Seven Years (Seven Series #1)

by Dannika Dark

A curse flew past my lips and I quickly glanced around and made sure the neighbors weren’t out mowing their lawns or calling the police. The last thing I needed was my mom waking up and wondering why the hell I was giving the neighborhood a peep show in the back of my Toyota.

  I leapt into the front seat and headed home.

  During the drive, I gave myself a lecture, mostly going over the stupidity of driving drunk, even though I couldn’t remember a thing. What was I thinking? Even worse, my stomach was churning like one of those hand-cranked ice cream mixers and if I didn’t get to a bathroom soon, I was going to be sick in my car.

  After arriving at my apartment, I dragged my feet up the second flight of stairs, stumbling twice.

  “That good, was it?”

  I glanced at my neighbor, Naya, and she caught the irritated look in my eyes. Naya threw world-famous parties in her apartment and invited everyone in the complex. She did it to give them fair warning there would be loud music, probably a few broken bottles, maybe a fight, and a drunk playing Urinator in the pool. Naya worked as a stripper and once came into the candy shop looking for an oversized pinwheel lollipop. She invited me to a party and that’s when I found out what she did for a living. But off the clock she dressed like everyone else, and we hit it off as friends even though we had little in common.

  We recently ended up living next door to each other when I needed a place to live after my breakup with Beckett. I wondered if she’d paid off her neighbor to break his lease, because the timing was impeccable.

  Naya didn’t have a man, at least not a permanent one. She was a huntress and hung out with some wealthy and dangerous men she’d met at work. Trouble usually came with money, but Naya said she’d paid her dues and wanted a better life.

  My dues were about to wind up all over the landing if I didn’t get my ass inside.

  “Later, Naya.”

  I slammed the door and made a World Series slide to home plate in the bathroom, regretting every second of the previous night as I retched. After my humiliating porcelain moment of the day, I stripped out of my dress and debated whether or not I wanted to take an unsavory nap on the bathroom floor. Instead, I hopped in the shower and washed pieces of grass out of my hair. It felt delicious to stand beneath the spray of hot water, and after towel drying my hair, I snuggled up in my favorite pink robe.

  I hadn’t been that drunk in a long time and wondered why I never learned my lesson. The only thing on my mind after that was coffee, so I headed into the kitchen to brew a pot of Italian roast. That’s when I saw Naya sitting at my bar playing solitaire. My wet hair squeaked when I pulled it around my shoulder and ran my hand down the long length of it.

  “Don’t you knock?” I said grumpily, staring at a pot of already-brewed coffee.

  “Don’t you lock?” she countered. “We don’t live in Bel Air, missy. You don’t think there are a few thugs in this complex that wouldn’t love to find an unlocked door and rob you blind?”

  “Oh God, you’re right,” I muttered, sliding my feet across the cold tile. “I don’t think I could live without my nineteen-inch television or the transistor radio I bought at a garage sale.”

  I poured a steaming cup and sat on the wood cabinet inside the kitchen, facing Naya who was on the other side of the sink. I was being facetious because I did own a laptop and some small electronic toys, but I wasn’t exactly living large and a thief wouldn’t make off with much.

  Her broad mouth twisted as she placed a card on the bar. “Someone’s in a funk.”

  Naya had a curvy figure like a young Salma Hayek in one of those old movies where she’s dancing seductively on tables. She had glossy black hair in beautiful curls and exotic eyes. Naya once tried to teach me how to dance at one of her parties. It got out of control when two idiots thought they were getting a free show with a personal lap dance to follow.

  I went home five minutes later.

  “Rough day at work?” she asked with a smile. That was an inside joke because my rough days consisted of screaming kids while hers ended up in fistfights between horny customers and the bouncers.

  I never brought up Wes with anyone, so I shrugged. “Just felt like cutting loose for a change.”

  Naya had a way of staring me down to the very fraction of a lie I just told, and the moment my eyes darted away, a smug look of satisfaction crossed her face.

  “Everyone is entitled to a night out,” I continued, sprinkling a little sugar in my cup before taking a sip.

