Dodging Trains

by Sunniva Dee

  I squirm and laugh on the ground. Fucking A—what a loser I am, breaking a finger of all things. What a girly thing to do, right?

  Once I’m done laughing and groaning in pain, I climb all the way back up again to the car—a goddamn mile and a half up a trail only fit for mountain goats. Note to self: “Park at the bottom the next time and walk up before you jump.” It’s what we usually do anyway—because Dan and Marek are smart and can handle delayed gratification. Me? Not if I can avoid it.

  In the car back to my dorm in Deepsilver, I can’t stop grinning. Dan and Marek won’t need me to tell them I flew solo today. No doubt, my face will give me away. They won’t whine for long, though. It’ll be more of a “Shit, dude,” sort of situation, as in: “You’re nuts,” and “don’t do it again,” and—“I wish it were me.”

  INGELA

  My cell just buzzed. It’s four in the morning on a weekday. On an instinctual level, I know who it is. I’m not one to give myself breaks; not once, not once, do I not answer when he calls, so I sit up, adrenaline diluting my blood and telling me to go-go-go.

  “Stop missing me, asshole,” I say into the receiver.

  Brooding, emotional, feel-sorry-for-himself, wishy-washy, sexy nightmare Bo. He’s the epitome of inconsiderate. I’ve been studying in the US for over two years now, but my ex keeps calling me from home. Not giving a damn about the time difference, he calls right when the hell he needs me.

  I fumble for the light. Turn it on. Squint and clutch my phone tighter. “Hej,” I puff out next since he doesn’t respond right away.

  “Hej, Inga,” he breathes back. Voice silky, like the damn singer-guitarist he is, he says what I knew he would as if he didn’t hear my initial greeting. “I miss you.”

  “You’re horrible, Bo.”

  “Come on, Inga—this is hard.”

  I know what he means by hard. “Is it?” I ask, sitting up straighter. “Is it, now? Then, why did you break up with me for the fifteenth time in, like, what…”

  I don’t want to repeat the number of years out loud. Bo and I were an item on and off between the ages of sixteen and twenty-one. All I care about right now is him shutting the hell up. Whenever I’m almost over him, he’s there again. Black-velvety soft voice in my ear, making adrenaline, my worst enemy, course through my body until I tremble.

  The man on the phone drove me to the brink a while back. There’s a reason why I’m here and not in Gothenburg where I’d be subject to his erratic moods on a daily basis.

  For the millionth time, I wish I didn’t remember the good parts. Me, starting out as the sixteen-year-old groupie of his local band. The parties, the fun. The endless nights in our own little world in the dump he rented with two fellow bandmates. I swallow a lump in my throat. It was supposed to be us always. Not just for a few years. And he wasn’t supposed to be… the way he is.

  “Inga, did you hear what I said?” Bo whispers now, like he cares that I should be asleep at this hour.

  “No.”

  “I call you, and you don’t even listen?”

  “Doing my best,” I say. By the displeased huff he makes, I can tell he understands; I’m doing my best at not listening to him.

  “I’m accepting a scholarship to a one-year guitar clinic in Los Angeles.”

  Even sitting, my knees go weak. Deepsilver, the gorgeous little college town I’ve set new roots in here on the East Coast, must be only hours from Los Angeles by plane. The pull is on my heartstrings already—I’m too close to where Bo will be.

  “Why?” I ask. “They can’t teach you anything here that you can’t learn in Gothenburg, I’m sure. And the band—are they replacing you?”

  He puffs a snicker. “Naw. I don’t think so.” Bo is aware that he’s the chick magnet of the bunch and the reason they’ve been doing decent as a college band since they moved to the big city.

  “I might check in with some labels while I’m in L.A. The band is with me on this. Probably heading over too, if I can scrounge up some gigs for us. Maybe we’ll tour the East Coast. How about that, Inga? We’ll pop by your little town.”

  “Uh-huh, whatever.” I hurt. I try not to admit it to myself, but I miss him so much. The need to have him with me under my covers sucker-punches me. No one. No one is like Bo in bed. I feel the ghost of his hands on my skin as he lets out a quiet laugh on the other end.

