by Meli Raine
Return (Coming Home Book 1)
Meli Raine
On a dark, rainy night I drove my overstuffed junker car back to a town I never expected to see again.
And when I needed a rescue by the side of the road, a six-foot tall piece of hot, unfinished business named Mark was what the universe sent me.
Three years earlier I’d fled town (and Mark) to follow my wrongly-convicted father to his federal prison, working crappy jobs to stay afloat and visit him every second I could. But now Dad’s dead and I’m mysteriously offered the best job of my life at the college where his life blew up when he was accused of a crime he didn’t commit.
Someone wants me here. Desperately.
I’m hoping it’s Mark.
Because if it’s not, I’m in more danger than I ever imagined.
And if it is?
Mark may be the most dangerous choice of all.
Copyright © 2015 by Meli Raine
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. 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 express written permission from the author / publisher.
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Return
Chapter One
New job. New apartment. Old town. Old regrets. Same Carrie.
Or am I?
The drive into town as I pass the old sign declaring that I’m entering the town of Yates makes me shiver. My thin cotton v-neck is suddenly not enough to keep me from feeling cold dread. You’d think three years would be long enough to come back without feeling like I have my tail between my legs, but apparently not.
The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach makes me wonder if I’m doing the right thing. A little late for that. After all, I’ve quit my old job at the bank, pulled out of my room with my roommates in the ratty old house we shared outside of Oklahoma City, and come back to my hometown, ready to finish what I’d started years ago.
If this isn’t the right thing to do, I have undone my entire life for nothing.
It’s one of those nights where the sky is so clear and the clouds arrange themselves so perfectly around the moon that you’d think they were trying to get its autograph. Like something out of a movie poster, a little too perfect. The kind of night that deceives you into thinking maybe—just maybe—you can get a fresh start in life.
The lightest sprinkle of rain begins to dot my windshield. It’s more than a mist but not quite a storm. I’m humming along to a fabulous song and it’s all good.
Life is getting better.
And then my bald tire blows out. Rear passenger tire. Yanking the jerking car to the right, my hands know what to do because this is the third tire to go on me in seven months. Fixing an already-patched tire is my only option. The twenty-five dollar repair was cheaper than the eighty dollar used tire. A new tire might as well have been lined with gold bricks from the quote the mechanic gave me.
My long hair comes loose from the scrunchie as the car jolts to the shoulder of the road, riding the rim. A strand of hair catches as my hand struggles to grip the steering wheel. If I damage the tire rim I’ll be in for a repair job that costs more than my piece-of-junk car is worth.
A loud crack, like the sky snapping in two, makes me jump. My forehead bangs the visor. A huge flash of light blinds me. And then that lovely, dewey drizzle turns into a raging thunderstorm in seconds.
Great. Just great.
Fumbling in my purse, I find my phone.
No bars. No service.
“Oh, geez,” I mutter, tossing the phone on the cracked vinyl seat and running my hands along my bare arms. The night chill starts to creep in and I wonder how far from town I am. Cheap flip phones with ten cent per minute pre-paid fees don’t exactly get the best coverage. At least it can turn into a flashlight when I go into desperation mode.
When? I am in it already.
Blowing a puff of air in a sigh that echoes for miles, I hunch over the steering wheel and think out my options. I can’t call the only friend I have in town. Amy would come and help me, but no signal means no help.
The rain sounds like bullets falling on the hood of my dented Civic. The old car is kept together by my own determination and rust spots that make it look like something growing in a petri dish from a high school biology class. I close my eyes and will myself to think.
Spare tire? Yep. Bald, like the one that just shredded, but it is good enough to get me to my new place. If I can get there, I can set up my clothes, my coffee maker and my ancient laptop, all of which are currently crammed in my car.
On top of my spare tire.
Mumbling a curse my late mother would have disapproved of, I open the car door. It responds with a loud, rusty groan. I make a similar sound out of frustration.
I get to work.
In seconds I’m soaked through.
I am my own wet t-shirt contest.
Just as I open the trunk and start figuring out where to put my things on the wet ground, blue and red lights flash behind me.
No. Just no. My heart speeds up and starts slamming against my ribs. My fingers go numb from cold and fear. You would think I would be relieved to get help so quickly, but you would be wrong.
What are the chances, though? There are only ten cops on the force. There’s no way that on this one, wet night, in the middle of this long, wooded road the one cop who happens to be patrolling this stretch is—
“Carrie?”
Oh, God.
It’s him. Mark. My ex-boyfriend.
I can’t look. I just...can’t. Too many memories are in that face. That rugged, handsome face. My heart jumps up like an excited puppy, wagging in my chest, eager to be acknowledged and touched. The rest of me shoves it down.
Officer Mark Paulson stands in front of me in uniform, soaking wet, his hat making the rain fall in streaks in front of him. The curtain of water catches my eye. It’s easier to watch it than to stare at him. If I did stare, though, I know what I would see.
