Heading East (Part 2 of 2) (The True North Series)

by Gray, June

  Heading East is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and events is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by June Gray. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from either the author or the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote a brief passage in a review.

  First Edition. Cover design by June Gray.

  Economica font by Vicente Lamónaca.

  To my father, Willy.

  My hero and my champion.

  1

  KAT

  “So you’re finally doing it,” Dad said and reached across the cold metal table to clutch my hand. He flashed me a tight-lipped smile, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “You’re finally going west.”

  “New York is east, Dad,” I said, hoping to ease the tension. Otherwise I would break down and cry or, worse, decide to just stay in Alaska altogether. My dad had lived by the creed “Go west to find freedom and independence” and now, seeing his only child doing the same put the look of pride in his tired, lined face. “I still can’t believe Fashion Institute of New York accepted me for their accelerated program.”

  “I can.”’

  I smiled at my father, the only person who had always been there for me through thick and thin, the one man who had gone to jail defending my honor. “I don’t have to go,” I said in a moment of guilt. How could I even contemplate leaving my own dad? “I’ll just stay.”

  “Don’t you dare, Katherine,” he said, his face taking on an angry red color. “I’m not the only one imprisoned in Alaska. You’ve found a way out, so take it. Please. Do it for me.”

  “But—”

  “Staying here is the coward’s way out,” he continued, his words reaching into the heart of the matter. I was chickening out, allowing insecurity to get the best of me. “You need to go and find out what you’re really made of. See if you’re as tough as I know you are.”

  I managed to nod despite the tears stinging my eyes. “Okay, Dad. I’ll do it for you.”

  The lines around his eyes softened. “How about you do it for you?”

  I stood up and hugged him, closing my eyes and memorizing his scent. Who knew when I’d see him again? “I love you, Dad,” I said against the scratchy orange jumpsuit. “I’ll try my best.”

  He kissed the top of my head. “Knock ‘em dead, Katherine Hollister. I know you’ll make that entire city bend to your will.”

  ~

  After a quick farewell meal at The Diner, during which it seemed like nearly everyone in town stopped by my table to give me their blessings, Franny and Drew drove me to the airport in Anchorage.

  “Don’t worry about Josie. I’ll take good care of her,” Franny said as we pulled into the drop off area. “When you’re done with school she’ll be here waiting for you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, giving her an awkward hug. It was hard to believe that a few short months ago I hadn’t even wanted her in my life. I’d never had a female friend before and it was weird to know that I might actually miss her. She’d shown me so much about camaraderie with women that I might never have otherwise known.

  She pulled away and swiped her sleeves over her eyes. “Now who will watch Gossip Girl with me?” she asked with a quivering chin.

  I swallowed down the sadness lodged in my throat. This was why I didn’t let people in my life—so that I wouldn’t get attached. “Maybe you can ask Drew,” I said to lighten the mood.

  She let out a surprised laugh, glancing towards the rear of the truck where Drew was taking down my luggage. “Can you imagine the sheriff watching that?”

  “You’re good people, Franny.”

  “That means a lot coming from you.”

  When she climbed back into the truck I turned to Drew and held out a hand. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  He swatted my hand away and, with an exasperated sigh, pulled me in for a hug. “You’re ridiculous, Kat.”

  I smiled and hugged him back. Ever since that night he confessed he knew about my suicide attempt, we’d come to a sort of understanding. He stopped being overbearing and I stopped thinking he was still in love with me. I wouldn’t exactly call him a friend, but at least I no longer considered him my adversary.

  “Don’t go changing, okay?” he asked as he stepped away. “Even if you’re incredibly annoying and frustrating and prickly and—”

  “Okay, you can shut up now,” I said with a laugh.

  He grinned, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Well, maybe you can stand to change a little bit.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said, chucking him in the arm. “Good luck policing Ayashe.”

  “Thanks, I’ll need it. Dale Hokkeland’s got it in his head to catch moose and harvest their antlers.”

  I chuckled, realizing for the first time that I’d really miss the little Alaskan town I’d come to call home. But now it was time to step out of my isolated life and head out on my own, to figure out what the hell I was made of.

  So I picked up my bags and headed into the airport, ready to take on a whole new frontier.

  ~

  I had never flown before, didn’t even know what to expect once I stepped inside the airport. There were people everywhere and signs and arrows pointing every which way. I’m not one to ask for directions, so I wandered around lost for a little while until I was finally able to figure out where to go after I’d checked my luggage. Movies and TV shows always made air travel seem like such a simple, painless process—walk into the plane, sit, take off, land—when it was quite the opposite in real life. There were so many things to remember, especially going through the security gate, that I was almost able to ignore the throngs of people.

  Almost.

  When I arrived at the correct gate, I took one look at the horde of people sitting around, and immediately turned around to go find a restroom. I locked myself inside a stall and sat on the toilet lid, trying to regulate my breathing.