  “Glad to hear you’re alive and kicking. That means you’ll be coming to my party on Tuesday.”

  “Don’t people have to work?”

  “Not the people I hang out with, darling. You know that. Tuesdays are my Saturday, and I know for a fact you don’t work every other Wednesday. There’s going to be a great crowd—lots of fat wallets and alcohol.”

  “It’s not the size of a man’s wallet that counts, Naya.”

  Her ruby lips turned up in a carnivorous smile. “Hon, that’s the only bulge in the pants that really counts in the long run.”

  We both laughed, although deep down I had a feeling she wasn’t joking. As sexual as Naya was, she didn’t seem to care about a guy fulfilling her physical needs. She wanted stability—a man who could offer her a better way of life. She equated security with money. Some women just liked being taken care of; I was not one of those women.

  “I’ll come,” I agreed. “But no dancing. And don’t do your thing.”

  “What thing?” She laid down a queen and the tip of the card made a snapping sound against the bar.

  “You know to which thing I refer.” I took another slow sip of my beverage. “The match game. Don’t do it. If my destiny is at the party and I can’t find him myself, then clearly I should go home without a parting gift. It’s embarrassing.”

  She lifted two fingers. “Promise.” Naya glanced at her watch. “Ooo, I’ve got to run. Will you feed Misha? I’m working a double shift tonight.”

  I groaned and padded into the living room. “I don’t know why dry food is such a big no-no. It’s a cat, Naya.”

  She swung the door open and glanced over her shoulder. “You’re the only person I’ve ever known who didn’t like my pussy.”

  I snorted and didn’t bother to respond. I had a love-hate relationship with her cat. I loved to hate it.

  “The wet food is by the fridge—”

  “I know. Go on, I’ll take care of little Misha.”

  Naya blew a kiss and slammed the door.

  “Lock it!” She yelled from the outside.

  I turned the bolt, set my coffee on an end table, and collapsed on the sofa. All I could think about was Austin. Did I really see him at the cemetery? Maybe I dreamed it. I never could hold my liquor and it didn’t take much to get me drunk, not to mention I was one of those people who blacked out if I drank too much. Not passed out, but conscious and sometimes belting out old rock songs. At least, that’s what Naya told me, as did a girl I used to party with when I was younger. That’s why I avoided binge drinking.

  No one needed to hear my rendition of “Feel Like Makin’ Love.”

  Still, the conversation had seemed so real.

  I was angry and kept hitting the stupid rewind button in my brain, causing me to replay the scene at Dairy Queen. Except in episode two, I got up and cussed him out. By episode three, I told my mom to take Maizy outside and I tore him a new one for walking out of our lives. By four, I managed to get information on where he’d been all this time before slapping him. Somewhere around episode twelve, I started making out with him, and by eighteen, we were having sex all over the hood of his Dodge Challenger.

  That’s when I got up and took another shower.

  Chapter 4

  The next day at work, we were slammed with orders. I don’t know if there were a lot of cheating husbands or sick grandmas or what, but Sweet Treats was hopping. Aside from selling candy, we customized gift items. You could choose from a number of candy combinations and have
them packaged for different occasions in the container or basket of your choice. It wasn’t just a store for kids—we also sold expensive chocolates and gourmet popcorn. I’d sampled them to death over the years and officially murdered my love for sugar.

  If a guy ever gave me a box of candy (not that one ever would, all Beckett ever gave me was a box of Victoria’s Secret lingerie), that would be the equivalent of giving me a box of anchovies. It’s not that I hated candy, but the magic was gone. A man should be more original than a bouquet of roses and a box of chocolates. Flowers die and sugar sticks to your hips like a permanent record to a criminal.

  However, all superheroes have a kryptonite. I had one weakness.

  Lollipops.

