Need you Now (Top Shelf Romance Book 2)

by Laurelin Paige

  “I’m sorry.” His eyes glazed over as he caressed my hand. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered.” I shook my head. I’d thought about that a lot.

  Hailey had planned this meticulously. I wasn’t sure where she was now, but I was grateful for the police officers guarding my door because at least I knew I was safe in here, with Logan. She would’ve found a way to hurt me anyway though.

  “She could have killed you.”

  I stayed quiet. A part of me felt like she had. Maybe I would feel better once she was caught. Maybe I would feel like I could close my eyes once I knew she was no longer around the corner from me. As I lay there, I thought about all of it—from my first day here to today. She’d probably purposely planted that flyer of the coffee shop right in my apartment door, knowing that I’d take the bait and go seek it out. I thought of her mother and wondered if she was complicit in all of this? Had her jealousy led to her daughter’s obsession? Had she known? I shivered again. I wanted to graduate and get my degree from Ellis, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stick around long enough.

  Chapter 49

  It had been two months since I was buried in the ground and left for dead. Two months since Hailey and Deacon’s arrest. One month since their conviction. Two months since dad and Ella Valentine were also arrested and both let go without so much as a slap on the wrist. Maybe Ella hadn’t been guilty after all. Who knew? I saw her once after the whole thing. She broke down in tears when she saw me and apologized for her daughter. She seemed like she meant it, but honestly, I didn’t care. It seemed like not much moved me these days. I didn’t cry. I barely ate. I barely participated in anything at all. Some days I hung around Logan and my apartment. I’d moved out of mine and taken all of my things to his. Some days, I hung out at The Lab, wandering the haunted halls, almost wishing something would jump out and scare me. Some days, I just sat in a dark room to test my bravery and see if I could handle it. The Eight thought I was crazy, though they didn’t say it and I knew they wouldn’t blame me if I was. I wasn’t. I was just trying to find myself again. Sometimes on the road to finding oneself, one must do crazy things.

  Adam and Will, the guys who found me, came around often to check on me. I found it hard to believe that The Swords were as sinister as The Eight made them out to be, but then I remembered the coffins. Logan didn’t like when they came around without him being there. Logan didn’t like it when anyone tried to hang out with me without him being there. He was more paranoid than I was. He dragged me to all of his games and I was okay with that. Sometimes I took Max. Other times I took Celia and Max. Sometimes Nora went with me. I was never alone unless I was in my room in The Lab or our apartment when he was in practice. I didn’t like to be alone anymore. My brother was still recovering. He was getting stronger though and stayed at The Lab whenever he was in town.

  Some days, like today, I sat outside in the little garden between the walls of The Lab, staring at the ivy, wondering when it would take over everything around it. I glanced at the door when it opened and watched as Logan walked out and over to me. He sat down in the chair beside me. On days like today, when my depression felt suffocating, I wish he’d just let me go, but like the ivy, he stayed. He grabbed my hand in his and kissed it, staying quiet as he sat there.

  “You don’t have to stay,” I said, my voice hoarse. As much as I wanted to push him away, to keep him free of this darkness, I wanted him to stay. I needed to give him the option though. It felt selfish not to.

  “Stay where?” he asked after a long moment.

  “With me.” I met his gaze, his green eyes rivaled the ivy behind him.

  “Where would I go?”

  I shrugged a shoulder. “Somewhere happy.”

  “Somewhere happy.” The side of his mouth pulled up. “You are my happy.”

  “I can’t . . . I can’t just expect you to put up with this,” I whispered. “You can find another girl. One with less . . . baggage.”

  “Oh, Mae.” He sighed heavily. “When I’m not with you, you’re all I think about, to the point that I just want to leave whatever I’m doing to come right back to you. I wouldn’t go find someone else. There is no one else.”

  “But I’m sad.” I blinked. My eyes filled with tears again. “All the time. All the time I’m just . . . sad.”

  “Yet you’re still my happy.”

  I shook my head. The tears began trickling down my cheeks.

  “I’m never leaving,” he said.

  “You should.”

  He turned his body toward me, grabbing both hands in his. I turned mine toward his, squeezing my legs between his.

  “You’re my family. You’re my blood.” He brought up my right hand and kissed the palm, where my scar was already fading, but the pledge would forever stay. “I love you.”

  I started to cry then, gasping sobs pushing out of my chest. I loved him so much. Logan wrapped his arms around me and pressed me to him. I tucked my face into his neck and sobbed harder, big fat tears falling down my face. It felt like I’d finally opened myself up to the possibility of letting go of the sadness I’d been carrying. I wasn’t stupid though, I knew sadness came in waves, and just as it was leaving me now, it would be back.

  “I want you forever, Amelia,” he said against my hair. “And forevermore after that.”

