1001 Dark Nights Short Story Anthology 2020

by Fiona Archer

  But with me he never did.

  I don’t want you to save me. I want you to stand beside me as I save myself.

  He’d saved me once. He’d physically lifted me out of that cage and against all possible odds gotten us both to safety.

  But from that point on, he’d understood my need to save myself. To battle my demons however I saw fit. He simply always made sure I had the sharpest possible sword.

  The thought calmed me.

  I reached up and cupped that carved jaw, running my nails along the second days’ worth of stubble. Ian DeRose was the very definition of ruggedly handsome—the scales tipping far more heavily towards harsh than pretty when it came to his face.

  His eyes stayed steady on mine, as they always had. He’d never flinched away from me.

  Maybe I wasn’t a liar.

  Whatever he had behind that door I could—I would—handle.

  And, if necessary, I would call Hoarders, and he could be on their TV show. It brought a little smile to my face.

  “Okay,” he said. He recognized I was ready. Didn’t ask about the smile probably because he’d already figured out what I was thinking.

  But when I stepped around him and reached for the door handle, his hand covered mine. “Freckles…”

  Hearing the uncertainty in his voice was hard. Ian was many things. Uncertain wasn’t one of them.

  I stroked the hand covering mine with my thumb. “Whatever it is, we face it together.”

  I opened the door. I could feel him at my back as I stepped into the small foyer.

  No coffins. No huge piles of junk. No little wifey in an apron baking muffins.

  Just a hallway. Perhaps the most memorable thing about it was that one of my paintings hung along the south wall over a wooden console table. One of my very first pieces as what had been a hobby had become my career.

  I wasn’t surprised to find Ian had bought one of my paintings. My mom had bought one too, although I had made the gallery give it to her at a highly reduced price.

  One of the best things that had come from what had happened to me was my art. I’d always been a painter, but afterwards colors had become my life.

  I painted my fears, my pain, my happiness in broad strokes. All my emotions had found their way onto canvas. And people had responded to them. I’d sold out every showing I’d had for the past year at prices that kept me more than comfortable, even living in Manhattan.

  Knowing Ian, he’d probably paid full price for his piece, wanting to support me.

  The relative normalcy of the hallway gave me more courage. I walked into the small living room on the left.

  Still no vampire bats or human skulls. Just a small couch and two armchairs, an antique oak coffee table between the three pieces. They were all tasteful, expensive. Maybe slightly out of place given the cost of the house, but not much. Another one of my paintings hung on the wall over the fireplace.

  I turned and rolled my eyes at him. He was still just two steps behind me, studying me. Waiting for me to figure it out. Whatever it was.

  The metallic taste returned.

  I brushed by him and crossed the hall into the kitchen. Nothing unusual there. I grabbed an apple from the bowl of fruit, smelled it, and then bit into it gingerly. It was real. Not some sort of staging.

  I munched on the apple as I crossed farther down the hall into the half bath. No drug paraphernalia, just a nice hand towel set.

  The family room held more evidence of Ian. A comfortable couch and lounger faced the huge television. On the far wall was...

  Another of my paintings. One from my show a month ago. Ian hadn’t even been able to make it to that one.

  So how was this painting on his family room wall?

  This time I didn’t look at him as I stormed up the stairs and into the bedrooms.

  My paintings. Every single room had at least one, some more. And when I got to the last room, the one he was obviously using as an office, I was surrounded by them all over the walls. Two dozen probably, all sizes, artfully arranged so they somehow didn’t clash with one another. If I could be objective, I’d be impressed with the emotion the paintings as a group conveyed. It was everything I’d always wanted my art to be.

  But I couldn’t be objective. My world was crumbling to dust.

  He’d bought all my paintings.

  “What have you done?” I whispered, still looking at the art—my art—surrounding me. I couldn’t look at him.

  The level of betrayal was unfathomable. He’d known that. It was why he hadn’t wanted me in here.

  “Freckles...”

  “No!” The word roared out of me as I spun to look at him. He reached towards me, but I jumped back. Immediately his arm fell to his side. “You bought all my paintings.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No.” I stopped him with one word.

  I was such a fool. I thought I’d made a successful career for myself. Thought that something wonderful had come out of the hell I’d lived through. That it had provided me, in some serendipitous fashion, the means to be independent. To live the life I’d wanted instead of waiting tables forever back in Oak Creek, Wyoming.

  Every time my brush had hit the canvas, I’d felt like the Phoenix. I’d burned to ash in the most horrific way possible, but what had risen had been better, stronger. More majestic and powerful.

  But it had all been an illusion. I wasn’t independent. Ian had just tricked me into thinking I was.

  The taste of metal filled my mouth. Not really a surprise.

  I’d just woken up and discovered I was in a cage again.

  * * * *

  Ian

  I would give every dollar I had to never see that expression on Wavy’s face ever again.

  It was nowhere near the blank, broken expression she’d had when we’d finally gotten her out of that hellhole a year and a half ago. But it had enough ripples of similarity to throw me into my own panic.

