Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall)
Page 1
Copyright © 2013 by Angelisa Stone
Interior design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.
This novel, Can’t Go Home, is a work of fiction, fabricated only in the author’s mind and heart. Names, characters, places, and events are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products 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 owner.
All rights reserved.
PART ONE
Dre
Kathryn
Dre
Kathryn
Dre
Kathryn
Dre
Kathryn
Dre
Kathryn
Dre
Kathryn
Dre
Kathryn
PART TWO
Dre
Kathryn
Dre
Kathryn
Dre
Kathryn
Dre
Piper
About the Author
Heartfelt Gratitude To …
This book is dedicated to my youngest son, “the middle child.” I know that you often feel overlooked or inferior, which breaks my heart. You inspired me to create Dre, the loving, sensitive, and charming character that he is. You have so many exceptional qualities that your dad and I couldn’t be more proud of. You bring us joy and laughter, happiness and fun, making each of our days brighter.
I have a wish for all the people who really want more out of their lives, but are too afraid to fulfill those dreams, those fantasies, and those goals. Can’t Go Home is for those people who are “living a lie,” because that’s what friends, family, and all of society expects of them. Our lives are buried with details and mundane tasks that hinder us from achieving our wildest dreams and from being true to ourselves. My wish is that we all end the days of being who everyone else wants us to be. Be proud of yourself. Take pride in your dreams—they’re yours and yours alone. That’s my shiny-penny wish for you.
Now go make your dreams come true.
This novel, Can’t Go Home, is a work of fiction, fabricated only in the author’s mind and heart. Names, characters, places, and events are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Her name is Kathryn Denise Howell. She used to go by “Katie” when she was in high school, even into college, but when she moved here, she became “Kathryn” to her new friends and co-workers. It’s amazing what you can learn from social networking and even just from random people on the streets. When I scrutinize her, she looks like a “Katie.” She has one of those angelic, “girl-next-door” faces, the kind that when you look at her, you just know that you’d never be able to lie to such an innocent and naïve face.
I understand why she’d choose to go by “Kathryn” now; it’s more mature, more professional, and demands respect. As for me, I already respect her; I respect the fuck out of her. She solidified my opinion of her the moment I heard her speak.
The problem is when I actually meet Kathryn and talk to her all I’m going to do is lie like crazy to her. Basically, I doubt anything I ever say to her will be the truth. The feel-good, glowy, little angel on my shoulder keeps whispering that I should most definitely stay away, should move on, should forget I ever heard her on the phone. I should walk away and do her a favor. A big fucking favor.
But, I can’t. The evil devil in my pants won’t let me. Kathryn got to me—and to him. She got to us bad. Despite my better judgment, Kathryn Howell will be mine, come Hell or high water. I know I sound like a creepy-ass stalker. I’m not a stalker in the “cut ‘em up and eat ‘em sense.” I’m a stalker in the “I know what want, and I’m going to get it” sense. Normally when I see a woman I want, she’s mine within in the night, sometimes within the hour. My life has been a series of wanting and then quite easily getting. But lately, what I want and what I have are two very dissimilar things, even very different from what I used to have. It’s all changing, and quite fucking frankly, that’s just fine by me.
Now the hard part: I have to meet her first. I also have to let go of my guilty conscience, because I’m going to hate lying to her. Well, I guess I must also renege on that promise to myself that I’m going to swear off women. I did swear off women—all women. How was I to know that I was going to overhear Kathryn Howell’s phone call, a phone call that put me over the edge and certainly made me want to know her? I decided that I’d scrap the “no women for Dre rule.” Let’s be honest. That rule sucks anyway.
My infatuation for her started nearly a month ago. Yes, it’s an infatuation, possible borderline obsession. Cue the flashback music; let the picture fade and get all blurry until we zoom in on an angry Kathryn Howell on her cell phone, putting someone, presumably her boss, right in his place.
The day in question was crazy hot, unbearably sweltering, which is usually the case in Charleston, South Carolina in mid-September. I was standing under the awning of a local tourist seafood joint when Kathryn parked her bright yellow Volkswagen Bug at the meter in front of me. Normally, a girl like her wouldn’t have caught my eye, but I was dying in the heat and too bored and tired to look away. Nice huh?
When Kathryn got out of her car, let’s be clear, I wasn’t knock-my-socks-off floored by her beauty or presence. I actually looked at her and thought, “It’s too hot to have that much hair.” Kathryn has long, dark, wavy hair that is thick as it is long. Nobody should have hair like that in the south. It probably adds about 10 degrees to the body temperature. And nobody wants that.
I don’t want it to seem like Kathryn isn’t beautiful, because she is. Kathryn just didn’t “look the part,” the part that I am normally drawn to and tend to sway toward. Most of the women I’ve dated could grace the cover of a Victoria’s Secret advertisement, a Maxim centerfold, or Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. Typically, I like my women tall, lean, blonde, and a little on the “easy” side. Who doesn’t really? I sound like an ass, don’t I? I never claimed not to be, which is why I feel slightly guilty for honing in on Kathryn Howell, chartering places I have no business exploring in the first place.