  “You’re so silly, Ingela. Just give it up already. I’ll take a couple of days in Deepsilver on my way there, okay? I’ll treat you well.”

  I blush. There’s a reason to his sexy chuckle, to his sudden promise. As soon as I’m the slightest bit turned on, my breathing stops cooperating. Five years of on-and-off dating has Bo tuned in to the smallest changes in me the way he is to his guitar. So yes, he’s completely aware of his effect on me.

  “Fuck you,” I mumble.

  “Do you swear as much in English as you do in Swedish?” he purrs like he’s describing dirty pleasures.

  “None of your—”

  “—goddamn business?”

  “Yeah, that. Bye, dick.”

  To read more, click here

  ARRIANE

  The man I’ve loved for years is going ballistic. Books, glasses, and candles ricochet off the walls and crash to the floor. The low growl contained in his throat unleashes as he hurls his stereo at the window, making the glass panes shatter on impact.

  “She fucking left me for him!”

  He spins and locks on me. When Leon stares at you, he consumes you. He traps you in a small, flustered vacuum where he’s all that matters. “Leon… you’ll be okay,” I begin, but my voice trembles.

  I can’t wrap my mind around this meltdown. Nothing ruffles him, nothing surprises him; in all my years at the club, I’ve never seen fissures in the marble of my boss’ beautiful façade.

  Chaos is the antithesis of his life—of his apartment, his staff, his job—heck, of him! With the exception of his girlfriends, everything he touches remains orderly, and yet he’s losing it so completely right now.

  This state he’s in… It doesn’t rock my need to be there for him. I—

  Am always close.

  He’s my love. My unreciprocated love, because I am just Arriane, his left hand, the favorite bartender. Not one of the dolls he breaks.

  “Arriane, she never stopped dragging him into our thing, insisting that she loved him.” Leon’s chest lifts and sinks with his turmoil. “I never work to keep someone, and yet I did with her. Fuck, I did everything I could, while all he needed to do was barge into Smother. He fucking stole her from under my nose!” Angry tears glitter, drifting over his surreally blue irises.

  Does he not hear himself?

  Every day I was here to witness their “relationship.” Since Pandora couldn’t escape Leon’s territory—the club and his upstairs apartment—she disappeared inside herself. He tried to coax her out, but he never fully succeeded.

  “Why…?” I hesitate, unsure of how he’ll react if I ask. Still, I need to vocalize my thoughts. His gaze snaps to my mouth, watching me continue.

  “Why did you insist when she always talked about Dominic?”

  “Arriane! Didn’t you catch how perfect she is for me? Hell—I’m perfect for her.”

  Leon’s parade of girlfriends is long. One after the other, they arrive and get booted. Like crack, he gets women addicted to him before he breaks their hearts with his rapidly cooling interest. The last one, though? Pandora?

  She turned the tables on him.

  Leon is not boyfriend material. Leon is heartbreak ready to detonate in one stunning package. And yet I can’t stand that he’s hurting. I wish he handled this better.

  I—

  Long to erase his pain.

  “How long did she live with you, Leon? A week? She wasn’t perfect for you if she’s in love with someone else.” I keep talking. Knowing I should stop. “Don’t worry. The right girl will come around.”

  Anger flashes over those flawless features I’ve memo
rized. “What do you know? Do you even date?” he spits out.

  This outburst is not him. “Yeah, just… not lately,” I mumble, stunned.

  “As in since you started working for me three years ago?” he prods.

  With no deliberation, I nod. Because when I fall, I fall hard. I don’t recover my heart easily. A few months into my job at Smother, I already knew. Sure, I’ve had a date or two. Occasionally been sucked into an advanced make-out session, but—

  “Ooh, that makes you quite the relationship expert,” he mocks in a tone he never uses, especially not with his employees. Eyes darkening, he stalks toward me on my post in front of the exit. I’m not sure of his intentions. To be on the safe side, I push at the door, double-checking.

  Thank God. Still barricaded.

  “What are you doing, Arriane?” His tone lowers into a silky drawl, promising a danger I haven’t been on the receiving end of before. His words sound intimate, the way he speaks to his girlfriends at times, and I swallow, wanting to control the fear and the heat rising in me.