  Wavy wasn’t the only one with triggers.

  “These paintings are pieces of you.” I said the words rapidly. I was careful not to crowd her in any way, but I kept myself between her and the door. I didn’t have long to make her understand.

  I desperately needed her to understand.

  “They were your heart and soul. Your fears and passions. I wanted them surrounding me. Just me.”

  God, I sounded like a fucking stalker. Like I wanted to be the one who put her in a cage and keep her for myself.

  For a moment, I thought I might literally vomit.

  No wonder she was looking at me with something just short of horror in her eyes.

  That’s why I’d kept this place a secret. Because I’d known she wouldn’t understand. How could she? How could anyone?

  She ran from me all the time. I would reach the point where I would think we were finally moving forward in our relationship and then I’d wake up the next morning and she’d be gone.

  I never panicked. I had the security team watching her. Plus, I knew she’d be back—a few weeks, a few days, however much time she needed.

  And I was willing to give her that. I’d promised myself I would give it to her. Because she’d lived through what would’ve broken most people beyond repair.

  Because she deserved the chance to do whatever she wanted for as long as she wanted to.

  Because I was in love with her beyond reason and would do anything to meet her needs. Even pretend like I was asleep so she could slip out the door with no battle.

  But being without her...I don’t think she had any concept of what emptiness her absence caused each time. Wavy wasn’t an unkind person. If she knew the agony she left behind when she ran—the gaping hole in my chest—she wouldn’t do it. She’d pay the price herself and stay rather than get out and get whatever it was she needed.

  So I’d never said how much it hurt me. Tried to never make a big deal of it when she came back. Just made sure she knew she was welcome.

  The paintings had become my wa
y of keeping her with me even when she ran. The bold strokes of color on the canvas were like talking to her as she passed through different moods—angry, passionate, joyful, even scared.

  They were a distant second to the woman herself, but at least they were something.

  But I’d known it was wrong. Why else would I have bought a house in the middle of fucking New Jersey and never had a single other person here?

  Because this bordered on insanity. And crossed the stalker line way before that.

  And now she knew. She knew, and she was afraid of me.

  I took a deliberate step away from the door, giving her a clear path if she wanted to leave. But I started talking again in hopes she’d listen.

  “I never wanted to make you feel trapped. After everything you’ve been through, the strength you’ve found…I wanted you to be free. But these”—I took a step toward the paintings, giving her even clearer access to the door—“these helped me to feel close to you, even when you weren’t around.”

  “You bought all my paintings.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know how that makes me feel?”

  I closed my eyes but didn’t turn. “I can only imagine that it makes me seem very similar to your captor.”

  “What? Jesus, Ian, why would you ever say that? That’s not what I meant at all.”

  Now I turned to face her. “I bought all your paintings because I want to be surrounded by your emotions all the time. That’s sick. I don’t blame you for feeling betrayed.”

  She threw up her hands. “No, dumbass. I feel betrayed because I thought I had a successful career. That I was independent. Ends up I don’t have that at all, just a wealthy benefactor who lets me have art shows to make me feel important, but then buys all the paintings himself.”

  “What? No—”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, and fucks me every once in a while when I want it too. He’s a full-service benefactor.”

  “Watch it, Waverly.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Ian.” She backed the statement up by walking over and poking me in the chest. “So don’t take that tone with me. But I’m pissed as hell. I hate to be coddled. Why would you let me pretend to have a career like that?”

  I grabbed that pokey little finger before it drilled a hole through my flesh. “I’ve never pretended anything with you.”

  She didn’t yank her hand back, but her anger seemed to slide away, leaving her looking smaller, more vulnerable.

  “You bought all my paintings without telling me. You had to have gone to a lot of trouble to make sure I didn’t notice. The records of sale from the gallery were all to different names.”

  I finally understood. “No. Your shows were real. Your sales were real. I never once used any influence to get people to buy your works. The opposite, actually.”

  “But all these…” She gestured around with the hand I wasn’t holding against my chest. At least she was still letting me touch her.

  “I tracked down the owners afterward and bought them. Well, not me personally, my people, under different names and using different approaches. I am a businessman, after all. If word got around that there was a demand for your paintings it would cost me a lot more.”

  She shook her head, eyes crinkling in confusion, but at least that vulnerable air around her had disappeared. “Why didn’t you just buy them from the gallery directly?”

  “And have someone accuse me of being a wealthy benefactor who keeps my painter-in-residence happy by fucking her occasionally?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “I would’ve given you the paintings, you know that, right? Any of them. All of them.” She slid her hand out from under mine and walked around me. “I can’t understand why you would want this many. They’re all so similar.”

  I turned so I was right behind her and put both hands on her shoulders. “Similar because they’re all pieces of you, but each piece is unique.”

  I turned her to face the collection on one part of the wall that were mostly reds. “Your anger and strength.”

