Stalk the Moon
Jessica Lynch
Copyright © 2018 by Jessica Lynch
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 written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover by Jessica Lynch
For Annabelle & Liam.
This story is almost as old as you are!
Maybe one day you’ll be old enough to read it.
And for William.
Who, if he did read this, would probably have a heart attack.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
About the Author
A Note From Jessica
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1
Noelle
It’s the crack of dawn on Saturday morning, the first day of my vacation, and I’m gearing up for the hunt.
Everything I need is tossed in the dip of Sally’s passenger seat. My phone, fully charged, with the maps app up-to-date so that I don’t get friggin’ lost again. A spare battery pack, because I’m way past due for an upgrade and I don’t trust my phone. I reach for the crumpled, old receipt. Scrawled on its back? The address for this year’s market.
I double-check that I typed it correctly into my phone. I went to the wrong place a couple of years ago and missed out on all the bargains. Uh-uh. No rookie mistakes this time around. I know better.
Swallowing a yawn, I pick up a packed gallon-sized baggie. Looks good, I think, then rub my tired eyes with my free hand. Three protein bars and two bottles of water. Should be enough to hold me over for most of the morning because Lord knows I don’t do well on an empty stomach.
A brand new bottle of sunblock—SPF 50, of course, because I can burn during a blizzard. So what if it’s the end of February? My skin’s too pale to mess around. I have a big hoodie folded up on Sally’s floor, plus a backup jacket if it’s colder out than I think it’s gonna be. I'm pretty good when it comes to the cold, but I'm not entirely immune. And it pays to be prepared.
Today is Somerset County’s annual winter flea market. Like most things, I take my bargain hunting very seriously.
The market changes location every year. After triple-checking the address in my phone, I start my truck. Sally is a beat-up Ford Bronco almost the same age as me. I have faith in the old girl. So long as I go easy on the gas and don’t test her brakes, she’s a gem.
According to my maps app, the flea market is about an hour away. I crank up my radio, wailing along to classic ‘80’s pop, and start toward Manville. I have to stop on two major highways to refill the gas-guzzling Sally—she never manages to go more than half a tank before it drains away—and I barely make it through the first snarl of traffic before I’m snacking on a protein bar.
Still, I arrive at the marketsite in under an hour and a half. Not bad, girl. Not bad at all.
I left my house early enough that I get there before the main parking lot is full. I consider that a victory. The flea market organizers rented out the Manville High parking lot for market goers. As soon as I pass the school’s big blue and gold sign, I see a few empty spots up front remaining. With a sharp turn to cut off the guy riding my ass, I quickly pull into one right next to the entrance.
Score!
Hopping out of Sally—smiling brightly at the man as he honks and peels off—I grab one of my waters, then tuck my phone in my right back pocket. A second protein bar goes in the left. I stick my car keys through the belt loop on my jeans because I’m screwed if I lose them. I slather on a fresh coat of sunscreen, pull my gigantic hoodie on over my head, and I’m ready to go.
Beyond the school’s snowy track and muddy baseball field, there is a tract of open land. This weekend it’s the home for the Somerset County winter market. Small patches of melting snow dot the grass. We had a good six inches on the ground last week, but the last few days were warmer than usual and now it’s almost gone.
The ground’s pretty wet. My steps are careful since I don’t want to slip and fall. Because I expected this, I’m wearing an old pair of tennis shoes. They’re white now. I’m betting that, by the end of today, they’ll be covered in mud.
Despite the chill in the air, the flea market is busier than I remember from last year. Tables are packed in like sardines, each seller staking out a square of grass and turning it into their own private treasure trove for the weekend. It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning yet and already there’s a good crowd.
I fight back my shudder. I’m among morning people.
Opening my water, I take a swig as I squint at all the bright and eager faces around me. I wake up with the sun on three days of the year only: Christmas, the winter market, and the summer fair. These people don’t know how rare it is to see me out of my bed before ten. Showered and dressed, too? We’re talking miracle here.
I put the cap back on my water and stick it into my hoodie pocket before rubbing my hands in anticipation. For me, this is Christmas all over again. The excitement. The surprises. The bargains.
A small smile tugs on my lips. I’m so ready.
The first stall I walk up to doesn’t disappoint. My attention is drawn to a crowded table in the back, the one covered with a varied collection of mugs and steins. I’m a self-confessed mug freak. They’re all over my condo—I use them for everything from drinking to storing pennies or pens. I think I might see one on the edge that has a drawing of Bambi on it.