  Epilogue

  Logan

  It had been six months. Two of Amelia dwelling in her sadness and four of her taking action and refusing to succumb to it. She’d been seeing a therapist. We’d all seen the damn therapist. She was against going in the beginning, so I signed up with her. And then Nolan signed up. And then Nora did. And then Marcus. And Lincoln. And Annette and Beatriz all the way in Scotland said they would as well if we thought it would help. So, we were all going to therapy once a week. I went for her, but stayed for myself. I hadn’t even realized how much I needed it. Old trauma has a way of living in the cracks and waiting for the least expected time to show up.

  Felipe Bastón hadn’t come around. Nor had Ella Valentine. They were both absent in the yearly holiday gala and even though the whispers around the room had been about them, their presence hadn’t been missed. I tried to put a petition in to have them removed from the board, but it was knocked down before it could even reach any of the other board member’s desk. It didn’t surprise me. There was money, and then there was money. As long as they weren’t hurting innocent people, the current Eight was okay with it, and from what we could tell, the only ones who had been hurt throughout all of this were the ones with ties to Felipe Bastón directly—Lana, Lincoln, and Amelia.

  Felipe didn’t have much left, aside from his billions, but what good was that if you had nobody who loved you to share it with? His wife filed for divorce. His sons were at odds with him. Lincoln wouldn’t even speak to him. Soon enough, Amelia wouldn’t even share his last name. I was just waiting for the right time to put a ring on her finger. I wanted to do it in the hospital, but figured I should wait until she was herself again. These days, she was. She was back to taunting and flirting and was fully focused on writing for the paper until she graduated in four months. She’d already received two job offers, and even though she hadn’t said it, I could tell she was waiting for me to pick a city. I’d graduated after fall semester and was now waiting to see what teams were offering me. My agent had already gotten me an athletic clothing deal, and from that money alone, I could technically retire without having played one professional game. My agent said teams would have offered me a lot more, had I not chosen to attend Ellis and get my four-year degree. I didn’t care. I just needed enough money to afford me that cottage on a lake with my girl. Everything else was just the cherry on top.

  About the Author

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  Hostage

  By: Skye Warren & Annika Martin

  Chapter 1

  Brooke

  I smile wide for the cameras from the Franklin City Herald-Star. The shots that get into the newspaper tomorrow will show a lucky girl surrounded by her friends and her adoring parents, daughter of one of the most powerful families in all of Franklin City, at her sweet-sixteen ball. If you’re looking at them online, you might enlarge them and see the pale pink embroidered roses around the sleeves and bodice of the white cocktail-length Givenchy gown I’m wearing.

  What you won’t see is the blood in the water.

  My dad always says you can’t let them smell blood. If the world is sharks, this whole party is about swimming past them, around them. Fooling them into believing you’re okay.

  The pictures will never show that I’ve eaten two strawberries today because otherwise I won’t fit into the gown my mom bought from a consignment store. It’s a size too small, but it was cheap and this season. I told her it wasn’t a problem. I’d make it fit. People have to think it’s new.

  Last year’s gown is blood in the water.

  The cameras will never pick up that the smile on my father’s face is pure desperation. People see our family name—Carson—on cranes all over the city. Why would he be anything but happy?

  They can never know that the great Carson Development empire is crumbling, little by little, and that this party is a lifeline. Or that I’ve hardly gotten any sleep over the past few nights because I keep having nightmares where I forgot to confirm the flowers or update the RSVP count for the caterers or get the DJ deposit in, and the party is deemed a disaster.

  My mom couldn’t do much of the planning—she’s been working double shifts at a bakery in the next town to pay for this. Nobody can know that.

  Nobody can know that this party is an elaborate charade.

  Every member of Franklin City’s upper-crust elite throws their daughter a sweet-sixteen party. It’s our version of the debutante ball. Not to do it means you’re not one of the group. People do business with their kind.

  Tomorrow morning, as people click to the Herald-Star on their phones or tablets and sip their coffee and flip through the pictures, they’ll see my mother smiling proudly, her slender arm draped around my shoulders.

  What they won’t see is the tiny, burning little spot on the back of my arm where she pinched me to remind me of my posture. They won’t see how ashamed I felt that I’d forgotten again. Because I’m so tired. Because I’m trying so hard.

  The cameras won’t pick up that she just whispered, through her bared teeth, Try to look like you care at least a little, Brooke.

  They won’t get that her words are a punch in my chest, because I know I’m not what she needs. I know that I’m letting my parents down in a million little ways.

  But I’m trying; I really am. They can’t see how I feel like curling up in a corner and dying. Because I love them, and I know they love me even though I’m not the popular size-two daughter with perfect skin and manners that they need right now.

  So yeah.

  Nobody can ever know that my glorious smile is actually cracking me in half. I know how to smile like nothing’s wrong. It’s a great talent of mine.