Broad shoulders under that crisp black uniform shirt. A thin scar running under his jaw, where he was knifed in a fight when he did a tour in Afghanistan. Wet, blonde hair I used to love to stroke. Gentle hands that once cupped my face. Eyes that could draw me in with a hot breath. The tender taste of lips meant only for me.
He speaks, pulling me out of the memory. Stop it, Carrie, I think. Stop with the dreams you destroyed.
“You okay?” he asks, looking around swiftly. He’s worried. That’s really touching. It’s nice to know he cares. Three years is long enough for him to stop hating me, right?
And I know he hates me.
He has to. I disappeared one day and never said goodbye to him. When you do that to someone, they tend to really resent it. Especially if they love you.
“I’m, uh...” My voice fails me as I watch the water fall in sheets down his cap. “My tire blew.”
He thumps his hand on the car door. “She’s still around, huh?” I know he means the car, but it feels like a dig. Like he’s cutting into me for leaving.
Like he’s still hurt.
If he’s still hurt, that means the feelings haven’t faded, and if his feelings are still that strong, then mine make more sense. I thought when I left town I would shed so much damage and hurt. Because leaving town meant I could leave behind so much pain.
But leaving Mark? That meant the pain came with me.
I start to shiver. It’s not from the cold and the rain. Those arms. The rain drops gath
er and ripple down his taut muscles, dotted with a sprinkling of dark hair. I remember when I was in those arms.
I remember every single time he touched me.
“Uh, yeah. Gum and duct tape,” I joke. It’s easier to be coy. I can’t get hurt that way. And I can’t hurt him. My heart beats so hard it’s like a bass drum. Can he hear it? I’m sure he can. It’s beating in my ears. My throat. Behind my eyeballs.
Everywhere. Hard.
He chuckles, then his face gets serious. Tipping his head up to the sky, he shakes his head at the storm. The tiny bit of moon between the clouds shines on his face and makes him look wolflike. Predatory. Attractive.
Dangerous.
I can’t let him in again. My hands itch to touch him. My heart feels covered in barbed wire.
“Get in the squad car and I’ll change the tire for you.” His hand reaches out for my arm. I pull back before we can make contact.
Mark flinches, then nods. He doesn’t say another word, just sweeps his long, muscled arm toward his police car and starts popping the trunk of my car. I remain in place.
My legs can’t remember how to move. A deep breath helps. He mistakes my exhale for impatience.
“Give me a minute. Cool your jets. I’ll have this changed in no time.” He’s standing in front of the open hatchback. I’m to his left, next to the road. The sound of the rain is so hard. I wish it could drown out the screaming inside me, the voice that says—
Kiss him.
Headlights come and go around a corner. The dull flicker of the red and blue lights on the squad car blends into the background and time disappears. Mark shuffles all my crap in the car around, then turns to me. It’s the first time I’ve looked him in the eye.
They’re so deep, like whiskey glistening in sunlight. But even more, they’re eyes that see the real me.
The only pair in the world.
“I’ll have to get some of your things wet,” he says, regret in his voice, as he sticks plastic storage tubs on the ground. “There’s no good way to get your spare tire.”
A distant, tinny sound of voices from his radio catches my ear. The scanner. The unreality is hitting me now as my teeth chatter. I’m coming home to a mess. My car is a mess. I am a mess.
And Mark is here helping me fix the mess.
And then, suddenly, his arms are around me and he’s yanking me to the ground.
Chapter Two
A flash of light from the corner of my eye catches my attention. I hear the screech of tires on gravel. I feel the shock of pain. My mind can’t grasp what’s happening. Mark’s arms wrap around me and pull me down, gravel digging into my bare elbow.
I feel wetness and pressure, then the shock of having the air whoosh out of my lungs. My back is flat against wet grass. His chest presses against mine. Mark’s hot breath is against my neck and ear as the rain hits us. The screech of tires fills my ears.
The sickening slide of a car’s headlights toward us catches my eye.
It all registers as Mark rolls our bodies three times down the edge of the ditch. His arms are wrapped around me tightly. A heartbeat jams against mine, my breasts tingling from surprise and fear.
And then the scrape of tires as the headlights shift away makes the danger go away.
Mark is panting, hard, on top of me. My own breath is held back by his wall of muscle. Every part of him pushes against every part of me. When I shift my hips I feel his arousal.
It makes me hot suddenly. My mouth is against his neck and I want to lick him. The rain pounds us both, making him slick. Making me feel more alive and raw than I have felt in three years.
Mark does that to me. Only Mark.
He pulls back, hat long gone, and the rain runs in rivulets down his bangs. It drips on my face and I smile, lost in his eyes.
Even in the dark I know he sees the real me.
And that’s the problem.
He never believed the real me.
With a hard push I separate our bodies, relief and regret pulsing through me. He stands quickly and brushes the sides of my arms as if taking inventory.
“You okay? That car almost hit you,” he says.