I want it.
Okay, so I’m not looking where I’m going. I admit it. But I must have been blind for a second because I slam right into a wall.
At least, it friggin' feels like a wall. It’s hard enough, and I bounce right off, wobbling before I manage to recover my balance. Good thing, too. If I had landed on the grass, my whole ass would be covered in mud.
A sharp spark touches my upper arm where we collided the hardest, a jolt that travels all the way down to my wrist despite the thick material of my sweatshirt. I rub my arm. The static electricity stings even worse than the dull ache from impact.
Holy shit. It feels like I've been struck by lightning.
“Oops,” I say when I finally realize that the wall I smacked into is really a man. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t mention it, love.”
I glance up.
And up.
My shoulder bumped into the point of his elbow because, short as I am, I only come up to the middle of his chest.
This guy is huge. Barrel-chested and wide, I can see through his thin, white
button-down that there’s not even a spare ounce of fat on him. He must not feel the chill, either. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, leaving his muscular forearms on display.
I can’t tell his age. He could be a silver-haired forty or a well-preserved sixty. His skin’s a real deep bronze that immediately makes me think of tropical islands and frothy pink drinks with umbrellas in them. His light eyes are striking yet distant. Mainly because his gaze is locked on something over my head.
No wonder we collided. I huff and then, because I can’t help it, I look over my shoulder.
Ugh. This big bastard is staring at a curvy blonde woman bent over a table of handmade scarves. When she straightens and moves, a light pink infinity scarf in her grasp, I hear his murmur of approval when his eyes zero in on her boobs. Sure, each one is as big as my head, but come on. Seriously?
I step away from him. What a creeper. I silently take back my apology. He doesn’t deserve it.
The motion catches his attention. He glances down at me. I can actually feel the heat of his gaze.
I’m tucked inside a hoodie three sizes too big. The most he can see is the top of my dark hair, maybe the tip of my nose, before I tilt my head back and meet his stare. I gulp, hating how blatantly he leers. His size and his attitude make me uncomfortable.
One step back, then another. His lips quirk up in an amused smile. I turn around, deciding to abandon the stall with the mugs. I make a mental note to check it out again before I go. I’m a firm believer in fate. If the Bambi mug is meant to be mine, it’ll be waiting for me. I won’t leave it behind.
I kind of wish I could lose that guy, though.
I can’t explain it. He keeps popping up in front of me, no matter where I go. After the third time I see him, I start to wonder if he’s following me. Silly, yeah, except once the idea pops in my head, it’s hard to shake it. In a field this size, odds are I shouldn’t keep catching sight of him. But I do. He’s always there, and always creeping on some poor woman.
It’s like when you go to the grocery store and you make eye contact with a stranger. Then, as you shop, you seem to bump into that one person over and over again until you both end up at the checkout, maybe a lane apart. For one brief shopping trip, there’s this connection with a stranger that means absolutely nothing as soon as the groceries are in the trunk.
I’m not looking for him and, yet, he seems to be wherever I am. When it keeps happening, I begin to suspect I'm making a predictable circle so I purposely miss a whole row of stalls in an attempt to break away from the silver-haired man.
Ten minutes later and I’m rifling through a stack of late 1950’s Broadway playbills when something makes me look up. There he is. This time he’s ogling a pretty Latina girl with wavy hair.
When she glances up, he winks at her. I fight the urge to stick my finger down my throat and puke. He’s so obvious.
I’m not the only one who thinks so.
A slender young white woman in a cream peasant blouse and dark jeans stands a few steps behind him. Her arms are crossed over her chest, though she leans into him like he’s a magnet and she’s caught in his pull as she shadows his every move. Her body language tells everyone at the market that, not only is she there with the silver-haired man, but he’s done something to seriously make her mad. Anger comes off of her in waves. Even though there are two stalls separating us, I can sense it.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen her. Though my eyes are drawn to the man, I realize she’s always right there with him. They’re definitely together.
At first, I thought she might be his daughter. She looks young enough. But the longer she glares daggers at his back, the more I change my mind. There’s something about the way she hovers despite her anger. There’s way more to their relationship than that.
That’s pissed off girlfriend rage she’s got going on. And I want none of it.
I pick up a glass goblet and, ignoring the saleslady who swears it’s crystal, I peek past it to get a better look at the woman. She’s shockingly beautiful, her profile perfectly proportioned with high cheekbones and plump lips that are pursed in a pout. She wears her thick chestnut-colored hair in an intricate braided style that ends in a fishtail that kisses the back of her neck. And she isn’t blinking, her icy gaze shooting daggers at the man and the poor unfortunate girl who caught his eye.
