Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1)

by Lindsey Pogue

  My dress drops to my feet, and when his fingers linger at the lace underwear band around my hips, a thrill of urgency spirals through me.

  Turning around, I finger the hem of his t-shirt, playing with it before I pull it up for him to bow out of. I see the chills covering his body before I feel them against my fingertips, and I can’t help but smile. Oblivious and like he’s suddenly starved, Reilly pulls me into him, kissing me more fervently than before. In the blink of an eye, he’s gathering my body against his chest, lying me down in soft cotton sheets that smell fresh and clean, like him.

  His body hovers over me, his hands traversing my body, pressing and caressing and searching as his lips and tongue mark my mouth, the base of my throat, the tops of my breasts . . .

  When his fingers glide over the marred skin on my hip, we both still. My heart’s racing, but now it’s with fear.

  Reilly scoots down, and I reach for his face, willing him to ignore it, to just let it be. But he pays no attention to my grasping at him and leans down to kiss the skin around the healing cut and scarred tissue. The sensation is so foreign, so acute, that I can’t help it, I can’t help any of it. My hands fly to cover my face.

  Reilly’s fingers curl around my wrists, pulling my hands away when all I want to do is hide.

  “Look at me,” he whispers. I shake my head, trying to keep myself from crying, from losing myself again. “Look at me, please.” It’s a plea.

  Reilly presses his lips against my palm, against my wrist and shoulder, beneath my jaw, and whispers, “It’s okay.”

  I shake my head. It doesn’t feel okay. My heart feels wretched and raw and gaping.

  “It’s okay.” He breathes the words again, and when I open my eyes, his bleary form is peering down at me. And even though Reilly doesn’t say it, I know he’s telling me he’s here, that I’m not alone anymore.

  Twenty-Nine

  Reilly

  Predawn light pours through the blinds, washing my room in a blue so pale it looks ethereal, and I wonder if I’m dreaming. This is the first time since I’ve been back that I’ve felt anything resembling “home,” and the first time in over four years I’ve dared to feel something like happiness. I’m afraid to get out of bed, worried all that’s transpired in the past ten hours will somehow be erased.

  With a deep inhale, Sam’s hair tickles my face. Gently, so as not to wake her, I brush it away from my whiskers and smile.

  “You’re awake,” she whispers. It sounds like she’s smiling.

  I nod, nuzzling the crook of her neck. “I love the way you smell,” I say. I always have because it’s familiar and heartwarming. “Not in a creepy way, though.” I pull her tighter against my chest.

  She cranes her neck to look at me, a smile making her face glow and my heart swell. “Yeah? And what do I smell like? Sweat? The barn?” She chuckles softly.

  I shake my head and brush my lips across the soft skin at the base of her neck. She shivers, and I inhale again. “Vanilla? And maybe a little bit of sweat.”

  She bats playfully at my hand as my fingers trail the curve of her body, the side of her breast to her hip. When I brush the cut below the hollow of her hip, she stills. I kiss her shoulder, hoping she doesn’t start closing down on me now.

  “I was still in the hospital . . . the first time I did it,” she says quietly. Not wanting to rush her, I remain quiet, slowly stroking her soft skin as I wait for her to continue. “When I woke up and found out about Papa—” Her voice clips and she takes a deep breath. “I was on so much pain medication I couldn’t do much of anything. All of it hurt too much, just below the surface, and I wanted to feel, but I was too numb.” Sam’s voice gets quieter, but she continues. “As the days went on . . . I needed to feel something else.”

  All I can do is imagine her in the hospital, in a sterile and cold room, probably without Alison at her side. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” I think aloud. If I had been, things might have been different for her, maybe easier in a way. I pull her tighter against me. I hadn’t heard about the accident until after I’d already left.

  Sam wraps her arms around mine and kisses my hand. “You are now,” she says.

  “I know I hated my life back then,” I admit, “but now none of it seems important enough to have left.” I only had to hold on another year or so. I could’ve done it.

