A small smile creeps onto my lips when I think about the woman in the SUV. She was pretty hot. Nice ass. Unlike Vanessa, the woman was a lady—to use Mikey’s term—someone worthy of respect. I could tell she was nervous—it was kind of a crazy request, I got that—but she definitely wasn’t hitting on me. I picture her face. Her eyes were huge, really light brown, more like gold. Pretty. And a great smile.
I give Mikey a smart-ass smirk and shrug. “None of your business, dude.” I glance to where her BMW SUV had been and pull the card back out of my pocket.
Jillian Grant
Author / Photographer
(973) 555-6837
Mikey leans on his shovel. “Come on, man. All that’s left for me is living vicariously through you.”
I spot a tiny spark of jealousy in his eye and snort. “I won’t tell Maria that.” At nearly thirty, he already has three kids, all under the age of four. I gaze back at the card. “She’s a writer.” That’s all I’m willing to say.
He wiggles his brows and pumps his fist salaciously. “Married? Wants a little Mac-a-Tastic love on the side?” Over the years, Mikey has created a whole Mac-abulary based on my nickname, short for my last name, MacDonald.
“Don’t make me sound like a gigolo,” I say, giving him a good-natured shove. “And I have no idea if she’s married. It didn’t come up.”
“If the shoe fits . . .” He chuckles, making another obscene hand gesture.
“Fuck off, and stop using me for wish fulfillment. Besides, I have enough problems with the Loch Ness Monster. She threatened to throw my shit all over Route 287. Is there any way I can jet out of here to go pick it up?”
He frowns and waves his hand. “Go. We’re almost finished here anyway.”
Tension releases from my shoulders and I head to my old Ford pickup.
I smile again. Jillian Grant, author-slash-photographer, has put me three hundred bucks closer to freedom from my soon-to-be temporary living arrangement. I didn’t lie to her. I would’ve done it for free. Vanessa may have kicked me to the curb, but Jillian sees something worth putting on a book cover.
My smile fades. I hope the character isn’t an asshole.
Either way, at least now I’ll have money to pay for my books when school starts this week.
Chapter 3
Raine
I TEXT VANESSA before I pull out of the lot at the hospital. Of course, I receive another classic Nessie reply:
Too late . . .
I grind my teeth for the entire fifteen-minute drive across Morristown wondering what Vanessa has done with the stuff that I didn’t take with me, until the tension in my neck gives me a stress headache. All my most important possessions—wallet, laptop, phone, a couple of pictures of me and my mom, some of her precious keepsakes, and my gaming console—are already in a duffel on the passenger floor of my truck. And that’s where I’ll keep them while I stay with my dick of a father for the first time in more than three years. I hate to think that he’d steal from me but it’s a real possibility given our history. Growing up, my favorite things would randomly disappear or show up broken. Toys when I was young. Electronics, video games, and other things as I got older. I couldn’t pin it on him until I turned sixteen when I found my Swiss Army knife and a bunch of other missing stuff hidden inside his desk.
The thought of living with him curdles my stomach, but I’m out of options. Mikey’s wife won’t let me sleep on the couch, and none of my other friends are in a position to put me up for more than a night or two. Most of my cash went to my fall tuition bill, so I’m too tapped to pay for someplace new to live right now. Not to mention, I already paid Vanessa my share of the rent, and it’s not even the end of the month. I can’t ask her for money back without making things worse.
Bitch.
As my truck rounds the corner onto the block that has been my home until this morning, I see my entire drawer of Calvin Klein underwear dotting the green lawn of Vanessa’s townhouse. I slam the wheel with the heel of my hand and my jaw locks tight. I’ve never hit a woman before, and I never would, but I wonder if I could classify her as “sea demon” and be done with it.
Jamming on the brakes, I make a full stop at the end of the driveway, which is strewn with the rest of my stuff: CDs, books, clothes, my soccer ball. . . . A jolt of nausea hits me from the violation of having my possessions scattered recklessly on the hot asphalt.