I think she can feel me watching her. Still scowling, she jerks her head in my direction, searching with a laser focus that sends a chill coursing down my spine. I quickly put the goblet down next to some cheap silverware and head to the next table.
I don’t normally run from a fight. I’m tougher than that—and, well, a lot more reckless. Not this time. There’s a fierceness to her scowl that warns me against tangling with her. That’s inexplicable hatred on her face, and full-on murder in her eyes.
I pull my hood down low as I leave her in my rearview. Even the best of hunters know when to retreat.
2
The crowd at the market starts to pick up after a while. I have to use my elbow to push and shove in order to get to the front of some of the tables. At one, someone steps on my foot, squashing my toes. I kick their ankle, moving past them when they turn to yell. I’m gone before they can retaliate.
Three hours in and I’m still empty-handed. The Bambi mug was long gone by the time I swung past the early tables I missed. I did find a collar that Dudley will probably lose within minutes of me putting it on him so I begrudgingly hold off on buying it. If I can’t find anything else, maybe I’ll go back for that.
The hunt continues.
I don’t see either the silver-haired giant or his harpy of a girlfriend again. I think I finally beat them by backtracking a second time, revisiting one or two of the same tables before continuing on the outer edge of the market.
Since I haven’t bought anything yet—the $130 I brought with me is burning a hole in my pocket—I decide to return to the entrance. My first go-round, I waited for the perfect item to jump out at me. This time it’s all about the real bargain hunting.
Except my stomach growls before I change directions. Taking a swig from my nearly empty water bottle, I debate if I should make a quick detour to the meatball sub stand I passed early this morning.
My quick metabolism is my curse. I often let myself be ruled by my stomach if only because it’s hard for me to focus and make decisions when I’m hungry. I still have a protein bar left, but I can splurge today. It’s my vacation. And I’m suddenly craving some meatball parm.
I’m back to the beginning when I cut down a row of stands that aren’t familiar. It takes me a second before I remember. This is the part of the market I missed when I first tried to avoid that creep and his angry shadow. I slow down, my stomach forgotten as I jump right back into the hunt.
Though a few of the stalls show promise, nothing stands out to me. I dig through comic books, check out hundreds of phone cases that start to look the same after a while, and I manage to hide my laugh when a wizened old man tries to tell me his tin costume jewelry is crafted from the finest silver. As I wave him off, his final desperate offer to sell me an arrow-shaped brooch has me hesitating before I move along.
The final stall on the end is empty, a few crates stacked haphazardly near the entrance to block stragglers from coming in. The people running it have probably taken a bathroom break, or gone to one of the concessions stands for a snack. Maybe I'll come back and check it out after I get my own sub.
I start to drift past the blockade when the wind picks up and something flutters softly on the edge of my sight. Turning, I see a fluffy blanket draped over a large rectangle-shaped object in the back of the stand. It’s so bright white and clean it nearly glows with it.
How much do you want to bet it’s also super, super soft?
I edge closer. I can tell that it's not a flat, square swath of thick fabric. No. This blanket is like an oversized cotton puff. A gust of wind brushes past it, causing the loose blanket to sway temptingly in the tail e
nd of the breeze.
I can almost hear it begging me to come and stroke it. It looks so fuzzy. I want to bury my face in it.
Noelle. You know you want to.
I do. I really, really do.
More than that, my fingers itch to rub it. I can’t control the impulse. I slip past the barricade, shimmying around the junk stacked everywhere as I head straight for the blanket. I bet touching its fluff will be like petting a cloud.
I reach out and let the edge run through my fingers.
It’s better than a cloud.
“Holy shit,” I murmur. “This is soft.”
“It has to be. I can't risk damaging the treasure beneath.”
My shoulders stiffen, my heart leaping into my throat in total surprise. Someone is right behind me. It takes everything I have not to jump and act guilty for getting caught sneaking past the barricade.
Even though I so am.
Taking a calming breath, I turn to make my excuses. One look at the guy standing a few feet behind me and I can’t stop the grimace. It’s the silver-haired man. Of course, this is his stall. Why wouldn’t it be?
My apology slips out. “Um, sorry about jumping the crates. I couldn’t help myself.”
“Never apologize for curiosity, love.” His voice is soft and smooth. “My treasures sometimes call out. Wanting to be admired. Wanting to be pet. I'd be more concerned if you ignored it.”
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