by Billie Dale
Say You’ll Be There Copyright © 2020 by Cybill Richey. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by Pink Ink Designs
Editing by Karen Hrdlicka
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, medications and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Billie Dale
Visit my website at www.billiedaleauthor.com
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: October 2020
Author Billie Dale
Dedication:
To everyone who never gave up on the one who got away.
Other Works by Billie Dale:
Love in Seven Mile Forge (Second Chance Romance Stand-Alone Series)
Wannabe More
Say You’ll Be There
Spice Up Your Life (coming 2021)
The Sisters Who Slay (Paranormal Romantic Comedy)
Go Fang Yourself (included in A Cursed All Hallows’ Eve 10/20/2020)
For Shifts and Giggles (Coming Fall 2021)
A Fairytale Fantasy (Fairytale Parody)
Never After
Not So Wicked
Labors of A Hero
The Reigh Witch Chronicles (Paranormal Romantic Comedy)
Birthday Witch
Princess Witch
Wedded Witch
Forever Witch
Stand-Alone
Ravyn (Romance Thriller)
From award winning author Billie Dale comes a second chance love story muddling the line between love and hate. As young love goes Joey and Preslee were perfect but nothing lasts forever and the world is ready for the taking. Dale’s sassy wit shines in comedic fashion with Say You’ll Be There, book two in Love in Seven Mile Forge.
At sixteen, Joey Holmes handed me his heart.
At eighteen, I threw it at the Now Leaving Seven Mile Forge sign on my way out of town.
A silly teenage game of seven minutes in heaven spiraled us from friends to more.
We shared our firsts. Loved with the innocence of immaturity.
I wanted out. A fresh start far away from our tiny hometown. Joey didn’t care where we were so long as we were together. I couldn’t spread my wings without clipping his. My heart told me I was doing what was best when I left him broken in my rearview mirror.
With a threat breathing down my neck, I’m forced to return home but Joey isn’t the skinny boy I knew. Nope, now he’s the hottest Chief of Police in three states and he hates the very air I breathe.
Can the hot cop keep me safe from the danger lurking in the shadows or will the bleached bones of the skeletons in my closet be our tragic end?
One
Meredith Brooks advises every woman to embrace her inner bitch through my Infinity sound system. One of the many songs loaded on my men suck ass playlist.
Snowcapped mountains fill my windshield and the sunny balm of California is long gone in the rearview. Salt and sand plink underneath my car and I’ve slowed to a crawl navigating the thick slush ruts. Frozen trees creep past my window. I haven’t made this drive since the day I skipped town.
I hated leaving my best friend, Samantha Gentry, behind. My head spun with how much distance I was putting between me and my twin brother, Hendrix. Living on opposites coasts would suck the hairiest of nutsacks but this is what I wanted when I applied to a college a million miles from my hometown. With Samantha’s boyfriend, Mazric Vortex, another of my BFFs, riding shotgun and commiserating a shared broken heart, we traveled to college leaving our small group of friends separated but mostly solid.
The only casualty was Joey Holmes. My first everything.
You know who I mean. The boy you secretly crushed on and when he became yours, you fell hard. The same man-boy who got all butthurt when you left the tiny confines of Seven Mile hell to follow your dreams. We lived our very own Nicholas Sparks novel with an R-rating.
Unlike Sammy Lee and Mazric, Joey wanted to try the whole long-distance relationship, but come on. Suntanned surfer dudes and movie stars. No way would I stay tethered to this shitty, insignificant town.
Callous, snarky, and uncaring. I became the heartless bitch or at least that’s what I made Joey believe.
As the miles tick off on the odometer, I remember why I’m forced to leave my home of the last near decade.
∞∞∞
“Howdy, neighbor.” Nash holds the elevator when he sees me buzzing through the gate. A gigantic step up from my first apartment when I arrived for school. Two units occupy each floor of the twelve and ours is at the top. I offer a quick wave to Decco, the doorman, and rush between the heavy steel doors. “Girly, you look wiped. Rough day?” Nash asks.
“Pleasant way of saying I look like shit, Nashy baby. Another day dealing with divas, who refuse to accept makeup can’t fix everything. I touched up so much paint, my feet are killing me,” I answer.
“You love it.” He grins.
“Yeah, I kinda do. How about you and Martin come over for dinner?”
Nash and his husband make it their mission to insure I don’t survive on takeout alone, so once a week I offer to return the favor.
“Can’t, Martin feels overweight again and he’s all up in the Keto diet. If you don’t mind eating your body weight in meat, join us.”
Martin goes through random health kicks. The man is all lean muscle but swears he’s fat. “I love good meat as much as the next girl, but I’ll pass.” I wink, knowing he’ll catch the double entendre. The bell dings and the door opens. Laughing, we step in the hall.
Martin stands outside my place. My eyes catch on a line of crimson footprints leading to my wide-open apartment door.
“What the hell?” I yell, running down the hallway.
Martin snags me around the waist as a man in a red polo shirt appears in the opening. “Is this your place, Miss,” he checks his notes, “Carmichael?”