  I shuddered, thinking of all those eyes staring at me. I knew those people out there weren’t the same assholes from high school—I knew this on an intellectual level—but the anxiety was still there, eating away at my confidence.

  What the hell was I thinking? Why the hell did I think I could do this? Most of all, if I couldn’t even face a couple of hundred people at the airport, how the hell was I supposed to survive in a city of millions?

  Those thoughts went around and around in my head until I noticed the announcement over the intercom.

  “Final boarding call for flight five sixty four.”

  I stood up and took two deep breaths, then one more for good measure, before finally making my way out of that bathroom.

  A full twelve hours later—including one confusing layover at Minneapolis where I ended up outside the security gate and had to line up all over again—the plane finally touched down at LaGuardia Airport in New York City. It was only as we were exiting the plane that I finally faced the enormity of what I was doing: I was really moving across the country to go back to school. I was well and truly on my own again and, as much as I liked to say I hated those people back in Ayashe, their familiar faces were a source of comfort for me. Here in New York, I had nobody.

  Well, nobody I’d care to see, anyway.

  On trembling legs I followed my fellow passengers down to baggage claim, waiting a hell of a long time before my luggage finally came around that belt.

&nb
sp; And then I found myself facing the airport exit, my feet rooted to the spot.

  The fuck do I do now?

  The panic that I’d managed to barely tamp down the entire day finally threatened to spill over. People were everywhere, walking with purpose in every direction, while I stood in the center of it all feeling completely lost.

  Several long minutes went by as I considered turning around and flying right back to Alaska. I wouldn’t be able to show my face in Ayashe again, but I could probably set up a new life in another small town, find a way to steal Josie back, and start over….

  Someone bumped into me, knocking me out of my trance. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, looked around to get his bearings, and was once again on his way.

  “Okay, Kat,” I said under my breath. “You can’t stand here all day. Pull up your big girl panties and just put one foot in front of the other.”

  I squared my shoulders and, with the name and address of a hotel in my pocket, I exited the airport and got into a taxi, ready to start this new life.

  I checked into an affordable hotel in the Financial District and spent the rest of the day looking for apartments online and booking appointments for the next day. Student lodging was available at the Fashion Institute of New York, but I’d opted out. There was no way in hell I was going to live with kids straight out of high school, drinking and carrying on like they do in the movies. I’d rather wear a shirt made of bacon and wrestle with a bear than endure that kind of torture.

  I set aside my laptop when my brain was threatening to explode and I pulled out three sketchbooks from my luggage, flipping through each one. The first was the oldest, the one I’d carried with me everywhere since high school. The other two were newer, bought on a high after receiving the acceptance letter from FINY, and held every idea and concept that crossed my mind. Here, laid out before me on the bed, was the visual representation of my heart and soul, sweat and blood—the way I’d make out of this experience alive.

  By six o’clock I could no longer ignore my rumbling stomach and, as much as I didn’t really want to go outside the confines of the hotel, I knew I needed food. I took a shower and dressed in jeans, a Superman tee shirt and my Chuck Taylors, and ventured out of the hotel to find dinner, my wallet and a can of mace tucked safely in my front pockets. I walked down to the end of the street and looked around, regretting my decision not to ask the front desk clerk for directions. But this was New York; wasn’t there supposed to be a restaurant or two on every block?

  Sticking my hands in my pockets and ducking my head, I joined the light flow of pedestrian traffic, fighting off the panicked feeling that was threatening to overtake me.

  I slid into the first place I encountered, a pizzeria with the faded red awning out front and small tables inside. I ordered a slice of cheese pizza, my eyes bulging when the guy handed me a piece as big as my head.

  “This is one slice?” I asked, handing him a five.

  He snorted. “Fucking tourists,” he muttered under his breath, and handed me my change.

  Needless to say, he didn’t get a tip.

  “What the hell am I doing here?” I asked myself later that night, starting to go a little stir crazy in my room. I had already tried out the various tiny toiletries in the bathroom, flipped through all the channels on the TV, and even jumped on the bed, but nothing could get rid of the twitchiness inside. I needed out of this crazy place.

  But as anxious as I was, my stubborn ass knew I needed to fight through the feeling. I was going to stay no matter what, even if it killed me.

  I opened my laptop and stared at the screen for a full minute before my fingers finally just moved on their own accord and typed in a web address that I’d visited many times. A few months ago, after I’d cried so hard I was lightheaded, I went online and Googled the name Luke Harrington. What showed up, hidden among many articles about the plane crash and about his mother’s career, was a grainy, shaky video from a performance in a dark bar. The video had been taken and uploaded by a woman who’d had a crush on Luke for years and had attended the performance to hear him sing.

  I clicked Play, watching once again as the camera zoomed in on a man onstage, sitting on a stool with a guitar in his hands. “This one’s called Adrift,” he said into the microphone. His face was hidden in shadows but I would recognize that voice anywhere. “It’s inspired by a recent trip to Alaska and what I discovered there.”