My head is pounding, but not from the impact with the ground. Too many feelings, too many missed chances beat through my body like a shockwave on an endless loop.
“I’m fine.” Those are the only words I can find. Too bad they’re not true.
I’m breathing hard, standing two feet from him, and his hands are on my elbows. If I lean forward right now and stand on tiptoes, I can kiss him.
He would kiss me back. I know it.
That’s why I can’t.
As if there’s some unspoken agreement between us, Mark lets go. I almost whimper from the loss of his touch. You go three years without a man’s touch and when you have it again, you want more.
I can’t want more.
I can’t want anything.
When you want a person, all you get is pain. And not the kind on my arms, now, from the gravel digging in and scraping me. That kind is easy to deal with. Tangible and visual, it doesn’t keep you awake at night, making your chest heave and your gut turn inside out. Scrapes and scabs eventually heal.
Broken hearts? Not so much.
Mark pulls a flashlight off his belt and I almost make a joke. I felt his want for me seconds ago, felt him pressing into my thigh, a thick longing that made my core bloom with heat.
I want to say, “Oh, so that really was a flashlight in your pocket,” but the joke would fall flat. It’s better to shut up. It’s better to get away before I say or do something stupid. Like kiss him.
Mark finds his hat and throws the soggy thing on his head. Then he turns back to the task at hand: changing my tire.
“You’re freezing,” he says, eyebrows turned down. “Go in my squad car.” His voice has that kind of authority that says I can’t refuse.
This time I don’t argue. If I have to stand next to him for much longer, I don’t know what I’ll do.
His car is warm. Even better, it’s empty. I can be with my own thoughts. My heart is slamming in my chest and my butt is soaking the seat.
Cradling my head in my hands, I start to laugh. Soon, I can’t stop. My laughter has edges so sharp I could cut myself to the bone.
What was I thinking, coming back? Mark and I met at the donut shop on campus where I’d worked three years ago. He bought a donut and I made a cop joke and he stayed until my shift was over.
Walked me home. Waited until our third date to kiss me. That kiss was still the best minute of my life, followed by the second best.
That was the next kiss.
Four months of dating and we’d been so close, finishing each other’s sentences, volunteering together at the animal shelter, going on dog rescues and exercising the puppies. Petting and cuddling the old dogs no one came for. Talking about life.
Living life. Just starting to dance around the idea of a future together.
And then I learned why he really found me at that donut shop.
And then I stopped really living.
The car door opens and my memory is shattered.
“Tire’s changed, but man is it bald,” he says. He’s worried. I can feel it in his voice. It’s nice that he worries about me. That’s the kind of emotion that isn’t safe, though.
The kind where you let yourself think there’s a chance.
I climb out of the warm car just as the radio squawks something about a robbery in town. The convenience store near my dad’s old bar.
Mark’s eyes light up with excitement and attention. Then he looks at me and seems conflicted. Duty, however, always comes first.
“I gotta go,” he says. Sandy blond hair is now dark and soaked. His eyes flick between my lips and my wet chest. If our bodies were pressed against each other again, I know it wouldn’t be a flashlight I’d feel against my hip. My insides tingle at the thought.
“Okay,” I say, willing away my desire. What else can I do? I get out and he
walks next to me. The slightest brush of his fingertips against my back makes me jolt.
“Sorry. Habit,” he says, and the tears come so close. Too close. That’s a habit I’ve thought about for three years.
I have to stop thinking about it now.
I climb in and start the car. It rumbles, strong and steady, and I put it in gear. My foot is on the brake, all the way to the floor. Words are stuck in my throat.
He swallows, hard. I can see his neck move and his hand rests on my door. I open the window a few inches. What’s a little more rain when you’re soaked through?
“Carrie, I...I’m sorry about your dad.” He tilts his head to the left and makes a sound of regret.
“Thanks.” After months of hearing it, you would think I’d know what to say when people give condolences for my dad’s death. But I don’t. I never get used to it.
“I hope you don’t...”
His voice trails off. The rain pounds him, like punishment. Good.
He deserves it.
“You hope what?” I’m bold now. I’m in my car and have control. I can peel out and drive away. The words he needs to say don’t control me.
The words I fear he’ll say can’t be unheard, though. Please don’t say it, I think.
And yet I need to hear it.
“I hope I didn’t...” Mark’s struggling with what to say.
I go cold. I’m in lockdown. Emotions are in check, because there are two ways this can go.
Mark can tell me he hopes he didn’t cause my dad to die.
But he kind of did.
Or he could say something else. But then he’d be avoiding saying the first thing, which is just stalling. This is inevitable.
Coming home was a bad, bad idea.
I let my foot off the brake and the car moves forward just enough to make Mark step back into the safety zone. I peel out. The engine roars and the glowing road lines are easy to see as the moon witnesses everything, now out from behind the clouds. Even through my pooling tears I see it all and I’m driving, moving further and further away from the man I once loved.
Who said he loved me back.