by Alice Ward
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
FREE BOOK OFFER
BOOK DESCRIPTION
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
EPILOGUE
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
THE CANDIDATE
THE MASK
A SNEAK PEEK
MORE BY ALICE WARD
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT AND DISCLAIMER
The Choice
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BOOK DESCRIPTION
Grant Sommerfield. Dark. Intense. Lonely. With a past he’s built an empire to protect himself from.
Nash Levington. Spelled F-U-N. Easygoing. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
And then there’s me. Journey Walker. A good girl with too many responsibilities and too little fun.
Not that I’m complaining. As a physical therapy assistant, I love working with the elderly and disabled. I’ve managed to create a good life for me and my Down Syndrome sister from the ashes my mother left behind. I love my life. I love my sister. I’m content.
Until I meet them. Grant. Nash. On the exact same day, no less. They’re complete opposites, and they both pull out a side of me I wasn’t aware existed.
The side that wants to play. Wants to love. Wants to enjoy new experiences.
When my sister goes to camp for three weeks, things become interesting. And complicated. And so very seductive.
Grant. Nash.
How’s a girl to choose? Maybe I won’t.
Or maybe the choice will be made for me.
*** This is a full length novel with a happily ever after, no cliffhanger, no cheating, and plenty of steam. Bonus content included. ***
CHAPTER ONE
Journey
“Bingo!”
Madge Watson threw her hand up so fast, the flapping skin under her right arm caused her dark auburn wig to go askew.
“Slut!” Dorothy Trumble immediately yelled, pointing her pencil at the much tinier woman. “Check her card. She cheats like a mothafu—”
“Thank you, Miss Dorothy,” I intervened with the most patient smile I could muster. This wasn’t the first, third, or even tenth time I’d been forced to interrupt the potty-mouthed woman in the two hours I’d been at the Murray Hill Senior Living Center that day.
Although I was currently a physical therapy assistant, I’d been filling in for the activities coordinator two mornings a week until she returned from her maternity leave next month. I attempted to provide a fun, social morning for residents given the limited options the center’s director allowed. Although I’d tried hard in the two months I’d been working here to do anything other than bingo, the game was still a favorite among the elderly men and women who requested it be played at least once a week.
I dreaded it. Because there was always… always… a fight.
“Jealous shrew,” Miss Madge shot back, her bony finger waving in Miss Dorothy’s direction. She snatched her hard-won bingo buck from my hand and waved it in the air. As hard as I tried, I wasn’t able to bite back a small smile as the eighty-two-year-old did a little hip swirl for the crowd. She reminded me of my mee-maw so much.
“Straighten your wig,” Miss Dorothy crowed, her bright red lipstick staining her Tic Tac sized dentures. “You look like a two-dollar whore who’s been ridden all night.”
Before I could intervene, Miss Madge winked at Mr. Earl, who was sitting at her table. “Seems like we need to be quieter, sweetie pie. Madge has turned up her hearing aid too loud.”
Earl turned red all the way up to the top of his bald pate, but there was also a glint of self-satisfaction playing on his mouth, a hint of devil in his eyes. Rumor was that the two had been having a fling for the past couple weeks. From the way they were looking at each other, the rumor appeared to be true.
Good for them.
At least someone was getting lucky.
I raised a hand and raised my voice, hoping they could all hear me. “Ladies—”
Miss Dorothy shot out a loud harrumph at her nemesis. “And you... you purple-haired elf would be tart enough to brag about it.” She then said something under her breath that I couldn’t hear. I was glad I couldn’t hear. I survived high school and getting a bachelor’s degree in college without being exposed to some of the swear words I’d learned at the center.
“Like I said, jealous shrew,” Miss Madge hooted and slapped her bingo buck on the table before pressing a loud smacking kiss to poor Earl’s temple.
I clapped my hands together to get everyone’s attention, plastering a bright smile on my face. “Time’s up.” I waited until most all eyes were turned to me, and as I gazed back at the sweet, sweet faces, my smile turned genuine.
They were so precious.
Well, maybe not Miss Dorothy, who seemed to be intent on making every person around her as miserable as she apparently was. But the rest of them warmed my heart, reminding me of why I wanted to work with seniors and the disabled, though not necessarily as an activities referee.
Miss Molly smiled back at me, her short white hair standing up like a peacock’s feathers. Miss Ada smiled too, her tightly wound bun swirling around the top of her head. Mr. Carl was cleaning his glasses on his shirttail. Probably to better see all the girls with. He was the nursing home stud, who, rumor had it, bounced from one bed to another. Just last week, Mr. Carl had taken his little blue pill in the morning by mistake and had walked the halls of the nursing home with a woody until almost lunch.