  She shakes her head. “You deserved a better life. I don’t blame you for leaving, not anymore.” Her voice is thoughtful, like memories of our past are unraveling before us both.

  I think of the scar above my eye. “Sometimes I would egg him on, so he’d do something to make me remember how horrible he was, how much I hated him and why I made the decision to leave in the first place.” I’d struggled so much with my decision to leave, but none of that needs to be said—it doesn’t matter anymore.

  We’re quiet for a moment, then Sam squeezes my hand. “You have your entire life to plan for now, and it’s all yours. You can do whatever you want and you never have to worry about him again.” Her voice is lighter and holds a hint of promise. I smile and resume tracing a line up and down her side.

  I’m content to lie like this, in bed, with her in my arms, forever, but I know how her mind is, that she’s thinking—overanalyzing. I can tell by the way she taps on the mattress.

  “What are you thinking about?” I ask, apprehensive of her answer. The longer she’s quiet, the more I regret asking.

  Her shoulders rise and fall, and then she finally says, “I’m wondering what happens now,” and I’m not surprised.

  “Well,” I say, choosing my words as carefully as I can. “You know what I want.”

  In a cocoon of sheets and my arms, Sam twists and turns to face me, studying me, searching for the truth. “I thought you wanted to leave, that you didn’t want to stay.” Her voice is skeptical, hopeful maybe, and I don’t understand how she can’t get it.

  “All of that changes if I have a reason to stay. I never wanted things to end between us, Sam.” I don’t mention how close I was to reenlisting.

  She stares at me, but her eyes are vacant and glazed over, like she’s thinking too much.

  “I want to be with you,” I say, adamant. “I’m willing to stay here, to do whatever it takes, if you are.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear because I want to touch her, and I want her to come back to me instead of floating away.

  I prop myself up on my elbow, suddenly anxious for this conversation to go in another direction. I need her to reassure me that this is what she wants, and that last night wasn’t just some fluke and an in-the-moment decision she regrets. “What do you want to happen?”

  She sighs and gives me a tiny, one-shouldered shrug. “I’m not sure.”

  My muscles tense and I hold my breath, praying that’s not true.

  “I like this,” she says, unable to contain a small, giddy laugh that eases the tension, just a little. “But it just seems too good to be true, you know?”

  It’s the same thought I’ve had a hundred times in the last couple hours. “We don’t have to make it complicated. It can just be what it is—we can see where it goes. I’m willing to try.”

  She smiles, though I’m not sure why, and it makes me happy.

  “You said we.”

  I lean forward and kiss her soft lips, something I’ve been wanting to do since I woke up.

  Sam cups the side of my face and leans into me, kissing me back this time, her lips warm and lingering on mine. “I like the sound of that,” she says and lies back down. Her eyes are smiling for the first time, and the fact that it’s because of me makes all the heartache and bickering between us one-hundred-percent worth it.

  “What’s your plan for today?” I ask. I want to know how much I can bother and bug her, since I won’t be able to get her out of my head.

  “The usual chores and there are horses to ride, but nothing too crazy.” She rests her cheek on my shoulder. “What about you?”

  “Well, the list is still long
for this place, but I need to at least pick paint colors for the outside.”

  “Yeah?” She gets a distant look on her face, but catches herself and smiles. “What about red? I like cream and red, not like candy apple, but like a rusty, farm red. Papa wanted to repaint ours when he was finished with the inside, but—” She shrugs and smiles, though I can tell the memory is painful.

  “I like red,” I say.

  And her smile pulls up in the corner. “I’d never have guessed given the red monstrosity in your driveway.”

  It’s my turn to shrug this time. “What can I say, red looks mean on a truck.”

  “Well,” she says with a sigh. “It’s just an idea. Don’t feel like you have to choose those colors.”

  “I’ll take it into consideration,” I tease, though I already know I’m going to do it.

  I have no attachment to this place, though the more the house changes, the more at ease I am. I know most of it wouldn’t have been possible had the old man not left me money, but this is all I have to spend it on right now, so why not make it someone else’s dream house while I’m at it?