  Our store only sold the cheap flat ones for the kids and those pinwheel multicolored novelty items. But my favorites were the large round suckers that came in various flavors, including gourmet. We tried carrying them but they never sold. Kids always wanted the chocolate bars or some of the newer candy based on their favorite cartoons or movies. Older generations wanted the hard-to-find items from their childhood or gourmet products. So things like lollipops, peppermints, and butterscotch just didn’t sell.

  The only person who knew how much I loved them was Wes. It’s how he used to bribe me to stay quiet whenever he was going to sneak out of the house or if I caught him in a lie. I was a sucker for suckers, and bribery came at a very reasonable price for him. Our parents never bought junk food unless we went to the movies. Only in recent years had Mom let go of the reins when it came to sugar and offered Maizy an occasional treat.

  April bounced into the room holding a beautifully wrapped basket with a yellow ribbon. “Here you are, Mrs. Lee.”

  “Oh, that’s just gorgeous! Ellie’s going to love it,” the older lady gushed. “She hasn’t tasted some of these candies since she was a little girl.” Mrs. Lee took a moment to admire the packaging before heading out the door.

  “Come by and see us again,” April said with a wave. “Thanks for stopping in, and be sure to tell all your friends to visit Sweet Treats!”

  The bell jingled and I glared at her from behind the display of gumballs. “That’s a bit much.”

  So were the cherry earrings she was wearing and the matching pin clipped in her bright blond hair.

  April tilted her head and the earrings swiveled. “You could learn something from me, Alexia. It’s not just about sales, but returning customers. You want them to tell their friends about us and feel like they need to come back here again for more. Charlie doesn’t offer coupons and we don’t do any marketing, so word of mouth is all we have. Relationship building is important for an independently run business.”

  “We sell crack, April.”

  A kid went jumping by as if there were invisible hopscotch lines on the floor. I nodded at him to illustrate my point.

  “You don’t think this place could ever go out of business?”

  I shrugged. “If the movie theater or pizza shop closes, then yeah. But this street is a freeway of hyperactive kids between the ages of Winnie-the-Pooh diapers and high school saggy pants. Not to mention the fact we offer pick-up through the Internet.”

  “Not everyone likes picking up when they can have it delivered to their house by another company,” she pointed out, refilling a display of Ring Pops.

  It was near closing time and I sanitized the counter, wiping away all the grimy little fingerprints and germs.

  After hours when we closed the shop and turned on the dim accent lights, it became pure magic. Long canisters lined the walls and we had several short aisles with packaged candy and other items. We didn’t have any fancy neon sign—just a pink board that ran over the doorway with the store name painted in black. We were open from ten to ten—at least those were the advertised hours. Everyone on this side of town knew we’d stay open as long as there were customers. Night owls loved it because the colorful displays in the window would catch their eye and draw them in for a late night snack before or even after their movie. I mentioned to Charlie once or twice that he should consider making us a hybrid business—perhaps buy the space next door to open a coffee shop and offer sweet treats for the adults, with a door connecting the shops. “Pipe dreams,” he would say. Charlie might have gone for it, but he probably didn’t have the money.

  We admittedly got some peculiar customers wandering in; some of them looked like hardcore criminals while others just had strange eye colors. But sometimes there was a single guy and that’s how I ran into Beckett. It was hard to pass by our shop at night because the beautiful displays in the window brought out the child in everyone.

  The last customer left the store and I stretched out my stiff muscles. “You feel like going to a party, April? It’s a little wild and crazy and there’s no telling who will be there. My neighbor is throwing one on Tuesday. You can swing by after work if you want; it’ll be going on all night.”

  She considered it and scrunched the ends of her short hair. “Maybe. Where?”

  “You’ve been to my apartment once or twice; it’s the one right next door. Stop by and keep me company. I told her I’d show up, but sometimes those parties can get a little nuts and I’d rather have someone there who’s…”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Who’s what?”

  Um—extracting foot from mouth. “Who’s sensible and won’t end up dancing naked on the balcony.”

  April shrugged. “I might. Depends on how tired I am.”

  I twirled my keys around my finger and stood at the door. “Coming?”

  “No. My sister is picking me up tonight and I have a book to finish reading.”

