If you don’t like something, change it. There’s a beauty in change that can’t come from anything else. Like all positives, there are also negatives warring on the same front. Not that I’m an unhappy person, but I don’t deal well with change…of any kind. Changes in my cycle, changes in the weather, life altering, glaring mistakes that force a huge life change—all of these things are a recipe for my own personal kind of disaster.

  It’s been one year, eight months, twenty-one days, and fifteen hours since the first time I laid eyes on Maverick Hart. It’s been eighteen days and twelve hours since I last heard from him. Numbers and time are tangible things I can make sense of. Nothing else in my life is that easy to compute.

  Honestly, after meeting Mav, I don’t think I want easy anymore. Right now, I’m worried, but worried doesn’t even begin to describe the sick feeling coursing through my body. It’s not just my stomach that turns and flips with anxiety; every particle that makes up Windsor Forbes is affected. I’m not sure I’ll make it through this particular survival course.

  The white, sterile hallway is cold. Goosebumps prickle my skin, and with each step forward toward him I feel dread. What will be left? Will he be the man I remember? Will he even remember me? I say a silent prayer, promising to give up everything if only he’ll survive this. I’d give up everything, anything for him.

  The big, burly nurse comes out of nowhere, her sensible white shoes as drab as her grim features. “Can I help you with something, ma’am?” She’s blocking my way to the rooms. Normally I’d cringe, play by the rules, and this would be the end of my task. Not now. I focus my eyes on the large, black wart on her chin.

  I tuck my long, deflated, brown hair behind my ears and square my shoulders. “I’m here to see Maverick Hart. I’m his s…significant other,” I say, knowing full well only family members are allowed in the hospital rooms. The lie of sister just wouldn’t pass my lips. Burly Wart Nurse clears her throat. She looks to be contemplating something and then merely shrugs, shaking her head. “Second door on the right. Good luck, honey.” Good luck? She ambles back to the nurse’s station and I’m left staring at her wide back, not believing she is just going to let me go in. I didn’t even have to lie. Wrapping my sweater around me a little tighter, I head for his room. It should be a good sign that he’s on this non-ICU-floor of the hospital, but all I feel standing in front of his door, room number 143, is stone-cold terror. Just survive, I think.

  Good luck? I push open the door and a melody of beeps ambushes me. The room is dark—of course, because I flew all day to get here, it is now night.

  “Who are you?” The voice cuts through the darkness. It’s not a familiar voice and I automatically assume it’s another nurse. I swipe my sweaty palms down my jeans. I can’t talk yet. It’s physically impossible until I see him—his face, his lips, his hands. I want to see all of him. My heart thumps wildly, taking away my breath, thinking of
the last time I saw him. I shuffle my feet forward, bringing me closer to the bed in the middle of the room. I see the monitors casting an ominous glow on the white sheets.

  A side-light clicks on. Not even caring what or who turned on a light, I take in Maverick. He is battered and bruised, but he’s here. He’s alive. He is so perfect. Light brown hair peeks out from beneath the bandages around his head. His strong jawline has a sprinkling of scruff surrounding his pink lips. His hazel eyes are closed, but best of all, his chest rises up and down. A woman clears her throat. I startle.

  “I’m going to ask one more time before I call security. Who the hell are you?” she says. I see her then, her long blonde hair piled on the top of her head in a messy topknot. She is sitting on a cot, covered in a sheet. I have obviously woken her up. I also realize I have no clue who in the hell she is either. I take a step closer to the bed.

  “I’m Windsor,” I say.

  “Forbes,” the woman finishes for me, knowing eyes narrowing as she takes me in. Her voice is acidic. I’m not even sure how I know, but I do. With one word the woman has said everything. She’s involved with Maverick in some way.

  “Who are you?” I try to stop my shaking hands because I don’t want to disturb Mav. I know people in a coma can sometimes sense or hear things. As horrendous as it sounds, I just hope he stays sleeping for a little bit longer. “I’m his girlfriend,” I proclaim. I never would have said something so bold before. The man unconscious in this hospital bed taught me to stand up for myself.