  I press my back against the front door, fanning my palms protectively over the wood at my sides. He could be strong enough to barge through for all I know, and I can’t—can’t let that happen.

  I’m no match for him. My tiny body is all that keeps him from trying.

  “Move,” he clips, but I shake my head, trying not to meet his glare—the beautiful glare that’s crystalline compared to the pale tan of his skin.

  I shiver.

  “Arriane,” Christian calls from outside. “You sure about this?”

  “Yeah, keep it blocked. I can do this,” I say. My voice doesn’t sound right, though. It quivers with uncertainty, and I wrap my arms around myself for comfort.

  “Open the damn door!” Leon roars.

  “Leon, man—sorry,” Christian replies from outside. “Arriane, this is bad. I don’t think you can talk him down. We’re coming in.”

  No. What good would come of opening right now? If he makes it past them, he’ll take off on his motorcycle, and who knows where he’d end up—at Pandora’s door and getting himself arrested?

  I pull air into my lungs, inflating them. “Don’t do it, Christian!” I shout as loud as I can. The palms of Leon’s hands slam into the door by my temples, and a shocked yelp slips from me. He leans in, closer to my face than he has ever been, his nose almost touching mine.

  “Hmm,” he murmurs, changing his tone so swiftly I freeze with uncertainty. “You were going to talk me down? From what, a ledge?” He pulls back enough to meet my eyes, and the ice in his shifts. “From a noose, perhaps?” He chuckles darkly. “No, Arriane, don’t you worry. No chick can make me jump.”

  I don’t answer. My breathing speeds up in response to the way my heart pumps adrenaline through my veins. Leon is standing so close that his hips brush against my stomach, and he is…

  No way. With the mood he’s in, how can he be?

  But then, it’s true: he is hard. I’m certain now, because he aligns his body with mine and presses into me. The sensation of him rock-solid against my frame for the very first time is a rush!

  In my sensory overload, my irrational mind hitches on how fit he is. Slender and made of granite, he exhales, a puff of air meeting my skin. Of course, it’s his martial arts, my brain analyzes unnecessarily.

  He waits. Waits for me to reply.

  “I didn’t mean—No, never…” I begin, trying to focus on his question about me talking him down from jumping. Only I’m out of breath, and the rest of the words don’t come. A mild waft of cologne pulses from his neck, drawing my attention down from his face.

  “No?” he prompts. “So what’s your plan?” Sapphire-bright, his eyes narrow as he dissects me. I squirm under his scrutiny. He’s holding me, though, so I unintentionally apply friction between us. Leon sucks air through his teeth in a hiss that shoots fire to my stomach.

  At work, he moves among us like some pagan god; always present and with an all-knowing, cool air of mastery. Taking charge, responsibility. Reducing the stress of frantic work nights with short, precise orders. Now, he’s regaining his control, only of a more intimate type. He exudes a seductive sort of power I’ve so often watched him wield over his girls.

  “I turn you on, don’t I?” Mild surprise tinges his voice, like he wasn’t expecting this. There’s no point in enunciating the tale my brain concocts, because my body won’t lie.

  “Are you okay, Arriane?” Christian interrupts from outside. “Shit, whose idea was this anyway?” he says to Jason. “Sure, it’s Arriane, but still—we locked him away with another girl.”

  “She’s fine, Christian,” Leon answers for me. “We both are. I won’t hurt her.”

  A short silence follows. “Arriane?”

  “Um, yes. No worries,” I manage. Aware that Christian’s respect for our boss equals mine, I add, “Leon’s back. He’s himself again.”

  Leon’s hand reaches out. Locks the door from the inside and slinks up to my neck. Gently, he guides me into his apartment with a palm curving at my nape, right below the ponytail.

  Neither of us reacts when Christian’s concerned voice repeats my name from the hallway. When they remove the barricade in loud shuffles against the floor.

  “You want to stay?” Leon whispers. “Keep me company?”

  He stares at me in that special way. His look is not one of love or adoration.

  I know better than to accept his offer.

  It would be madness.

  And yet—

  I nod.

  To read more, click here.