I respond with a nod, wiggling out of Martin’s hold. The khaki clad ‘Jake from State Farm’ wannabe holds up a hand. “It’s not pretty in there, Ma’am.”
“Got it.” I dodge his outstretched arm, careful to avoid the scarlet spots, I push the door open the rest of the way. Destruction stretches from wall-to-wall. Glass and splintered wood litters the floor from all my shattered pictures. White stuffing sticks out of gaping slashes in the furniture. Every dish I own is in shards and the cabinet doors hang on a hinge. A chill skitters down my spine from the multitude of snapshots stuck to the walls with knives from my kitchen. Each one of me, taken without my permission or knowledge: at work, outside the building, eating lunch with friends, on dates. In each a large red X erases my face.
“Damn it, not again,” I groan, hating how long it will take to clean up the mess.
“Again?” the guy questions, his nearness adding another layer of goosebumps.
I whip around, squaring off with my fists on my hips. “Who are you?” I snap.
“Detective Brick Highland. I moved in on the fourth floor a month ago. Happened to be available when the call came in from Martin.”
“Well, if you’d do your job, you’d see this isn’t the first time. I’ve relocated seven times i
n the last nine years, but the bastard finds me every damn time.”
He ignores my barb. “Is anything missing?”
“Clothes will be the only thing. Uh, my underwear, bras. Anything he can take from my basket.” I spot the dumped pet food and water bowl near the counter. “Wait, where’s my cat? BINX!” I run to the hall to ask Martin if he saw him. Whenever he escapes, he always heads down to their door for a can of tuna.
Martin glances to Nash before they both shake their heads and stare at the floor. “BINX! Where are you?” I shout, racing toward the bathroom.
The detective anticipating my path moves to block my entrance. “Whoa, Miss Carmichael. I can’t let you in there until the forensics team does their thing.”
“Oh God.” Tears burn my eyes as I rake them around the room. Deep red smears the entire place: the door, the photos, the walls. “Binx,” I sob, “He’s never hurt him before.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve got a call in and your file will be on my desk. Since I’m here, why don’t you fill me in?”
Water floods my cheeks and my insides quake with terror as I nod my head.
“Okay, start at the beginning.”
∞∞∞
Red and blue lights paint the interior of my car and a whooping siren drags me from my thoughts. I glance down, cursing when I see my trip down memory lane weighted more than my mind. My lead foot has me going seventy-five down the two-lane highway outside Seven Mile Forge.
“Ugh, damn Barney Fife’s pulling me over,” I complain, applying the brakes and shifting to the shoulder. The lowering sun blinds me as I watch him weave in behind me. With his lights filling my mirror and the horizon glaring in my windshield, he’s nothing but a silhouetted lump when he exits his cruiser.
Mirrored aviators reflect the light as I watch him become clearer in my side mirror. Wide shoulders, narrow waist accented by a utility belt, and his hand resting on his gun. Long legs and thick thighs test the strength of his god-awful beige pants carrying him forward with a sinful swagger.
Resigned to my ticketed fate, I lower my window. Cold pours in as his torso fills the frame and his mighty fine, broad, bulletproof vest enhanced chest, with SMFPD emblazoned in the center, warms me from head to toe. A spicy pepper scent swirls off his body. I can’t help noticing the curving bulge of his biceps cut and framed by the not big enough press of his short sleeves.
It’s snot-freezing cold outside and this guy’s tanned and making me colder with his non-coat wearing self. I hand the required documents—license and registration—out the window, my fingers turning to ice cubes because he’s hovering and not following the routine.
You know the one? He struts up all stout and full of donuts, takes them, says ‘Do you know how fast you were going,’ all brisk and husky. I play dumb, bat my lashes, and flirt, he blushes, says ‘Awe shucks, ma’am’ and issues a stern warning sending me on my way.
It’s Southern Hospitality 101 but this brutish hottie missed the damn memo.
“Well, well, well. Look what the wind blew in,” a rugged twangy drawl sends my eyes traveling up, up to his face. Those damn sunglasses hide his eyes, resting on the narrow skin at the top of his slim upturned nose. A stray piece of hair moves on his forehead, the blondish tip contrasting with darker brown, shaved-short fuzz behind his head. His ears tip out, a smidge too big for his head but working with the rough edge of his stubbled jaw. A multicolored goatee surrounds his plump wind-cracked lips. Wheat above his lip turns cinnamon at the corners of his smirk darkening to umber on his chin. His grin spreads, pulling in his laugh lines displaying a straight white set of choppers with the front two teeth kind of Chicletish.
I recognize this man-child smile. The one capable of turning the hardest, scariest enforcer into a big kid.
“Joey? Josiah Holmes?”
Fuck my life. He was a slumpy, nothing, short stack the last time we were together. Not much bigger than me, which I enjoyed because when I wore heels I was actually taller than someone. Now he’s all towering, beefy, and take it all off hot.
“I’m gonna run these. Sit tight and don’t make any sudden jerky movements.” He yanks the items from my hand.
“Joey? Come on, it’s me. I’m cold and headed to Sammy Lee’s. Can’t we let this one slide?” I blink my eyes, remembering how he never could tell me no when I turned on the charm.