My hands shake as I stalk up to the front door. The key no longer opens the lock. No surprise there, but I curse anyway and pound on the front door, ready to rip it off its hinges.
“Vanessa!”
The window opens above me. “I’m on a conference call. You know—a real job? Shut up before I call the police!”
I step back and stare up into her green eyes. Long, black hair drapes down around her evil, beautiful face. My hands twitch at my sides ready to reach up to the second floor window and wring her neck. “What the fuck, Vanessa?” I scream. “Just because I don’t yammer on the phone all day doesn’t mean I don’t have a real job—which I had to leave to get over here. You couldn’t wait for an hour? It’s not like you’ve got anywhere to go!”
“This conversation isn’t worth the wasted air-conditioning.” She flips me the bird and slams the window shut.
A growl rises in my throat. How did our relationship turn into this shit show? The truth? I guess it’s my fault for opening my big mouth. But I never thought telling Vanessa that I had no intention of getting married until after I graduated from college would be the death knell of our relationship. Granted, at this rate, I won’t finish school for almost another two years, when I’m twenty-six. But since we already lived together, what the hell was the rush? Big mistake. That conversation was two months ago, and our relationship unraveled from there. Still, I have a hard time reconciling my admission with her batshit-crazy behavior since then, not that she was a picnic before that. Who knew wedding bells would be the price for keeping some stability in my screwed up life? Then again, two years isn’t such a bad run, I guess.
My face burns as I dip down and scoop up my briefs, one pair at a time.
“Where the hell are my boxes?” I yell up at the closed window.
No answer. I drop my underwear back on the lawn in a pile, then storm over to the garage and punch in the code. It opens.
Ha! There they are. The boxes are still intact. I haul them out and carefully collect my things, giving them the respect I want for myself. When I get to my clothes, I refold and place them neatly back inside the cardboard containers. Some things need to be washed. I separate as I go. It only takes ten minutes to get everything organized and packed beneath my pickup’s flatbed cover.
Between anger at Vanessa and dread at returning to my father’s house, my head is throbbing. I check my phone. 4:43 p.m. Plenty of time to catch a bite to eat over a beer at The Grasshopper and a trip to the Laundromat. What I need is a shower, but that would mean showing up across town early. I can’t motivate myself to go there yet. I’d rather chance offending people with body odor than spending one minute longer than I have to with my father.
I’m still fuming as I find a parking spot behind the bar. I grab my toothbrush, deodorant, and a clean shirt I managed to salvage from the driveway, and head straight for the men’s room. I need to feel human again. I click the lock shut behind me, place my stuff on the toilet tank, and brace myself against the sink. Drawing in a deep breath, I glance up. Whenever I miss my mom, like now, I look in the mirror to see the shades of her inside of me.
You’d think after six years I’d be over her death. But I’m not. The day she died is still burned into my memory along with a gaping hole in my chest over losing her. Maybe I’m idealizing our relationship now that she’s gone, but there’s no denying we were close. She was my mentor, my biggest supporter, and the one person in the world who always believed in me . . . the exact opposite of my dad.
If I concentrate, I can see her image in my reflection. I squint into the mirror, lookin
g past the angry lines etched across my forehead. They make my eyes a piercing bright blue, one shade darker than hers. I have my mom’s nose, straight and nicely shaped. She always considered it her best feature. As an artist, she used to say our eyes and nose shared the same symmetry and perfect proportions. I didn’t understand what she meant until she showed me one afternoon in her studio when I was seventeen. Taking a compass, she measured all the angles on our faces and sketched our portraits side-by-side in pencil. Then she pointed out all the similarities. After that, whenever I wanted to picture her, all I had to do was look for her in the mirror.
The only thing that ruins it is my mouth. Set right now in a hard line, it’s all Dad. His full lips, she said, were her favorite part of his face. Funny, I hate my mouth because it reminds me of him.
Speaking of . . . there’s one precious thing I hope to retrieve at my father’s—a painting of my mom and me. She finished it before she died. It should be there, as long as my father still has the boxes from the move out of our big house to the dump he lives in now. I left too quickly the last time to find it and take it with me.
