I glanced over at the clock beside my bed. It was past midnight. I grinned. “Twenty-eight days now.”
“Rest of our lives together,” he murmured. He bent to kiss me, then started moving inside me again.
Just thinking about it causes a pang of sexual longing between my legs. It’s been a long damn time since I’ve had sex. Thinking about August and the last time we were together is not helping matters.
We’d planned to go away to college together. Although my father and his parents weren’t crazy about it, we were going to share an apartment. We were going to be adults, on our own and living our lives together forever.
Sucking in a long breath, I hold it for several agonizing seconds. Just as I start to get a little dizzy, I let it out in a massive rush. I imagine all of my fears and doubts purging out of my body along with the carbon dioxide my lungs expel.
Once again, I straighten my spine before stepping onto the porch. After locating the doorbell, I place my fingertip to it, hesitating a nanosecond before I depress the button. Inside, it chimes loudly and I physically cringe.
No dog starts barking. Everything is silent. I wonder if August is even home, but then a light comes on through the frosted glass panes of the front door.
My pulse picks up as I hear the front door unlock—a regular lock and a deadbolt—and then the door swings open.
And there stands August. He looks so much like he did almost ten years ago, yet so vastly different.
The first thing I notice is how much he’s filled out. He’s in a low-slung pair of sweatpants and nothing else. His brownish-red hair is slightly longer than how he wore it in high school. It sticks up at various angles, indicating he was most likely soundly asleep when I rang that doorbell. He has a layer of scruff on his face, brown with red highlights. The tattoos on his arms and chest are definitely new, and they make him look like a badass. I have no clue what he does for a living, but I approve of the ink.
His eyes are the one thing that haven’t changed, and the sparkling green brilliance still takes my breath away. In my entire life, I’ve never seen eyes as beautiful as his.
August scrunches his eyebrows, an inquisitive expression crossing his face over finding a woman on his doorstep at two o’clock in the morning. He even gives me a polite smile—perhaps thinking I might need assistance with a broken-down car.
Then, he actually sees me. He leans a little closer as his gaze roams all over my face, finally locking on my eyes. Recognition dawns, and his mouth parts in astonishment.
“Tracey?” he asks, sounding awed. His voice trembles slightly. “Is that you?”
I smile, relieved he recognizes me even though my hair is coffee brown instead of blonde. It’s no longer down to the middle of my back, instead it’s cut into an angular bob. My blue eyes are now brown, thanks to the miracle of colored contacts.
“It’s actually Leighton now,” I say with an upturned chin. Wincing, I realize how sanctimonious that sounds, as if I were too good for my name. “What I mean is… I had to change my name to Leighton.”
August regards me in surprise before his expression changes… it’s almost as if he understands, but I don’t know how. How could he possibly understand why I’m here right now?
Stepping back from the door, August motions me inside. “Why don’t you come in?”
I cross the threshold, more nervous now than I have been in an exceedingly long time of having to look over my shoulder. August may have figured a few things out due to my change in appearance and name, but he has no clue what I’m getting ready to hit him with.
CHAPTER 3
August
Honestly, I’m reeling.
It’s not every day I’m confronted by a ghost from my past.
Tracey Glendale is in my home, apparently alive and well. Of course, under a different name now. Leighton. She definitely looks different. Given my cop background and current work with Jameson, it’s clear she’s hiding from someone or something.
“You want some coffee or something?” I ask. Moving through the spacious living area, I head into the kitchen at the rear of the house, flipping on lights as I go.
“No, thank you,” she replies, but I continue to the coffee pot. I have no clue why Tracey—Leighton—has suddenly shown up on my doorstep. I’m going to assume she needs help. Maybe she somehow knows about my background in law enforcement.
Regardless of the reason she’s here, I know I won’t be going back to sleep tonight.
Flipping on the Keurig, I turn toward her, leaning against the counter while it heats up. She stops on the other side of the kitchen island separating the open-floor plan from the living room, then places her purse almost gingerly on the counter. Her head dips, as if she’s afraid to look me in the eye.
“I thought you were dead for the longest time,” I say. Her head snaps up, eyes locking on mine. “You just disappeared. Not a word. No explanation. I went to your house, but all your furnishings were still there… your clothes. You and your dad just vanished into thin air. It was reasonable to conclude something bad had happened, so I just naturally assumed you’d died. Otherwise, you would have tried to reach out to me, right?”
Whoa… I had not intended to go off on that diatribe, but it suddenly hits me how angry I am she’s standing in my house after ten long years without a single word from her.
“I couldn’t,” she murmurs. Despite the bitterness welling inside me right now, I motion her toward one of the island stools. She sits, clasping her hands tightly together. “We were in WITSEC.”
“No, you weren’t,” I reply with a confident shake of my head. “I checked. Once I started with the Vegas PD, I used my connections to see what happened to you because I was having a tough time accepting you might be dead. But you weren’t in the system.”
Her head tilts, sympathy softening her features at the anger in my tone. “We were in deep. Very, very deep.”
“Who was in deep, Tracey?” I demand, crossing my arms. Although, truthfully, I already know the answer.
“Leighton,” she whispers, gaze dropping to her purse.