  Eased her towards the deep purples. “Your passion.”

  The yellows and orange. “Your happiness.”

  The grays—the hardest to look at. “Your fears that you’ll never find your colors again.”

  I turned her to face me. “They’re all pieces of you, and I want them all. I welcome them all. I never want to stop you from running when you need to run, but these allowed me to feel like you were with me, even when you weren’t.”

  She reached up and wrapped her arms around my neck, and the last of the fear that had eaten at me since I saw her at the front door melted away.

  “You’re going to have to stop buying my paintings, Ian. They’re redundant.”

  “Not to me. Like I said, they’re unique—”

  She put a finger over my lips. “Redundant because I’m not running any more. All those pieces of me you have hanging on the wall aren’t going to be necessary because you’re going to have the real canvas with you. I love you. Do forever with me.”

  I closed my eyes, feeling all the pieces of my world finally clicking into place. Because she was my world. “Yes. Always. I love you, Freckles. I’m not sure forever is even long enough.”

  I wrapped my arms around her slim hips and lifted her until we were face to face and kissed her. No artist, not even one as talented as her, could capture the emotions swirling around us now.

  We were our own masterpiece.

  Copyright 2020 Janie Crouch

  About Janie Crouch

  Thank you for reading MASTERPIECE, a taste of Ian and Wavy’s world!

  Want their whole story? Their book, CODE NAME: ARIES, kicks off the Zodiac Security series in 2021. Pre-order HERE

  While you’re waiting, check out the Linear Tactical series (Wavy & Ian’s family and friends). Start with CYCLONE

  Linear Tactical: Protective alpha heroes who'll face down any danger for the women they love. Full series available in Kindle Unlimited.

  * * * *

  USA Today bestselling author Janie Crouch writes passionate romantic suspense for readers who still believe in heroes. Hailing from Virginia, she spent the past six years on an American military base in Germany for her hubby's Department of Defense job. She loves engaging in all sorts of adventures, traveling, and surviving life with four kids.

  Join Janie’s VIP mailing list for exclusive extras, giveaways and goodies, plus receive a free book! https://www.janiecrouch.com/vip

  Email: janie@janiecrouch.com

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  Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7211574.Janie_Crouch

  Some Day My Ranger Will Come

  by

  Jen Talty

  Chapter One

  Ella Kane thought she knew her way around a motorboat, but she’d never actually had to captain one herself. Of course, when she went out on the Intracoastal, it wasn’t in a fourteen-foot bathtub with an outboard engine that she controlled by holding a handle attached to it and not a steering wheel.

  The guide at the dock told her that all she had to do was head south, stay in the main river, and she’d easily find Black Park Island and the campgrounds. She’d been on the water for almost an hour. She thought for sure she should have seen the park and its sexy ranger by now.

  Thick, tropical trees spread their branches with lush green leaves over the water, making a canopy. And all she could think about was a snake dropping down on her head, or an alligator finding its way into her boat.

  Birds dove down to the water, and fish flipped, splashing about, making her jump. She liked being outside and getting fresh air, but no one would ever call her the adventurous type.

  The things she was willing to do to impress a man.

  And not just any man.

  Philip Prince was her knight in shining armor. Her one and only. Her
diamond in the rough. If he were a frog and she kissed him, he’d likely turn into a prince. Now, all she had to do was show him that she wasn’t the same self-absorbed girl she used to be without making too much of an ass of herself. And, in the process, bring some attention to a county park that could end up closing without proper funding.

  The river narrowed, and the propeller scraped the bottom.

  The watercraft jerked back, forcing her body forward. Her butt bumped off the bench and onto the fiberglass floor.

  Shit.

  She quickly climbed back up, grabbing the handle as she slowed the boat. Holding her breath, she leaned over. The brackish water was too dark to see the bottom, but she was definitely hitting it. Turning the vessel around, she pulled out her phone. GPS should help guide her back to the beginning, and she could start all over.

  No freaking service.

  Of course not.

  The boat bucked, and the engine bounced up as the prop ground into the silt. The dockhand had warned her that the tide was going out and that she needed to make it to the docks at the campsite within the next few hours. That there were areas in the river that got so low, she could get stuck.

  She let out a long sigh as she scanned the area. It appeared she’d managed to find a sandbar. All she needed to do was push the boat off it and maneuver around the port side to be able to get back into the broader part of the waterway.

  The roar of an engine caught her attention. She glanced north and saw him heading her way.

  Wonderful. Not how she wanted to see Philip for the first time on this trip. The entire idea had been to impress the hell out of him, not need him to save her. That would only perpetuate the concept that she was a high-maintenance female who only cared about her next mani-pedi.

  She glanced at her toes and groaned. She was overdue.

  “Looks like you’ve gotten yourself into a little bit of trouble.” Philip sat behind a steering wheel in a watercraft that looked like a blow-up toy with a motor. It reminded her of the tender on her father’s yacht that the deck crew used to taxi them back and forth from anchor to port.