  I furrowed my brow and leaned on one of the display counters by the front window. “Something wrong with your car?”

  April fidgeted with a stretchy bracelet on her arm. “I think it’s the transmission, but I don’t know anything about cars.”

  “Come on; I’ll give you a lift.”

  She averted her eyes. “Nah. I already got a ride.”

  A grin crept up my face. “Actually, I happen to have a viable solution for you. See that beautiful Toyota out there in the parking lot? It can be yours for a reasonably low—”

  “Save it,” she said with an outstretched hand. “I don’t want your cootiemobile.”

  Damn that hurt. “See ya, April.”

  Standing on the curb, I glared at the car. Not one single inquiry. At this point, I’d consider selling it for a dollar just to get rid of the memories. But I needed a way to get to work so that wasn’t an option.

  The lights shut off in the shop and April locked the door, waved, and went into the back room. I was crossing the street toward the parking lot with a slow, reluctant gait when a familiar voice called out from behind.

  “Sexy Lexi?”

  I cringed. I hadn’t been called that name since high school when Michael Hudson deflowered me. After that, he called me Sexy Lexi and all his friends thought I was a slut. Isn’t that always the way it goes?

  “Please, please, please, don’t let it be him,” I murmured as I turned around.

  “It’s me, Mike Hudson. Remember? We dated in high school.”

  He smirked, lingering by the fire hydrant in a pair of jeans and a blue sports jersey. He still looked the same with curly brown hair and a light dusting of whiskers, but he’d put on a little weight around the gut. Without missing a beat, Michael walked in my direction and I began to get nervous.

  “Still lookin’ good, Sexy Lexi.”

  “Don’t call me that, Michael. I never liked that nickname.”

  “All in fun,” he said defensively, easing up to my right. “So, you work at Sweet Treats?”

  When his eyes slid down my body and up again, I stepped back. “Yeah. Do you work around here?”

  Michael stepped forward. “Nah. I’m in town visiting my parents and decided to take a tour down memory lane—hook up with some of the guys. Want to join us? We’re having pizza and beers over there,” he said, pointing three shops up t
he road.

  “No, thanks. You guys have fun. I have to go, but it was good seeing you,” I lied, turning on my heel and walking briskly toward the car.

  “Wait a minute,” he protested, jogging up behind me. “It’s been how many years and you’re giving me the cold shoulder? I thought you liked me?”

  I whirled around and pressed my finger against his chest. “You gave me a bad reputation and then after my brother beat your ass, you had your friends jump him when he got off work. Then I was tagged with that sorry fucking nickname that stuck for three years. Three years, Michael.” I glanced down at his wedding band. “Go home to your wife and kids, and just pray some idiot doesn’t ever do that to one of your daughters.”

  I finally had my moment and it felt really damn good as I stormed to the car, ready to do my victory dance. I’d waited a long time to tell him off, and it didn’t require a ten-minute speech. The less time I had to spend with him, the better.

  But then he caught my wrist.

  “You’re still mad over that?”

  I turned around and tugged my arm, but he kept a firm hold. Memories of our relationship flooded back. Something never felt right about our first time, but I assumed that’s how it went with all the girls. The boy pressuring, the girl saying no, the boy insisting, the girl squirming because it hurt, the boy telling her it was always like that the first time and holding her wrists, the girl wincing in pain and crying. “Next time it won’t hurt as bad,” he’d said to me.

  There was no next time with Michael. Maybe I was naïve in thinking the first time should have been special, but he was an insensitive jerk and I regretted giving myself to him. When I had refused to have sex with him again, he broke up with me.

  That’s when he made up the nickname and harassed me for the rest of the school year with obscene gestures in the hallway and spreading rumors.

  I snapped my arm back again but he kept hold of it. The streets were empty and most of the shops had closed down except for the pizza place and theater.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he finally said. “We were just a bunch of dumb kids. Let me walk you to your car and we’ll go our separate ways. It’s been a long time and I don’t think it’s fair you’re holding me accountable for something I did when I was a teenager.”