We’d had an outbreak of syphilis a few weeks back, and all roads led back to Mr. Carl. Most people didn’t know how rampant STDs could be in nursing homes, how wild their little mamaws and papaws could be once the lights went out.
Aside from the raging sexually transmitted diseases, my opinion was… good for them. If I didn’t have anything to do besides play bingo and only had a couple years left, I’d be living it up too.
Too bad I wasn’t living it up now. At eighty-four, Miss Madge was probably getting more sex this week than I’ve had in my nearly twenty-four years on this Earth. God, wasn’t there a way to erase those few fumbling attempts at intercourse from my brain? Intercourse. That’s how I thought of it, because the few seconds of in and out couldn’t be labeled lovemaking or even fucking. At least I hoped not, because if that awkward joining of bodies was all there was, it wasn’t worth the effort of taking off my clothes.
“We only have two weeks until the art festival,” I reminded them, making my voice as loud as possible so everyo
ne could hear. “I’ve secured us a large tent, and I’ve been promised our booth will be under the trees, so that we can escape some of the June heat. Miss Julie will be back from maternity leave by then, but I’ll be volunteering my time for the day, so I’ll be on hand to help however you need.”
“We’ll probably get mugged or shot at,” Miss Dorothy grouched.
Miss Madge rolled her eyes, as did Miss Alpha, Miss Ada, and several others. They were well accustomed to the negativity coming from that direction. “I’m excited,” Miss Madge said, her hand stroking Mr. Earl’s arm. “And it’ll be nice to have a little extra spending money.”
My heart squeezed, knowing how little of it most of these sweet ones had. That was why winning a bingo buck was so important. They could use it in the center’s little gift shop to buy simple supplies like toothpaste, or little extravagances like chocolate. Or they could purchase crossword puzzle books, anything to pass the long days of nursing home living. It made me feel good to have found some other activities that would give them more financial options.
As the residents dispersed from the bingo tables, I smiled, watching them choose some of the other activities I’d set up. As they walked, the physical therapy professional inside me watched their gaits, their arm movements, their balance, looking to see if any seemed to be struggling more than normal this week.
They were so adorable. Every single one of them had a pair of glasses perched on their nose. Some carried oxygen tanks. Some were in wheelchairs while others sported walkers or canes.
It was amazing how similar and different they all were. While all physically frail to some degree, their attitudes were what was most different.
Some had family who visited them frequently while others never had any visitors at all.
Some loved living here, enjoying the companionship of the fellow residents. Others were here because they had no choice. It was those sweet little people who broke my heart. I’d never be able to understand how family could turn their backs on their elderly parent or grandparent in such a way.
I cared for my mee-maw up until she passed away a year ago today, which was one of the reasons it took me six years to get my Bachelor’s after first securing my physical therapy assistant certification. I didn’t care. As her Parkinson’s advanced, she kept telling me that she would be fine going into a home such as this one. That I was too young to be “wasting my life by taking care of her.”
But it was because of Mee-maw that I even had a life, and I would’ve never been able to live with myself if I hadn’t done all I could.
She had taken me and my sister in eighteen years ago when our mother abandoned us, leaving me — the doctors thought I was five or six years old at the time — to take care of an infant. I didn’t remember the exact timeline, but the police came to believe that we’d been alone for at least a week when a neighbor spotted me going through the garbage for food and called the police.
We had been lucky.
When the police searched the little place we’d been living, they’d found a letter with my mee-maw’s name and address. Without hesitation, Mee-maw took us in and made space in her small New York studio apartment for her only grandchildren. It wasn’t until that day that she even knew she had grandchildren. She hadn’t seen her daughter, our mother, in nearly ten years, but she dropped everything and rearranged her life to fit us in.
It had been terrifying at first because I didn’t know the woman, but within hours, I knew Jazzy and I were in the right place. I remembered that first day, the way Mee-maw let me sit in the bathtub for way over an hour. When the water turned dirty, causing me great distress, she drained it and refilled it with fresh. She did that twice more, then let me stay until I was ready to get out. She also slathered loads of conditioner in my hair so that the comb might possibly run through my tangles a little easier.
It didn’t.
She’d been forced to take me to her beauty shop for a pixie cut when the knots refused to loosen up. I remembered sitting in the beauty shop, looking into the mirror, as strand after strand of the matted dark stuff fell away. I remembered how all the other women had stared at me with sympathy oozing out of their eyes.
Poor little children.
How could their mother neglect them like that?
They say the condition of that house was worse than any barn.
Had the girls been… touched? Abused? Or only starved?
Those pictures. Videos. How horrible.
What the women hadn’t known was that I was very good at listening. I could be so quiet I could hear a mouse run down the hall. And I heard their whispers. Heard them talking about me and Jazzy, who had been sleeping the peaceful sleep of an infant in the new stroller Mee-maw had bought. Through their whispers, I learned that my mother was still missing. Learned about drugs. Prostitution. Child pornography. The naked pictures and videos of me that had been found.