  “What else do you see for your future dream home?” I ask, an idea forming.

  She blinks up at me, thinking. “Well, since you asked . . . I guess I do have a list. They’re mostly changes I’d like to make to the ranch house one day, but . . .”

  After listing a white picket fence, raised vegetable gardens in the back, and a few other “wants but not necessarily needs,” I grin because she’s not only animated, smiling and laughing, but smiling and laughing with me.

  Thirty

  Sam

  The crisp morning air and sunshine are refreshing as I walk down the final hill toward the farmhouse. Reilly’s slippers are big on my feet, the wool lining a little too warm, but they’re more comfortable than the heels that dangle from between my fingers, and I grin.

  I feel like I’m finally free—free to breathe, free to fly or swim instead of tread water until I’m near drowning. It’s like I woke up to not only a new day, but an optimistic beginning to a new me. I’m not sure what all changed, but I know that Reilly has everything to do with it. He’s the part of me I’ve needed, the part that’s been missing, and now that I’m whole again, I feel a sense of pride, like this new me would make Papa proud.

  By the time I make it into the house, my ankle aches, but it’s not unbearable. I leave Reilly’s thistle- and sticker-covered slippers on the porch, outside the back door. I’m sure it’s encroaching on eight o’clock, and Alison is probably awake. She’ll most likely be upset that I didn’t call her, but then she might not even realize I never came home. Regardless, nothing is going to ruin my euphoric high right now, not even her.

  Flushed and slightly out of breath, I quietly open the screen door and step into the kitchen. Alison’s in her robe, standing in front of the coffeepot, pouring herself a cup of joe when the screen shuts behind me. She doesn’t even look back at me.

  I set my heels on the floor with the other shoes. I know Alison’s in a bad mood if she’s not even acknowledging me.

  I clear my throat and brace myself. “Morning—”

  I stop when she steps to the side, revealing three very distinct, sharp objects that sit on the counter next to the coffeepot. My stomach lurches and ice fills my veins. I’m not sure if I’m more pissed or horrified. Either way, I’m frozen.

  “Morning, Sam.”

  I look at her, watching as she sets her stirring spoon on the counter. I’m processing—waiting. She has dark circles under her eyes like she hasn’t slept, and my mind races a million miles a second, round and round with questions and anger and shame.

  Does she know what they are? How could she possibly? And why the hell does she even have them?

  Her expression’s unreadable. “I didn’t know where you were. I was worried.” She says it like she really cares, and my defenses rise with each drawn-out second.

  “What are those for?” I ask, staring at the pile she clearly laid out for me to see.

  “I found them in your room,” she says and shifts on her feet.

  I’m shaking. “What the hell were you doing in my room?” My fingers clench around my clutch. I have to bite back the bile rising in my throat.

  Alison’s soft features narrow, and she sets her coffee cup down on the counter. “I don’t need permission to go into your room, Sam. This is my house—”

  “You have never cared what I do or what’s in my room. Now you’re snooping?”

  “No,” she says tightly. “I was worried and tried to call your cell but you didn’t answer. I thought maybe you left it here on accident, so I went up to your room to check.” Her voice is rushed, anxious.

  “So you searched through my drawers?” I shake my head. “You’re such a liar.”

  Alison takes an angry step forward. “No, I saw bloodied tissues in your garbage, just like I saw the blood dripping down the outside of your thigh the other day when you walked out of the bathroom. Just like I saw the way you were looking at that broken glass in your hand a few weeks ago . . . there are plenty of instances. Would you like me to continue naming them?”

  All I can do is shake my head. “This is unbelievable.” How does she think she has any right to talk to me about anything?

  “Why do you have a piece of a metal hanger in your desk drawer, Sam? Why do you have a knife and a—”

  “Why do you even care? You’ve never cared about anything I do, and now all of a sudden you’re what, trying to save me?” My heart’s racing. “You find a bunch of random crap in my bedroom—so what? It doesn’t mean I cut myself.” Her eyes widen and I know I’ve only cemented the truth in her mind. If she didn’t know what they were for before, she does now. “Mind your own business!”