“What?”
“You need to call me Leighton,” she says, a bit of bite in her voice. “It’s been my name for ten years now. Tracey is gone.”
I ignore the twinge of empathy her words conjure, needing to know more. “Was it your dad? Did he do something?”
Her lips press flat, her expression going almost blank. I can tell she’s been trained—maybe conditioned—to never speak about such things. Finally, through gritted teeth, she admits, “He witnessed something the federal government felt was particularly important. So much so, they dragged us out of our house in the middle of the night, then informed us our lives as we knew them were over. That we were considered assets of the government, and we had to start our lives over.”
I let out a harsh curse, imagining how terrifying that had to have been for her. Needing a moment, I focus on the Keurig, brewing myself a cup of coffee. Tracey—fuck, Leighton—was barely eighteen when that happened. I remember the day she disappeared as if it were yesterday. I’d never felt more lost in my entire life than when I realized something bad must have happened.
She hadn’t shown up for school, hadn’t responded to my texts or calls, and she hadn’t been at her house when I checked. I couldn’t explain her sudden absence, so I used my key to let myself in to her home. Her dad liked me a lot, and he hadn’t minded me coming and going as I pleased. He was a very “hands-off” type of parent. Hell, if he’d known about some of the things his daughter and I got up to when he was off on one of his frequent business trips, he would have locked her in a tower to keep me away.
It had been obvious something wasn’t right. When she was still missing at the end of day two, I’d known something was seriously wrong. My parents were always supportive of me, so they helped me file a missing person’s report. The police investigated, but they’d been stumped, too, given none of Tracey and her dad’s personal belongings had b
een touched. Even Rich’s—her dad’s—Mercedes was still in the garage. The Glendale family—father and daughter—had disappeared, but there weren’t any signs of a struggle, a robbery, or any other nefarious acts.
Eventually, everyone moved on. Our mutual school friends stopped talking about her, my parents stopped calling the police for updates on my behalf, and the case turned cold.
Everyone had moved on but me.
Even to this day, ten years later, I’d never moved on. I was still plagued with doubt, recrimination, fear, and a generalized loathing at the unfairness of losing my girl without a clue how it happened. Convincing myself she was dead one moment while other times hoping perhaps she was living a new life, safe and happy away from me, was torture. Half was a comfort to me, but the rest pissed me off.
How in the hell could I move on when the woman I had loved with all my heart—whom I’d thought I’d spend the rest of my life with—was taken away from me without any explanation? There’s no way to get past that.
Grabbing my coffee, I pivot to face her. Warily, she regards me. I try to temper my expression. “I’m sorry, Tracey.”
“Leighton,” she corrects. “Tracey is dead.”
“It has sure felt that way all these years,” I mutter, then sullenly add, “Leighton.”
“I’m sorry, August.” Her eyes are shiny with remorse. “They wouldn’t let me contact you. At first, I tried. They kept us locked away until we were transitioned. I even lifted a U.S. Marshal’s phone out of his pocket once, but it was passcode protected. When I begged them to let me call you, they were adamant we had to sever any contacts from our past lives. They said it was for your safety as much as ours.”
And that confession punches through the last of my anger. This sweet girl—barely turned woman—had practically been kidnapped from her home in the dead of night. She must have been frantic over everything left behind. One thing I never doubted was… she loved me. Tracey—fuck, Leighton—would have been desperate to try to get word to me that she was alive. How can I blame her for any of that?
Setting my cup down, I hurry around the counter. Without a moment’s hesitation, I take her into my arms. Stiffly, she accepts my embrace, and I can tell the easy trust we used to have with each other is gone. Ten years of absence doesn’t necessarily make the heart grow fonder. Add in the fact she’s been living in hiding all this time, and I’m sure her trust factor toward anyone is at a negative.
Still, I pull her closer and wrap my arms around her, one hand going to the back of her head. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. Sorry for whatever horrible position your dad’s actions put you in.”
She nods against my chest, and I half expect her to give in to the tears that were obviously threatening just a moment ago. But she’s strangely silent.
Pulling slightly away, I glance down. I see nothing but the top of her head… the brunette color is strange on her, but admittedly, it’s looks great. It makes her appear far more grown up and womanly than I remember.
Placing a finger under her chin, I force her gaze up to mine. “But hey… you came here to see me for some reason. I assume you need help with something regarding this? Are you still in WITSEC?”
Her eyes briefly close as if she’s overwhelmed by my words. I want to reassure her that she’s safe, but when she focuses on me again, her expression makes my entire body go cold.
She hasn’t told me everything. Whatever it is must be a secret of great magnitude. It’s etched into the small lines of worry around her eyes and the way she tightly clamps her jaw. She swallows hard, an obvious effort to shore up some confidence in herself.
“What is it?” I ask, taking a full step away. Instinctively, I realize physical proximity is not a good idea right now.
Lower lip trembling, she speaks, her voice sounding like fractured glass. “There’s no easy way to say this—”
“Just spit it out, Leighton,” I demand with a bark of annoyance. My tone and the comfortable use of her new name causes her to physically jolt. Almost involuntarily, she reaches toward her purse, but then drops her hand.