I also learned about DNA tests and how the police were going to find out if Jazzy and I really belonged to Rachel Walker. I hoped we did, but at the tender age of five or six, I knew hope wasn’t something I could count on.
I sat there and listened, still as a stone as the matted mess on my head fell away. I’d learned how to be very still when Mommy was around. I’d learned how to watch for facial and body cues. Learned how to be a ghost in Mother’s presence.
When my haircut was done, everyone had oohed and aahed over my transformation. They talked about how much bigger my unusually light blue eyes looked within my heart-shaped face. I hadn’t cared about how I looked. I was only a child, after all. What I remembered caring about was how I’d felt. Free. Lighter. Clean.
It was then that I’d begun to learn that, with Mee-maw, I didn’t have to be a ghost. I didn’t have to be afraid.
“It will grow out, sweetheart,” Mee-maw had said once it was all done, her fingers gliding through the short strands. “You can keep it short, or you can grow it until it hits the floor. But I promise you one thing… you’ll never, ever have to worry about it being dirty or tangled again.”
And it hadn’t. Every night, I’d sit with Jazzy in the bathtub for as long as I wanted. Mee-maw would put on music and we’d sing, or she’d read us a book while perched on the toilet. Then she would brush my hair, the strokes becoming longer and the process taking more time as it grew back in. But she never complained.
I stroked the long, thick rope of my ponytail now with my fingers, missing her caring touch to this day. Her death had created a void that could never be replaced.
“What do you think, Miss Journey?”
I blinked and looked down at Miss Alpha’s tiny frame. Although I was only five-six, I towered over her severely hunchbacked figure. Tossing my ponytail back over my shoulder, I sank into a chair so that she wouldn’t have to crane her neck to look up at me, then gasped at the pretty bracelet in her hand.
“Oh, Miss Alpha…” Tears pricked my eyes, and I wasn’t even sure why the emotion hit me so hard. “It’s beautiful.” It was. One of the activities I’d been able to implement in the short time I’d worked at the center was jewelry making classes. And Miss Alpha’s design could have rivaled any high-end jeweler in New York. Okay… maybe not high-end, but it was lovely. And simple, which was exactly the kind of thing I liked.
Miss Alpha had formed wire into a slim and elegant bangle with a heart closure. There was nothing flashy about it. Nothing unnecessary added to take away from its simple lines. I’d watched her gnarled hands work with the wire last week. Now I was witnessing her vision for the piece come to life.
“I want you to have it.”
The tears that had snuck up on me burned harder, forcing me to blink them away. I hardly ever allowed myself to cry, which was why I was so surprised to find myself nearly bawling like a baby. I didn’t know what was wrong with me.
Well, that was a lie. I knew exactly what was wrong with me. And I didn’t have time to deal with any of that now.
“Oh, Miss Alpha. I can’t. Surely
, you’ll want to sell it. I’m sure you can make some good money for it at the fest—”
She slapped my hand, which was more like a pat. “Don’t be silly. I can make more since you like it so much.” Her cloudy blue eyes met mine from behind thick frames, and I saw concern and worry living there. “Do you really think they’ll sell?”
I wasn’t sure if she was worried as much about the money as she was about people not liking something she’d worked on so hard. About disappointing them. About being rejected.
I took the bracelet from her fingers, examining the lines. “I think they’ll sell wonderfully well at the festival.” Even if I have to buy them myself. “I’ll see about posting it on the center’s social media pages so the public can get a sneak peek at some of the things that will be offered.”
She smiled, all the wrinkles lifting with the curve of her lips. “What about that ETSY thing you were talking about?”
I bit my lip. The senior living center’s director hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of opening a page on ETSY, giving the residents another income avenue. She was going to “investigate the possibility” and get back with me. So far, I hadn’t heard anything, and my time of working here was ticking away so fast.
“I’m not sure, Miss Alpha. I’ll talk to Miss Julie when she returns.”
I mentally smacked my own hand for having brought it up before seeking approval in the first place. I did that sometimes, spoke before thinking. After being afraid to speak during those first few years of life, I’d made up for lost time after going to live with Mee-maw.
Mee-maw.
I remembered how she laughed, the delight in her eyes when I first called her that. The social workers had introduced me to my grandmother the first time. “This is your grandmother, Melinda. Or your mamaw, however you want to address her.”
Melinda and mamaw had somehow gotten squished together in my mind, and when I finally began to speak to her… it came out as Mee-maw. The name had stuck.
“Here…” The fragile hands were on mine, the slim bracelet circling my wrist. “Please accept this as my gift to you.”
I blinked hard. Dang. Where were all these stupid tears coming from?