I turn on the faucet, splash water on my face, and do a quick wash. A large wad of paper towels later, I’m dry and looking cleaner. Freshly brushed teeth and a shot of deodorant make me feel absolutely alive. A clean, casual button-down shirt goes on next. On a whim I throw my dirty T-shirt in the garbage. One less thing to wash. I let my hair down and comb through it with my fingers. It brushes the tops of my shoulders. I’ll cut it when I get a job after college. Right now it’s a chick magnet. Not that I’m ready for anyone new yet.
I dump my toiletries in the truck and head back inside.
“Hey, Declan,” I greet the bartender and slip onto a barstool.
“Hey, Mac, Celtic got hammered,” he says in a Dublin brogue and snickers.
“Yeah, well, Liverpool didn’t do so well, either,” I say as he hands me a perfectly drawn pint of Guinness. My Scottish heritage drives my choice in European football teams. Lucky the Irish and Scots have a better relationship than either has with the English.
“How’s the wee lassie?” he asks, toweling down the bar in front of me. It’s early and still empty since it’s only Tuesday.
The creamy top touches my lip as I take a long pull on my glass. “We broke up,” I say, unwilling to go further.
Declan gives me an assessing look. “You want some hours on Saturday night? I’m down a couple of bartenders.”
My eyes widen. “Really? Timing couldn’t be better. I could use the cash.” Vanessa made me quit working here after I moved in. She didn’t want to give up Saturday nights, plus she couldn’t handle women hitting on me. Trust was an issue with her even though I’d never given her a reason to doubt me.
“Are ya jokin’ me? The tip jars have been desperate since you’ve been gone. We have a good band playing on Saturday night, so I’d say you’d make a fine wage.”
I smile and lift my glass. “You’re on. Six p.m.?”
“Aye, Mac.” He winks and leaves to serve another patron at the end of the bar.
While I’m thinking about cash . . . I take the card out of my front pocket. Here goes nothing.
I text: Are you available tomorrow afternoon for that photo session? Raine
Tossing the phone back onto the mahogany surface, my eyes fix on the small screen as I wait for a reply.
Chapter 4
Jillian
“HEY, BRIGITTE.” I clasp the wheel, and speak into the cell phone magic of Bluetooth.
“Please tell me you’re sending over your synopsis,” she says without preamble.
I cringe. “Um, not exactly. But it’s my top priority. I even turned down a dinner invitation at Kitty’s this evening to finish it. You’ll have it tomorrow. I promise.” I cross my fingers as I speak and hope I’m not lying. “Can I tell you why I called?”
Brigitte sighs. “I’m all ears.”
Not only is Brigitte my agent, but she’s one of my oldest and dearest friends. We met in college at Villanova.
My shoulders clench in preparation for Brigitte to push back hard, and then I spew my words so fast they blend together in a jumble. “I-found-the-cover-model-for-Twisted Up in Drew. I’ll have the photos next week.”
“I think you just said something about finding a cover model.” Her voice is impatient. “Jillian, the publisher hasn’t even seen the synopsis yet. Not to mention, you’re behind on your deadline. Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”
“Maybe, but who cares? He’s perfect.”
“It doesn’t matter. The publisher still controls the cover,” she says, resigned.
My blood pressure rises, and I snap. “I don’t care, B. Make it happen. All their covers look like crap. The last one was the worst I’d ever seen. Otherwise, you can sell the goddamn thing to another publisher. I owe them a book, but I don’t owe them this book. To your point, they haven’t seen the synopsis yet. I can hand you anything tomorrow, and they’ll never know.”
My book deal specifies four romantic suspense novels. There’s nothing in my contract that gives them options to my future work outside of my current obligations. Not to say they wouldn’t be furious.
Brigitte snaps back, “What’s got you so bent out of shape? Wait, it’s the Drew thing, isn’t it? Jillian . . . I still don’t think you should base your male lead on Drew. You have too many unresolved emotions tied to him that are better suited for a therapist’s couch than a romance novel.”