When Kathryn circled around to the parking meter, she rummaged through her large, knockoff designer purse for change, pulling out a handful of coins. Immediately, I loved that she was walking around with a fake handbag. From where I come from, that was unheard of, grounds for societal ridicule and possible emotional torture.
Quickly, she put two quarters into the meter. But then, she did something that made me perk up and pay attention. She put three more coins into the meter next to it, buying time for the car parked next to hers. A random, selfless act of kindness is pretty unheard of these days.
At that point, I became intrigued. People didn’t normally surprise me, especially in this day and age. Sure, the South is supposed to be filled with southern hospitality and kindness. But the truth is, when nobody is looking, southerners are just as selfish and rude as any Yankee on the other side of the Confederate lines.
Kathryn continued down the street, adding quarters to the parking meters until all of the change in her
hand ran out. Stunned, I watched her walk every step of the way until she walked into a quaint little Italian restaurant on the corner. It was at that point that I decided I needed to at least talk to her. I wanted to meet a woman who put that much energy, selfless energy, into a random act of kindness. Who did that? My curiosity was piqued, but that was all that was interested—at the moment.
I casually walked over to her meter to see how much time she “bought” herself, wondering how long it would be until she would return. Seeing that I only had less than 30 minutes before she returned, I stopped in to a restaurant to gain sanctuary from the heat with an ice-cold drink. Plus, I promised the owner I’d fix the floorboards on their deck in the back—a task for me that would take less than 15 minutes.
In Charleston, 30 minutes wasn’t enough time for lunch downtown; Southerners like a long, leisurely lunch. Kathryn must have been just picking up food, so I knew I didn’t have too much time to screw around if I wanted to approach her.
I finished my drink, replaced a few rotted out two-by-fours, and was patiently waiting for Kathryn’s return. Finally, she emerged from the restaurant, carrying bags of takeaway food. I saw my chance and knew that it was now or never. As I began to approach her with my “I’ve got this smile,” an older, smarmy man pounced, offering to help her.
Shockingly, she shot him a look that clearly said, “Back off Buddy, I don’t need your help.” Wow, I’d dodged a bullet. My approach would’ve been regarded as offensive and chauvinistic. Kathryn Howell wasn’t a damsel in distress who needed a man to swoop in and save the day.
I trailed behind her, determining my next move, when her cell phone rang. I laughed when she said, “Dang it,” and put the bags of food down on the ground, next to her car. What adult woman says “dang it?” She took her phone out of her bra—her bra? And answered it.
“Kathryn Howell Seaside Literary Agency—”
Bingo! At least, I knew her name and where she worked. I had time. I didn’t need to accost her then. I could figure out my plan of action before I approached. Now remember, at this point, I was just intrigued, wanted to get to know her more. It’s this phone call that just came through on her phone that put me flying over the edge and dying to have her.
I listened, impressed, to her conversation. “Yes sir. Yes sir. I understand,” she said, nodding as she put the food into her car. “Of course, I follow. You want me to pick up a dozen roses and a necklace from the jeweler here and drop it off to a hotel prior to coming back to work.”
Kathryn rolled her eyes and leaned against her car. Then she floored the fuck out of me. “How about his? How about I pick up the roses and the necklace and drop it off at your house—to your wife—with a note that says, ‘I’m sorry I’m a cheating bastard; I’ll stop—”
The caller on the other end apparently cut her off, because she stopped abruptly and let him finish. Kathryn shook her head aggressively and said, “No, you listen. Fire me if ya want. I’ll have a new job tomorrow morning.”
Kathryn looked around, realizing for the first time that she was yelling. She lowered her voice an octave and continued “I’m one heck of a literary agent, and you know it. Your flailing agency needs me more than I need it … and I’m pretty darn close with Beckie Foster, our HR director.” With that, she hung up her phone, reached inside her car, and then put more quarters into her parking meter. Damn, this woman was good.
The people who I know, people I’ve known and admired my entire life, don’t do things like that, standing up for the underdog. They don’t speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves; they mostly just turn the other way, ignoring the pain and problems of others. They certainly don’t take it upon themselves to right the wrongs of the world; ultimately they just add to them. At least in my experience that’s just what people do.
I wondered where she was off to, now that the meter was full of change again. Then for the final time in that short time, she shocked me again. Kathryn Howell got into her car and drove off, leaving a full two hours on the meter for the next person who parked in that spot.
I needed to meet her. I had to meet her. I was going to meet her.
Granted, I said that I was swearing off women for the time being. I’ve actually been womanless for over a year now. And when I say womanless, I mean without any female companionship at any time, zero, zilch, nada. I mean nothing. Let’s get really real here, I haven’t even experienced any form of pleasure in over a year either—not even the manual kind. Before you even think to ask, I don’t have a problem; there isn’t an issue. I just know that right now, at this time in my life, a woman, a relationship would complicate my life even more. And let’s lay it all on the line, my life is a total cluster-fuck of chaotic shit right now.