  She laughs.

  I should have called. Why didn’t I call before I came here? I feel so stupid. And now, standing in front of another woman I’m panicked, the sheen breaking across my forehead as proof.

  “Sweetheart, I’m his wife,” she says, motioning to her bed, and her obvious family status.

  At once, it’s like I am the one with a body full of shrapnel. A swift shock of pain starts in my stomach and creeps up to my heart, wrapping around it like a plague. That one sentence from her perfect lips chokes me of air, robs me of everything. I want to call her a liar, but I know she’s not.

  I look down at Maverick, still breathing, machines beeping all around him, and tears blur my vision. I knew he was messed up—really messed up–and I still got involved. This is what I get.

  All the memories of us wash over me at once. The tender touches, the sweet words, the molten gazes from across the room, and the silent words we exchanged simply by looking at one another. I clutch my stomach in physical pain.

  I hear her sheets rustle as she comes to stand on the other side of his bed. I meet her angry gaze. Staring each other straight in the eyes, we have a silent standoff. I know who loses these things. The other woman. The diamond and solid band sparkling on her left hand signifies my status in this duel. I feel the tears rolling down my cheeks like hot traitors. Worrying about what his wife thinks doesn’t even register. The sting of Maverick’s betrayal is all-encompassing. You knew he was fucked up, my inner voice whispers. A wife? He’s married. A wedding. A bride. Another life I have no clue about. Lies. I shudder. Nothing but lies.

  “Why?” I ask. The question is involuntary; it just comes garbling out of my mouth on its own.

  “Because he asked me to marry him five years ago. Why else?” She doesn’t realize I wasn’t talking to her. I look down at Maverick.

  My fists balled so hard I think my nails are slicing me, I try to swallow down the bitterness. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me? You asshole! You lying asshole! You promised me honesty! Why?” I scream. It’s loud and echoing and I don’t give a shit. Silent, complacent Windsor is gone. I suck in air trying to fill my lungs, but they refuse to fill.

  The wife backs away from his bed and sits on the cot. The self-satisfied look on her stunning, make-up free face causes my blood to boil. I take a step away from Mav’s bed too, like maybe more of his horrible lies might seep out of his comatose body and enter me.

  I stab my finger toward her. “He never mentioned you. Not once,” I rasp. Her smile disappears. Finally the in control Windsor seems to be making an appearance. I take another step away from him. I latch onto the only thing that strikes as true. He never mentioned her, a wife, not once. Surely, I’d have taken off at a fast pace the second he did. “What’s your name?” I ask. I know my anger should be directed at Maverick, but there are too many unknown variables.

  She raises both arms over her head to fix her hair and sighs loudly. She wants me to think I’m inconveniencing her. “Monica Hart.” She enunciates her last name thoroughly. Bitch. She ignores the accusations. She stands again and grabs his hand. “Did you really think someone like Maverick would be with someone like you for long?” She motions to my bedraggled appearance. I am already acutely aware of all of my shortcomings; I don’t need the lying bastard’s wife pointing them out. I feel like the broken woman I was the day I met him. Broken, untrusting, and freaking vulnerable.

  “I guess everything comes full circle. Doesn’t it Maverick?” I say, my voice still louder than prudent in a silent hospital in the middle of the night. Aware that Mrs. Hart is watching my every move, I approach and lean over Mav’s bed.

  “Take a leap, Windsor. Trust me, Windsor. It’s always only going to be you, Windsor. Forever,” I choke out the words. “I love you, Windsor.” I raise my gaze to Monica’s. My words horrify her. As I give all of his words straight back to him, I feel the black pit forming inside. Lies. All of them. “I’m in, Windsor. I’m all in. That’s what you said, Maverick.” I straighten up and swipe under my eyes with my fingertips. “I guess he was only half in,” I tell his wife, shrugging my shoulders. She just stares, wetness glazing her eyes. I grab Maverick’s hand. It feels heavy…wrong.

