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Storms Over Secrets
Copyright © 2015 by J.A. DeRouen
Cover Design by Regina Wamba at Mae I Design and Photography
Editing by Madison Seidler
Proofreading by Alexis Durbin
Formatting by JT Formatting
Smashwords Edition
ISBN:
All rights reserved.
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 both the copyright owner and the above publisher 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. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Title Page
Andrea Gibson Quote
Prologue
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
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Past –Six Years Ago
MY FEET POUND the pavement at a punishing pace, and my calves scream as I push myself forward, not going nearly fast enough. My ragged breath whistles into the night as I force air into my restricted lungs. Loose gravel and rocks bruise the bottoms of my feet, but none of that matters.
Please, God, this can’t be the end. I need more time to fix this … more time to fix him.
I pound my fists on the front door, twisting the doorknob and pushing on the splintered wood with all my might.
“Lucas! God, please! Lucas!” My screams pierce through the stillness of the night, and the neighborhood awakens like falling dominos, with porch lights illuminating one after the other.
It feels as though light-years pass before the light above my head flicks to life. Mrs. Cindy opens the door with sleepy eyes and disheveled hair. “My God, Celia, what on Earth?”
There’s no time for words as I shove her aside and race up the staircase. Sobbing. Stumbling. Clawing to get to him.
A boulder settles in my gut, the gnawing dread pulls me under, making it almost impossible to breathe. His text is etched in my brain, tattooed on my already broken heart, because I know what I’ll find when I finally reach him.
No matter where I am, I’ll always love you. I promise you always.
His vow is the only coherent thought I have as I fling open the bathroom door and fall to my knees, sliding on the pool of blood that welcomes me.
“Noooooooooooooooooo!”
“Today” by Joshua Radin
Present Day
“BOY, SOMETIMES I think you’ve got lead in your ass and shit for brains. Don’t make me come down there.”
Sarge’s voice cracks as he raises it an octave shy of hollering. My grandfather is a piece of work. Sometimes I’d like to thank the artist personally … possibly with a throat punch or jab to the gut.
“Cool your jets, old man,” I reply with a low chuckle. “I’m on my way now. This is ridiculous, though. I know I mailed the tenant her key with the lease. Who the hell loses their key before they even move in?” I juggle the phone between my ear and shoulder as I turn the steering wheel and drive through the streets of Providence.
“Don’t get smart with me, boy. The broad said she lost the key, so I don’t know what to tell you. Just open the house for her, and you can be on your merry little way. Lord knows I wouldn’t want to interrupt your morning of catching squirrels or climbing trees with a measly bit of work.” Sarge expels a huff of air, and I hear the creak of his old rocking chair. I can picture him now, pacing the porch and cursing under his breath.
“I’m a game warden, Sarge. I’m not on some camping trip frolicking in the fricking forest. We had a sting operation. A big group of duck hunters was baiting ponds, and we caught ‘em. I’ve been up since two o’clock in the morning,” I explain, although I know it’s on deaf ears. My gramps has a set way of looking at life—his way. He decided a long time ago I’d take over his rental property business, and he can’t, for the life of him, figure out why I mess with this game warden “hobby.”
The truth is, I see things a little differently than the old man. The rental property business feeds my wallet, and I’m grateful for it. The game warden gig feeds my soul. There’s nothing like being in the woods at dawn, the crack of a twig piercing the silence, and seeing a doe and her fawn walk up on you. Pure fucking beauty. Nothing in every day life comes close to those moments.
Well, there are a few things … but I digress.
“You young people and all your laws! Everything gets a man in trouble nowadays. Do you know how many ducks I’ve killed by baiting ponds? Best hunting trips I’ve ever had. You can’t do anything fun anymore. This country’s going to hell in a handbasket, I tell you!”
I roll my eyes and hold my tongue. His daughter raised me better than that. I’ll respect my elders—even if they are batshit crazy.
“I’m driving up now. Let me take care of this, and I’ll stop by to see you this afternoon. Granny told me she’s cooking an etouffee.”
My grandmother can cook like no other, and I don’t miss a good meal. Hell, I’ve never been known to miss any meal. Once I deal with this asshat of a tenant, I’ll crash for a few hours, and then it’ll be dinnertime. I can almost taste the crawfish and butter.
“You do that,” he says indignantly. He lives his life always looking for an argument, even when there’s none to be had. “You’d do well to keep that mother of yours at home, though, ya hear me?”