  I am one of the lucky ones in Franklin City—I know that. A lot of people south of downtown went to bed hungry tonight, and I’m surrounded by mounds of foie gras and lobster, most of which will be thrown out. Not only do I feel guilty about my sweet-sixteen party, but I feel guilty for feeling guilty.

  I suck in a breath through gritted teeth, still smiling for all I’m worth.

  Halfway there.

  My vision is almost blurring, but I smile and say hello to one of the investors my dad is courting for this big outdoor mall deal he’s putting together. I try to remember the details. He’s been to our house. We let him use our vacation home before we secretly sold it.

  The investor asks me about my schoolwork, and we’re having a good conversation—at least I think we are until I look over and see my mother’s ashen face, her mouth a tight line under her powdered nose.

  My heart starts pounding like crazy because I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, and I’m so hungry and exhausted that I’m suddenly fumbling my words and saying uh and um, and we’ve practiced how many hours on that? He wishes me luck with exams and leaves.

  Mom grips my arm tight enough to make the skin white. I hold my breath, wondering where I screwed up. Afraid to know but needing to. “You called him Mr. Kimball,” she hisses.

  “But that’s…” I’m about to say that’s his name when I realize it isn’t—Mr. Kimball is one of his rivals. They drilled me on everybody’s names right before the party, but I’m not thinking straight. My throat feels thick. “He didn’t—”

  “Correct you?” Her gaze shoots after him. He’s too polite. She doesn’t have to say it.

  “Should I—”

  “No!” she says. Meaning, don’t go after him, don’t apologize. Meaning, the damage is done.

  She wouldn’t say it, though. Not here and not like that. Somehow that makes it worse.

  Why are the things parents don’t say the most painful?

  Right then the Shaffer twins come up. They’re beautiful and good at everything. They were my friends in tennis camp, but teens smell blood in the water way faster than adults. Enthusiastic greetings turn to frozen smiles and awkward excuses to leave.

  Leaving before the dinner—not a good sign.

  Slowly but surely, I'm ruining this. There’s so much more at stake here than a party. There’s my dad’s company. My mother’s social standing. I can feel her eyes on me as I smile and thank them for coming.

  It’s then that it happens—this feeling like my chest is expanding, filling with stuffed-down sobs that won’t be contained any longer. My eyes are hot, and I’m sure my face is red as a cherry. I mumble something about going to the bathroom.

  Mom squeezes my shoulder. “Take your time, honey,” she whispers.

  And I know she says this partly because she needs me to calm down and stop ruining things, and partly because she loves me and, really, this is hard on all of us, which gives the sobs even more power. They feel like fists, pounding up from inside my chest and throat. So I’m walking through my party crying, but lucky for me, I know how to smile so brightly that it makes people not notice the shine of my eyes.

  I see a trio of neighbors from Mom’s bridge club heading into the bathroom. No going there, then. I pass it by and push through the next door, a swinging door, which leads to the food-staging area.

  Some of the caterers look at me funny. I manage a wave. “Looking good out there. Maybe another round of canapés on the far side.” I keep walking, a wild girl in a gorgeous, secondhand dress, cheeks burning, chest feeling like it might explode with undetonated sobs.

  I push through another swinging door, heading into the kitchen. Stainless steel counters display the delicious food I can’t eat. Curious pairs of eyes monitor my progress. I keep going, heading for a red exit sign.

  I burst out the door. I shut it behind me.

  A sob escapes, and then another and another. I stand there, full-on sobbing.

  I so
und pathetic.

  I’m a Givenchy-wrapped crazy person in the lonely service parking lot of the Franklin City Starlight Ballroom.

  Even now, even crying, I’m thinking about appearances. About family and duty. I cry strategically, avoiding mascara stains on the dress. I stay standing, because if I sit, I might pop a seam. This isn’t my dress. This doesn’t even feel like my party. Appearances.

  A moth flies into my updo, and I bat it out. Then another flies in. Suddenly I’m doing this whole ridiculous sobbing dance. It’s the light above the door, attracting bugs. “Shit!” I stumble, sobbing, slapping my hair, into the shadows between catering vans.

  No more strategy, no more duty.

  My hair is utterly ruined and maybe even has dead moths in it. At least it matches my mascara-smeared eyes. I have to laugh-sob at that. I’m a mess.

  It actually makes me feel a little better. So stupid.

  I have to get back. Fix my face. Retwist my hair into a simple bun. Just one more minute, I tell myself.

  It’s bad that I’m gone, but it would be even worse to go back like this. I open the bejeweled clutch that hangs from my wrist and check my phone through bleary eyes. Twenty minutes until seating for dinner.

  I start to pull myself together, and that’s when I hear the footsteps. They’re loud—somebody running from far off, way down the alley, maybe, running toward where I’m standing. My pulse pounds.

  I’m not even supposed to be back here.