My hands tighten around the wheel. “Thanks, B. So now you think I’m crazy?”
“Not crazy. Obsessed.” She releases a loud breath, and then says more calmly, “Listen. I promise to shut up about him after I say this, and then you can do whatever you want. But I was there, Jillian. I was the first person you met after Drew died, and I’ve been watching you carry the specter of him like an albatross around your neck since our freshman year in college. It’s gotten worse now that Robert’s gone. You’re one of my best friends. I love you, and want what’s best for you. But it’s time to deal with this, once and for all.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. But that doesn’t change my position on using Drew one bit. “I’m a big girl, B. This is how I’m dealing with it. It’s why I want to use him. I’m ready.” I’m ready to release the grief-stricken, eighteen-year-old girl locked inside of me, so that I can move on. It’s what Brigitte has said, just done my way.
It’s only been over the last three years, beginning not long before Robert died, that I discovered myself through writing. I found it cathartic to create characters based on the people I loved who had died, both to pay tribute to them and to provide an outlet for my grief. Mom, Dad, even a character based on Robert, have all been woven into my books. And now that Robert’s gone, it’s finally Drew’s turn. It’s time for his book.
Brigitte grunts. “Fine, but I don’t believe you. I’ve said my piece. So where the hell did you find a cover model anyway?”
I pull into the Summit, New Jersey, train station and park where I texted Jenny earlier to look for me.
“Memorial Hospital. Sorry to be so grumpy, but I sat vigil at Aunt Vera’s bedside all afternoon. You know how I feel about that place.” A wave of despair hits me as I think of my aunt, and I wonder when I’ll be attending another funeral.
“Geez, I’m sorry about that. How is she?”
“It’s not looking good. Her organs are shutting down. If they can’t turn it around in the next couple of days, I’m not sure . . .” My heart squeezes. I can’t finish.
Her voice is softer, less irritated. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll keep her in my prayers.” Then her voice changes and she purrs, “And . . . you stumbled across a handsome young doctor who looks like Drew while you were there?”
Brigitte has been a big impetus behind the current “get Jillian back into the dating pool” campaign. She didn’t even trust me to write my own Matchup.com profile. She did it for me one Saturday night last month over a
bottle of wine. Being a divorcée with a solid track record when it comes to dating, at least Brigitte has a clue about this sort of thing. Me? After eighteen years of marriage, I don’t even remember what it’s like to date.
“Not quite. He was working outside with a group of landscapers planting trees.”
“Oh, God. What I have I told you about fishing below your economic pond?”
I frown in disgust. “B, I’m not going to date him! I just want to take a few pictures. He’s way too young for me.”
“Why? How old is he? If he’s at least eighteen, you’re golden.”
“Are you crazy? I’m old enough to be his mother for crissake!” Still, a group of butterflies perk up in my stomach. He’s traffic-stopping for sure, but I’m not delusional enough to think someone that young and hot would ever be interested in me. Seriously? I snort.
“I didn’t say you had to marry him. At least at that age, all his equipment is still in working order.”
Boy, was that a sore topic. Robert suffered from erectile dysfunction the last couple years of his life. Little did we realize trying to cure it would trigger the heart attack that ultimately killed him.
I release a breath at the same time a horn blows in the distance, signaling the train's approach. “Even if I was willing to stoop to that level, which I’m not, I can’t imagine something like that ending well.” What would he have to offer me except a broken heart when he found someone else younger and more attractive? The way I see it, it’s a lose-lose. Correction—it’s not even a possibility.
People stream out the doors of the station. My niece Jenny is among the flow. She smiles as she heads over to the SUV. I click the locks open for her.
“Hey, B. See what you can do for me about the cover. In the meantime, Jenny’s train just pulled in and she’s here. Gotta go.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do, but don’t hold your breath. Send me your synopsis tomorrow by noon. I mean it, Jillian.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I disconnect.
The passenger door swings open, and Jenny drops her briefcase on the floor.
Caught Up In Raine Page 2