She bites down into her lower lip… hard. It’s the move of a woman needing to ground herself while allowing the time to pull herself together. Her gaze darts to the door, and it’s clear she’s considering just leaving.
But I’m not going to let that happen since she must need to tell me something potentially devastating for her to show up on my doorstep.
Leighton drops her head, and it’s easy for me to acknowledge her new name because I’m fairly sure the woman I used to know—Tracey—is no more.
Ever so slowly, she lifts her eyes until they focus on mine. Lips pursing, she cuts my legs out from underneath me.
“When they came to take us away that night,” she whispers, “I was pregnant.”
A rushing roar fills my ears, and I can feel a vein in my forehead pop. I go deaf for several brutal moments as I try to process what she just said, then I realize I can actually hear the thud of my heart as it batters the inside of my rib cage.
“What?” I rasp, fingers involuntarily curling into the palms of my hands until they form tight fists.
“I didn’t know,” she quickly adds, as if that makes a difference. “I found out a few weeks later. But, like I said, they wouldn’t let me call you.”
“And…” I force out through gritted teeth. She seems to be leaving out a particularly important piece of information.
“And…” She exhales forcefully, as if the burden of the secret is too much for her to carry for even another second. “I have a son. His name is Sam.”
“Don’t you mean we have a son?” I ask, my tone low and cruel.
Leighton’s face loses all color, the slight ducking of her head indicating the question embarrasses her.
I advance toward her, barely able to control my fury. My words come out slowly, coated in ice. “Do you mean to tell me that I’ve had a kid for all these years, and you kept him from me?”
“I wasn’t allowed—”
“Bullshit,” I yell, and her mouth slams shut. Her eyes dart to her purse, then to me. I lean in until our faces are separated by just a few inches. My voice is shaking. Fuck, my whole body is trembling. “You should have found a way to tell me. Seems to me that you and Rich have been living safe and large. But you’re here now, aren’t you? Which means you could have found a way to let me know.”
She knows my words are true, which is probably why she doesn’t even attempt to defend herself. Her shoulders slump, and her gaze falls to the floor.
I don’t feel an ounce of sympathy.
“So why are you here now, Leighton?” As I emphasize her new name, I hope she can hear the distaste coating it. “What… need money? Child support for all those years? Looking for a quick payday?”
Not responding, she continues to look at the floor. It enrages me.
Putting my hands to her shoulders, I give her a hard shake to get her attention. I demand she explain herself. I need to make sense of this.
“What in God’s name do you need from me, Leighton?” I snarl. Eyes filled with fear and distrust meet mine. “How much do you want me to write the check out for, huh? Hopefully not too much because—let’s face it—you weren’t that great of a lay to begin with.”
The minute the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Not necessarily because I hurt her, but because I just compared the value of my kid to her pussy, which is so not right.
Immediately, I release her and retreat a step. I scrape my hand through my hair, a sure tell of my frustration and helplessness. Once more, my words now weak with fatigue, I ask, “What do you want?” Obviously, I’ll support my kid—if she’s telling the truth—but I just want her out of my house for now.
Determinedly, Leighton lifts her chin. “August… Sam is sick. He has leukemia, and he needs a bone marrow transplant. He’s on the donor list, but he’s not doing well. I came here in the hopes you might be a match. So, yes, I do need something, but
it’s not your money. I need you to help me save our son’s life.”
CHAPTER 4
Leighton
August has every right to be pissed. Yes, I’ve been constrained by rules that could have brought serious danger to my family if I’d broken them, but I’ll never deny he had the right to know his son and be a father for these last nine years.
I still stand firm in my decision to stay hidden—to protect my dad and Sam. The government told us in no uncertain terms… if we left the WITSEC program, we were on our own. If we breached the confidentiality of the program, we were out. Even though my dad had testified years ago, resulting in a conviction, we have to stay hidden because we are still very much in danger. The mob ties my dad had were deep and widespread. The minute he turned state’s witness, he became the enemy of many. Those people wouldn’t think twice about killing him, his daughter, and his grandson.
But how can August ever understand when all he cares about is the knowledge he missed out on nine years of his kid’s life?
To give him credit, August seems to be in control of himself now. Informing him that he’s a father was life altering, so I understand his fury and rage. Adding that Sam has leukemia knocked the wind out of him, and I feel terrible for having to relay this devastating news out of the blue.
After he pulled himself together, he motioned for me to sit at the kitchen table so we could talk. He offered coffee again, but I declined. I’m jittery enough without caffeine, despite how exhausted I am from the long trip here.
There’s so much I’d love to explain about the last ten years—about why I couldn’t reach out to him. I hope I can someday make him understand, but, right now, this is about Sam.
While August sips at his coffee, I explain about Sam’s acute myeloid leukemia diagnosis. The discovery was devastating to me since Sam is my entire world. Once my life was uprooted, my identity stripped and a new one handed to me to keep me safe, I learned how to become almost invisible. I avoid friendships and lovers. I go to work and come home, keeping my head down. Sam isn’t allowed to go on sleepovers, and I’m constantly looking over my shoulder. It’s the way my life is now, and I accept that.
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