  First of all, I want to thank Kolleen Hinds for lending her insight as an experienced UFC wife. Without her valuable input from an early stage and throughout the late phases of this book, I wouldn’t have been able to write it as true to MMA-fighter life as it is.

  Kolleen also introduced me to her husband, pioneer professional MMA fighter turned UFC and Bellator referee. Rob Hinds, he loves his wife so much that he suffered through dozens of e-mails with everything from the most banal questions to the most intricate from this author right here. Rob, your patient explanations have opened my eyes to so much within the art form of mixed martial arts, and I am so thankful. Unfortunately, I have more fighter books pushing to see the light of day. Which means you’ll hear from me again! (Insert evil laughter here.)

  Next up, a huge kiss to my husband, Michael—another very patient man. Because he deals with artists for a living, handling another (sometimes moody one) at home isn’t something he frets over.

  I’m also grateful for my daughter, Alexandra, who reads and loves all of my books, and I’m still excited that my son, Nicolas, doesn’t read them; I just looked, and he’s still scrubbing his eyes after accidentally opening Stargazer on the wrong page.

  I can never thank my author besties enough. We’re in this together, loving, struggling, and loving this journey some more. Dead honest feedback is how we roll, because how else can we keep getting better?

  Lynn Vroman, again you cracked your whip of awesome at a manuscript of mine. Your input, your enthusiasm, your steady expertise makes me trust that I can polish my books into the novels they’re supposed to become.

  D Nichole King, you always locate my typical issues, inconsistencies, and raise questions whenever you have them. You’re my honest, honest girl, and I wasn’t mentally prepared for the praise you gave me for this book baby. Thank you.

  Cheryl McIntyre: your feedback, your love for my stories, the way you see things in sentences no one else sees. How you read depth of characters and extract symbolism I can play with. Your emails make me smile and tear up, and your tiniest corrections shoot me off to tweak my draft. Dodging Trains was no different. You loved this pretty too, and you gave me so much homework to make it even better. Have I ever mentioned that I love you???

  Laura Thalassa, again you’ve done it, helped me polish and find those last details, the ones that I’d hate to find later on published paper. Thank you, thank y
ou, thank you. Every book, lady. Every. One.

  Dawn McIntyre, I’m so grateful that you enjoy my novels enough that you’ve helped me through each one of them. Your response means so much to me. Your genuine, clear input, telling me what you want, what you love and don’t, is exactly what I need to nudge my stories up a last step before release.

  My beta readers, Renee McMillan, Rachel Spurlock, and April Martin—there is nothing like you reading my baby and affording me your impulsive responses as you read. I’m humbled that you drop your current reads to squeeze in my books in between. Thank you for being there for me.

  Dear loyal bloggers. You’re essential when it comes to spreading the word about my cover reveals, releases, and sales. You know whom you are, you beautiful, beautiful girls and boys who make my books visible in the overgrown jungle of the indie market. Just, I cannot thank you enough, and I want to remind you of that list of mine you’re on. It’s not the black list or the white list. No, because you’re on my golden list.

  Finally, there’s you, sweet reader. Writing is my breathing, but breathing is a dance with you as my inhalator.

  You. Are my air.

  Thank you for reading.

  Sunniva was born and raised in the Land of The Midnight Sun but spent her early twenties making the world her oyster: Spain, Italy, Greece: Southern Europe. Then, Buenos Aires, Argentina. Finally, the United States kept her interest, and after half a decade in California, she now lounges in the beautiful city of Savannah. Sunniva has a Master’s degree in Spanish, which she taught until she settled in as a graduate adviser at an art college in the South.

  Sunniva writes New Adult fiction with soul and purpose. Sometimes it’s with a paranormal twist—like in Shattering Halos, Stargazer, and Cat Love. Mostly, it’s contemporary, as in Pandora Wild Child, Leon’s Way, Adrenaline Crush, Walking Heartbreak, and now Dodging Trains.

  Sunniva is the happiest when her characters let their emotions run off with them, shaping the stories in ways she never foresaw. She loves her bad boys and her good boys run amok, and like in real life, her goal is to keep you on your toes until the end of each story.