  “Guess what, Maverick?” I stutter, unable to answer my own question. I rub his knuckles knowing this will be the last time I see him. Or touch him. My stomach is warring with my heart. I know I’m doing the right thing, I just feel stupid. This is my fault. I took a leap and Maverick Hart let me fall flat on my face. Stroking his jaw with my thumb, I silently say goodbye. He was never mine to begin with. The realization hits me full force. I want to cry and pummel something at the same time.

  I glare at Monica. “You won’t mind if I break up with my boyfriend, will you?” She doesn’t respond, doesn’t nod, or remove her eyes from Maverick’s face. She looks like a zombie, albeit a pretty one, from a bad horror flick. I kiss his cheek and whisper the words I promised him I would never say.

  “I’m out, Maverick. I’m leaving.”

  Knowing I can’t look at him again I speak to a now tearful Monica.

  “Good luck, Mrs. Hart. You need it more than I do,” I say. With that I turn and walk out of his room. As the door clicks behind me, I hear his monitors beeping wildly. A second later Monica screams for a doctor. I walk past the bustle of nurses flying to room 143. Burly Wart Nurse meets my eyes and offers a weak, apologetic smile. I mouth the words thank you.

  As I exit the hospital darkness greets me. Darkness of all sorts. I will give up anything if he’ll survive.

  Guess ole’ Mom had the right idea.

  Chapter Two

  Windsor

  The Past

  One year, eight months, twenty-one days, and eighteen hours ago

  I slick the second coat of nail polish over my toes slowly, making precise strokes. I blow on them even though I know it doesn’t speed the drying process; it just gives me something to do while I wait. “Spontaneous,” I say out loud, reading the name of the shade I selected. The second I say it I immediately regret it.

  “Even your damn nail polish is trying to tell you something,” Gretchen snaps from the other side of the room before she turns on the blow dryer. She has one foot propped on the kitchen counter while she dries her self-tanning spray. She glances up from her furious work and widens her eyes to make sure I’ve heard her, urging me to acknowledge her.

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, yes,” I scream over the hair dryer’s dull roar. She smiles,
switches legs, and returns to her Friday night ritual. I’m just glad she finally found something that makes her look island tropical instead of Oompa Loompa orange. That was a bad few weekends. I shake my head at the memory as I swipe a cotton ball with nail polish remover around my cuticles. Perfect, I think, standing from the old, leather couch. I hear the dryer shut off and know I’m about to be privy to an official Gretchen-knows-best-rant. I tighten my thigh length robe and heave a sigh as I watch her walk toward me, clad in her black lacy underwear and matching demi-cup bra.

  “Seriously. You need to have fun tonight,” she says, fanning her six-pack abdominals, even through the spray is already past the tacky stage of drying. “You are in desperate need of just letting loose, Win. The type of fun that you let happen during a night out—the kind that you don’t worry about what will come next month, next week, or even tomorrow morning.” She’s right. She’s unfortunately, perfectly right. I sigh, clutching the belt of my robe, twisting it half to death.

  “It’s just hard. You know I was with Nash for four years. We were planning our wedding, Gretchen. I can’t just pretend that didn’t happen. I can’t act like I wasn’t ready to settle down. I’m over the bar scene,” I tell her, hoping playing the sympathy card will make her shut up. Even the Gretchen machine has boundaries when it comes to my botched engagement and the downward spiral that almost landed me in the looney bin. “I’m over the hapless fun and, frankly, men are just skeevy these days.” I look down at my toes, making sure they aren’t touching. “They only want sex.”

  Gretchen leans in and hugs me, her lean arms wrapping around my shoulders, and light brown hair sticking to my glossed lips. “They aren’t all skeevy, honey. Some are good and you will find a good one because you are good,” she whispers.