  I storm past her.

  “You’re not in trouble, I’m just . . . I’m worried about you, Sam. Please don’t make this into something it’s not. I wasn’t trying to snoop.” She grabs my arm. “Samantha!”

  I stop dead in my tracks, bite my tongue, and will myself to breathe out the coiling anger I’m afraid will cause me to do something stupid.

  Alison’s gaze darts from my forearm to my face and her grip loosens, though she doesn’t let go of me.

  “What? What the hell do you want from me?” I seethe.

  “Look,” she says softly. “I know you don’t want to talk about it with me, and that’s fine, but there’s a therapist in town. Her name is—”

  I can’t help but laugh, a wicked, brittle sound that makes Alison wince. “A therapist? I’ve been trying to get us to go to a therapist this whole time.”

  “This is different, Sam. This is about you.”

  I tear my arm out of her hold. “Really? You don’t think this”—I point to my head and then to my hip—“has anything to do with you?”

  Alison straightens.

  “You think I do this for fun—”

  “Of course no—”

  “—that I’m not completely miserable because of you?”

  “You’re miserable? You took him away from me!” Alison screeches as her palm collides with the side of my face, leaving an intensifying sting as I realize what’s happened.

  I bring my hand to my cheek and feel the color drain from my face. All I can do is stare back at her; a thousand emotions I didn’t know Alison had are housed in her eyes as they study my face. My shock is reflected in her expression.

  Both of our chests heave, we stand there in astonishment—horror—until Alison blinks and reaches for me. “I shouldn’t have done that, Sam. I’m—”

  “It’s fine,” I say. I walk out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into my room. Alison doesn’t bother to follow me.

  I quietly shut the door and toss my clutch onto my bed. My mind is numb and the fiery need for physical pain cries so loud I don’t know if I can deny it. It’s a gnawing, thirsty sensation that has only one reprieve—release.

  I sit on the edge of my bed, staring into my closet, it
s contents in disarray from last night’s dress-up session. I eye my robe, or rather the metal hanger it’s draped on, glinting and taunting me. I consider the relief one unrelenting drag against my skin will bring me.

  Without another second’s thought, I’m up, taking one step—two—and reaching for it. I tear the robe off, tossing it aside, and grab the hanger. Then I freeze. I stare at my fingers, white and trembling with need and fury around the wire. The fingers that Reilly kissed only hours ago. I don’t want to do this anymore. I know I shouldn’t.

  Dropping the hanger like hot iron burning my flesh, I take two steps backward, bumping into the mattress. Tearing my gaze from my shaking hands, I lie back on my bed and stare up at the vaulted ceiling. My chest rises and fall, rises and falls, and I bite the inside of my cheek as hard as I can until I taste blood. I let out a deep breath, expelling the tension, the anger and fear. I focus on my breathing and shut my eyes, willing the tightness inside me away.

  The Explorer pulls up the drive, the sound of the engine as familiar as my F-250, but instead of quickly changing to go down and help Nick with the daily chores, I lie still and sprawled out on my bed, unable to move. I open my eyes and stare at the imperfection in the crossbeams, notice the high corners missing cream-colored paint and the cobweb across from it. I contemplate how disheveled my life has become, how messy and broken and delicate. I know that I can’t keep going on like this. I can’t live under this roof with Alison. I can’t lose myself here, especially now that I realize part of me is already gone.

  The longer I lie here, the harder it is to force myself to move. I think about Reilly, the adoration in his voice, the way it felt to be wrapped in his arms—to laugh with him and feel normal for a little while. I want that again, more than anything else I can think of at this moment. I want my life back.

  The warm morning sunshine pries through my open blinds, bathing the room in a golden glow. I watch the dust motes dance through the rays of sunlight, wondering how far they travel and what happens to them after they land.