And now my tongue is officially bleeding. I’m not going th
ere with him today. Not. Fucking. Doing. It. Instead of telling him to kiss my ass, I try to remember the man before the anger, frustration, and rigidity defined him. I focus on the man who helped raise me, not the tyrant he’s become.
I step out of my truck and flip through the bulky key ring until I find the right one. 222 Ash Street.
“I gotta go, Sarge. I’ll see you tonight,” I say with what little restraint I have left. God, that man can push my buttons. I’d swear he isn’t happy until I’m seething. Sometimes I think my easygoing nature is a personal affront to him. He thinks everyone should be wound as tightly as him.
Not gonna happen. Lazy fishing trips and Monday Night Football are my religion.
I push the END button on my phone just as my feet hit the first step of the porch. I shuffle my exhausted legs to the front door and slide the key in the lock. I hear footsteps approaching me from the side of the porch, but I don’t look up.
“I’m pretty sure I mailed your key to you with the copy of your lease,” I say in a less-than-friendly voice.
It may make me an asshole, but I set the mood with my tenants from the start. I’m a cool guy, but I don’t put up with drama. I don’t want to know about crazy girlfriends who throw your shit out on the lawn or bullshit bosses who fire employees for selling weed out of the break room—both true stories. I provide suitable accommodations, and the tenants provide me with a monthly check. There’s no reason to have my number on speed dial.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Bennett. I have the key; I know I do. I packed it away for safekeeping. It just happens to be in one of the many boxes crammed into that moving van,” she explains as she points at the van that escaped my attention when I drove up. She shrugs her shoulders in apology and winces. “I’m just not sure which one.”
I tilt my head down to meet her eyes and get the first look at my new tenant. She’s barely five feet tall, fun-sized compared to my six-foot four-inch frame. I reach out and grab the daisy she has perched behind her ear and try to decipher why the sound of her singsong voice goes straight to my dick.
“Where’s your wand?” I ask.
She gives me a confused look, cocks her head to the side, and squints her eyes.
“My … what?”
“You’re two-foot-nothing tall, and you’ve got flowers in your hair and around your neck,” I explain, pointing to the string of clover flowers she’s tied together as a necklace. I guess she kept busy while waiting for me to show up. “You’ve got to be a fucking fairy, pixie, sprite, or something. So where’s the wand?”
She keeps right on staring, so I take my time studying every part of her.
“Hold on. Is your face … sparkling?”
That seems to break the trance, and a giggle escapes her pretty, pink-painted lips. “That’s my new dusting powder. It’s cool, right?”
My mind has been wiped clean of all rational thought, but one tiny idea keeps nagging in my head, and I can’t seem to find the mute button. It keeps saying the same words over and over. Don’t even think about it.
When I don’t jump in right away to sing the praises of dusting powder, whatever the hell that is, she shrugs her shoulders and bites her bottom lip.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Bennett, but I’m not hiding any wand. It’s just little, old, boring me,” she says as she raises her hands in presentation. Yeah, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing boring about this girl; I don’t give a shit what she claims. “Anyway, I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
I push open the door, and wave my hand in a gesture to invite her into her new home.
“Cain.”
“What?” she asks.
“My name is Cain. There’s no need to call me Mr. Bennett. I’m just Cain.”
She turns to face me and raises her hand in invitation, smiling in a way only a fairy can. “In that case, my name is Celia. Wait, I’m sure you already know that since you’re renting me this place. So stupid. Anyway, pleased to meet you, Cain.”
I clasp her hand and resist the overwhelming urge to jerk her body flush with mine. As soon as her delicate fingers slide along the underside of my palm, I know I don’t want to let her go. Maybe she should call me Mr. Bennett after all. One look at her, and I know she feels it, too. The realization doesn’t seem to impress her, though, as her lips turn down into a slight frown. I’m not sure what that’s about, but maybe something in her head is chatty, too.
Hey man, no skin off my nose. We don’t have to get naked. I’ve got more than my fair share of those willing. No need to start something up with a tenant, anyway. That’s just asking for trouble I don’t need. My traitorous body may have other ideas, but I have no desire or need to beg for anyone.
“Happy to meet you,” I say as I reluctantly release my grasp on her hand. As soon as I let her go, she claps her hands together.
“Well, I should get started,” she says, chin up and shoulders pushed back. “Those boxes won’t move themselves.”