But I cannot deny it; I’m going to fight the good fight to meet and woo one Kathryn Howell, literary agent, and quick-witted wonder, right into bed, her bed. And today’s the day. I’m currently standing outside of the Seaside Literary Agency awaiting our “chance” encounter.
Kathryn goes to lunch at approximately 1:10 p.m. every day, except for Friday, when she skips lunch and leaves work at 4:30 p.m. instead of 5:30 p.m. I’ve spent the good portion of the last month studying my new favorite subject: The Social Behaviors of Kathryn Denise Howell. I’m just eager to add “anatomy” to the lesson plan.
Kathryn exits the old, pale mint green building today at 1:15 p.m., later than normal. She looks cute in a bright orange tank top and tan skirt. Her hair is piled on her head in some knotted, bun thing. (If I had that much hair, I’d chop it off.) Kathryn is probably a little shorter than 5’5” and curvier than my type. She’s got really muscular legs, too muscular, I think.
Lately, when I’ve been looking at them, I’ve thought about how she could probably snap my head off if she gets too excited when I go down on her. (I plan to chance it anyway.) Her stems are nice though, shapely, strong, and look really smooth. I want to touch them—tonight.
My plan is to casually ask her for directions to Battery Park, seem perplexed, and then use my Dre Donley charm to convince her to show me the way there, while making it seem like her plan all along. We’ll go to the park, talk, laugh, and then I’ll persuade her to meet up with me tonight. Finally, I’ll nail her and get her out of my system, so I can focus back on the shit storm that has now become my life. It’s probably not the greatest plan or well-devised plan, but it’ll work. Bedding a girl isn’t all that tough. Women are usually pretty easy—even when they’re trying not to be. Kathryn Howell looks like she needs it too, so it’s a win-win. I’m doing her a favor and vice versa.
Kathryn is quick to her car, so I have to pick up speed to catch up to her. As soon as I approach her car, she closes the door and turns the key in the ignition. It doesn’t start. She tries again. The engine won’t roll over; her battery is dead. Perfect. Here’s my shot; I can ditch the lame “lost tourist” routine.
I walk over to her car and give her my best line. Wait for it, and go: “Car won’t start?” just as she opens the door. (Brilliant, wasn’t it?)
“Yeah it will; it’s just a fun game I like to play, pretend the car doesn’t start and trick strangers on the street,” she says sarcastically, and starts rummaging through her purse. “It’s really fun. You should try it sometime.”
“As much as I’d like to play games with you, Sugar, I’d rather help you out,” I say as I take her phone from her and disconnect the call she was making. Clinched it. Kathryn’s blue eyes are staring up at me in awe. I’ve seen this look a hundred, no scratch that, a thousand times, right before a chick agrees to go home with me.
“Oh wow, hot stranger, should I take my panties off now or would you like to do it for me?” she asks, rolling her eyes, and grabbing her phone back as she gets out of her car. “I have a freaking dead battery. I need jumper cables and a jump—not that kind—and I’ll be good to go.”
Kathryn turns her back on me, and dials the call again. I stand there speechlessly, contemplating my next m
ove. Kathryn taps her nails on the hood of her Bug. Her nails aren’t painted or manicured, bitten down to the nubs. How could this girl have entranced me so? Then she says, “Hey there, it’s Kathryn. I’m not gonna be able to make it today; my car won’t start.”
Waiting a few seconds, Kathryn then responds, “No. No, I’m fine. Just tell Jose to write another 1000 words this week, and we’ll work on all of it next week,” she turns around and frowns when she sees that I’m still standing next to her. Then she says, “No, I’m sure. You’re too sweet. Thank you,” and ends the call. Kathryn puts her phone back in her purse and starts walking back to her office.
“Wait a minute,” I say, before I even realize I’m stopping her. “Aren’t you going to get your car jumped?”
Kathryn turns around and looks at me, almost like it was the first time she actually saw me. She walks in closer, definitely crossing over into my personal space. “Why do you care?” she asks, eyeing my suspiciously.
Kathryn’s got me, because I really have no idea. Why do I care? What is it about her that has me so drawn to her? This was not going so well. I was definitely not on my game. Maybe that’s the problem, I never saw her as a challenge, but this is the hardest I’ve ever had to work. And I mean ever.
Stammering, I say, “I thought I could help you find someone with cables and jump your car for you.”
“Well, that is awfully nice of you, kind sir,” she says in the most fake Southern accent I’ve ever heard. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about jumping a little ole car.”
Shaking her head and frowning, Kathryn adds, “I mean how could a woman even attempt to put the color-coordinated jumper cables on the positive to negative chargers all by her silly old self?” Kathryn flutters her eyelashes and then fans herself, dramatically. Holy shit. She doesn’t want me. She’s not at all charmed by me.