His cheeky vigor falls to a thin pinched line. “Officer Holmes,” his voice lowers, turning jaded. “And I let nothing slide. Roads are too nasty for the speed you were driving.” The icy bite of his tone is worse than the blustering winter tundra surrounding me. He twists on his thick boot heel, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t watch those tight ass-cupping pants walk back to his car.
The frost continues when he returns, handing me a ticket and my documents. “Slow it down,” he warns. He pauses on his path away, turning those irritating glass-hidden eyes, which I want to slap off his face. “Welcome home, Preslee Carmichael,” he jeers. Cocking a one-sided smirk, he head bobs in that Southern gentlemanly way and walks to his car.
I spend the rest of the drive to Double V ranch pissed off. Angry at the insane circumstances that sent me running home, raging because my brother can’t be here for a few weeks, and irritated at Joey Fucking Holmes for not only ticketing me, but also pretending we meant nothing to each other and being delicious while he did it.
Fuck my life and fuck Seven Mile Forge.
Two
Joey
Slide offs, fender benders, and snow inadequate drivers comprise my morning. The residents of Seven Mile aren’t the best navigators of slushy iced roads. After an emergency call to the next county, we brought in a few truckloads of salt and sand. Local farmers collaborated to help spread it on the roads. Perhaps this is the kick in the pants this town needs to purchase snow removal equipment. We enjoy easy temperatures year-round, but a switch in the jet stream dumps the white shit leaving us unprepared.
We issued warnings urging residents to stay home, with promises of doing our best to clear the roads, but my radio started blaring calls as two this morning. I’m jittery from the amount of caffeine pumping through my veins and my stomach sloshes with coffee. I fight the anvils weighing my lids, nursing my billionth cup, when a sporty black sedan sends my radar skyrocketing. Dark tinted windows hide the occupant, but the erratic speed kicks up mush and I can’t ignore the stupidity. I flip on my lights, accelerate from the secluded spot I tucked in, hoping to catch a power nap, and call in the California plate.
Trudy, my dispatcher, crackles back with the rental company and the lessee is none other than Preslee Marie Carmichael.
A foreign twinge jolts my heart. “Fuck, I don’t need this today,” I groan, ripping a hand through my hair, raking it around my neck and along my jaw, pausing to scratch at the coarse hair on my chin as my mind reels to the past.
A kiss and grope in a closet under the influence of unicorn piss punch spiked with enough vodka to tip a cow. The infamous Asia DeMarco party introduced me to the softness of Preslee’s tits. Under the shirt, over the bra was all she’d allow, but it was enough to seal my infatuation with her curvy body. Asia was the girl everyone wanted, with her large breasts and short skirts, but her intent was on my friend, Mazric. The room was buzzing with curiosity about the hot chic with the shining black hair and slim body. Sammy Lee Gentry grew from geeky freak to spank bank fantasy, but it was the girl next to her who caught my eye.
The Preslee Carmichael tornado swirled into our lives in the fifth grade with purple-streaked, platinum hair and cat eyeglasses. Her chubby cheeks and thick thighs stood out among the debutants, but she found her tribe with the cast-off genius, Samantha Gentry. Mazric Vortex joined our class that year as well. As Sammy’s best friend and protector, he took Preslee under his wing too. I was in with the cool guys. Jackson Mills, right-hand man and tormentor in training.
Yes, I was one of those dicks.
Our posse’s number one target was Spammy Gentry. By the end of sixth
grade, I’d spent some time with Sam, Preslee, and Mazric working on various class projects. They were cool and Pres had one hell of a sense of humor, with her at the butt of her own jokes. Jackson chilled on his teasing, afraid of Mazric’s fist, but he continued to talk shit when out of earshot.
As the shortest boy in the class, I hated playing basketball, but under Jackson’s pressure I joined the team. Mazric wasn’t much taller back then, and he made amazing shots. Curious, I watched the trio during our thirty-minute lunch break. While I hated listening to Sam correct our wrongs, she was boss with the mathematics of the three-pointer. Jackson’s mouth-breather bullshit became tedious. I tired of listening to him bristle and sickened of his blowhard ways. By seventh grade I preferred hanging with Maz and the girls, which led me to meeting the oddity of Hendrix Carmichael, Preslee’s twin brother.
Preslee’s youthful roundness became curves that’d make a backcountry road jealous. She replaced her glasses with contacts and changed the tint of her hair to pink. At five foot four, she was a force with a smart foul mouth and never shied from a snarky challenge. After our seven minutes in heaven, she starred in all my fantasies.
I fell ass over elbows. Became her whipping boy for five years. A seventeen-year-old boy leads with his dick and she was the keeper of the pussy. My first kiss, grope, and home run. This woman led me by the short hairs and I loved every second.
The day she bounced out to my piece of shit Jeep, waving a letter, was the day I realized my insignificance. Her acceptance and full scholarship to a posh design school in California. We never discussed the future, Preslee preferred to live in the moment. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do after high school, but I never saw us ending. Too bad she didn’t see us surviving.