She skips out onto the porch and bounds down the steps, her clover flower necklace dancing about her shoulders. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed anyone that enthusiastic about such a menial and exhausting task.
Fucking fairy.
When she reaches the back of the van, she clicks open the door and slides it up. I walk to the back of the truck and take a peek inside. It’s filled to the brim, boxes and furniture as far as the eye can see. She picks up the first box and carries it toward the house, way too cheerful and determined to realize she’s picked up one piece of hay from a huge fucking bale. At this rate, she’ll be moved in by the time her lease is up for renewal.
I need to leave. I should get my stupid ass back in my truck, head home, and crash until the afternoon, just as I planned. That’s what I should do.
Yeah, that’s not what I’m gonna do.
I balance four boxes in my hands and take off in the direction of the house. I’m just a few steps away from the porch steps when a pair of sandaled feet enters my field of vision and block my way. Pink glitter toenail polish shimmers back at me.
Jesus, even her toes sparkle?
“What are you doing, Cain? I can take care of this by myself,” she says.
Do I sense a hint of irritation in her voice?
“Oh, I know you can do it on your own, Tink. There’s not a doubt in my mind. I’m just figuring the rental company needs their moving van back within the year.”
I try to move around her, but she blocks me again. I hear her huff, and the only thing I’m sorry about is that I can’t see all of her.
“I can do just fine on my own, thank you very much. And why are you calling me Tink?”
Seeing now that I’m gonna have to face her head-on, I place the boxes on the ground beside me. She’s going for the pissed off vibe, but her jutted-out chin, crossed arms, and cocked hip are too adorable to command me. I reach out and tip her chin. As soon as my fingers hit skin, her arms unlock, falling to her side and her mouth opens slightly in what I hope is awe.
I’ve awed many women in my day, but something tells me this girl won’t be affected so easily. I have a feeling she’d make me work for it.
“I want to help you, for no other reason than I’m a good guy and you look like you could use a hand. Don’t we all need help from time to time?” I ask, hoping to soothe her ego.
She smiles at my question and gives me a small nod as she looks at the ground.
“Good, I’m glad that’s settled,” I say as I lean down and pick up the boxes again. As I walk away, I call out to her over my shoulder. “And I called you Tink because I don’t care what you say, you’ve got to be a fairy. There’s no other explanation.”
I hear her faint giggle as I walk through the front door, and it travels through my ears, down into my gut, right before it takes up permanent residence in my heart. I close my eyes and savor the sound, knowing I’ve never heard anything more beautiful in my life.
“Half Moon” by Blind Pilot
Present Day
&nb
sp; “THAT LOOKS TO be the last of it,” I say as I lean against the doorjamb and survey the towers of boxes littering Celia’s new digs. As I look around the room, the linoleum flooring and formica countertops that are standard issue in my rental houses don’t feel quite good enough.
Celia’s hardly noticeable, crouched in the corner of several ripped open boxes, digging out the contents. Her head pops up, and she greets my words with a smile.
“Thanks so much for all of your help, Cain. I think you’re right. I would have been in a bind if you hadn’t stayed.”
I walk over and meet her in the maze of boxes and stoop down to eye level.
“You can go ahead and say it. I’m your hero,” I joke with a lazy wink.
She throws her head back and laughs—a big, full, belly laugh. I love that I can affect her that way. That’s who I’ve always been—the funny guy. The jokester who keeps everyone smiling. It’s where I feel at home.
“I guess there’s no denying it, is there?” she says as she bows her head in concession. “If I’m your fairy, you can be my knight in shining armor.”
“I have been known to save the day.”
I tap my chest, and that earns me a snicker and an eye roll.
“Let’s not get carried away. You didn’t exactly slay dragons today.”
“I did, however, beat down a truck full of boxes,” I say as I reach for a picture frame that’s sitting at the top of the nearest box.
The picture is at least a few years old. Celia’s got the same short, wispy blonde hair, but she’s obviously a bit younger. She’s wrapped in the arms of some guy—a total douchebag, if you ask me—and their gazes are locked. No one else in the world exists outside of their little world, that’s clear.
I have no reason to feel this way, but looking at the two of them makes me jealous. It’s not a niggle this time. It’s irrational, wild-eyed, who-the-fuck-is-this-guy kind of jealousy. I don’t like it.
Before I get a chance to ask the question, the frame is ripped from my hands.
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