  Goosebumps traveled over my skin, just as they had since the first moment I heard those words, and when he strummed his guitar and began to play a haunting melody my eyes blurred over.

  He leaned into the mic and began to sing in his roughened voice, the lyrics to the song speaking of being lost and of finding his way back home. But it was the way he was singing—so pained and raw—that sent the tears blazing down my cheeks.

  I swiped at my face, ashamed that he still affected me so deeply. How the hell was I going to live here, knowing that around every corner I turned, in every building I entered, I might run into him?

  It was clear, as I clicked Replay on the video and snuggled under the covers, that I was not over Luke Harrington. Hell, I might never be.

  2

  LUKE

  The room was dim and the music obnoxious: typical of this bar. I relaxed into the leather armchair and quietly studied the people around me, those optimistic souls who still hoped they’d find love or, at the very least, temporary companionship in a place like this: men and women dressed to the nines, drinking and cavorting like they did back in their twenties, back when being irresponsible was still an acceptable pastime.

  It was a sad sight indeed, to see these otherwise mature people acting like they’d never aged. But the saddest of all? That I found myself among them once again.

  I sighed and took a sip from my tumbler of bourbon, turning my attention back to my friends. I tried to tune in to their conversation about the latest football game, but couldn’t find it in me to care. After a few minutes I excused myself and headed to the bar.

  As I ordered another drink, I felt a hand land on my arm. “Hi there,” said a feminine voice, one that was definitely not the voice I wanted to hear.

  I turned to find an attractive woman with deep auburn hair and light skin smiling at me. “Hi Sylvi,” I said, giving her an obligatory peck on the cheek.

  “I haven’t seen you in months,” she said, perching on a stool and making a show of crossing one shapely leg over the other. “Where have you been?”

  “He’s been at home, living like an old recluse. I had to bribe him to get him to come out with us tonight,” my friend Decker said, appearing on my other side. “Nice to see you, Syl.”

  She raised one thin eyebrow. “Why would you deprive the women of New York that body of yours?” she asked with a pointed look at my crotch.

  I turned away and took a drink in order to avoid talking. A tall blonde woman walked by and my eyes immediately followed her around the room until she turned her head and I was able to see her face. Another sip and I turned my attention back to the people before me.

  “Our boy here is trying to be a better man,” Decker said. “I don’t know whether to applaud him or ask if he’d been body snatched.”

  My fingers tightened around the glass tumbler as I shot Decker a frustrated look. Decker held his hands up and, with a grin, backed away.

  Sylvi played with her silver necklace, tracing a finger along her collarbone. “Were you ever planning on calling me again?”

  I gave her my full attention, taking in that petite body I knew to be well versed in carnal pleasure. I had called her on more than one occasion in the past, and we’d used each other to satisfy our sexual needs. I’d be lying if I said the thought of sleeping with her no longer tempted me. “I’ve been preoccupied.”

  She leaned forward, her cleavage on full display, and whispered, “I’d like to keep you preoccupied for the night.”

  My dick jumped to attention. After months of forced celibacy, the sight of a beaut
iful woman throwing herself at me was like a starving man being handed a chocolate bar. Unfortunately, what would temporarily satisfy the hunger would eventually be my undoing. Still, that didn’t stop me from taking in the ample cleavage peeking over her top, her tiny waist, and those rounded hips that could rock a man into oblivion.

  I licked my lips. “Let’s get out of here, Syl.”

  We took a taxi back to her apartment, pawing at each other in the backseat. My hands traveled all over without apology, shamelessly grabbing handfuls of her ass and breasts. I kissed her neck and her bare shoulder, but couldn’t bring myself to kiss her lips.

  Once I’d paid the driver I practically carried Sylvi up the stairs, pressing her against the wall in the elevator. My body was crying out for release, begging me to bury myself in the nearest willing woman—but as we stood in front of her door, as I gazed at her lovely face, I came to a crushing realization. Sylvi, for all her unrestrained sensuality, would only serve as a temporary salve to the ache.

  “I’m sorry, Sylvi,” I said, filled with a strange sense of shame. I touched her face and wiped away smeared lipstick from her chin with my thumb. “I can’t do this. I won’t use you like this.”

  “Why not?” she asked, the anger brewing beneath the calm surface.

  I opened my mouth but couldn’t find the right words to explain to this woman why I wouldn’t be sleeping with her tonight. “My conscience won’t allow me to take advantage of you,” was my weak reply.

  Her eyes flashed. “Bullshit. When did you develop a conscience?”

  I bent down to kiss her cheek but she angled away, her face flushing a deep red. “I’m trying to do the honorable thing here, Syl. I no longer want to be that guy who changed women like he changed clothes.”

  “Honor has never suited you, Luke,” she said, trying another tactic. She came closer and ran a fingernail down the column of my neck. “I like you best sweat-covered and fucking the hell out of me.”