Текст книги "Dirty Red"

Автор книги: Tarryn Fisher

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Epilogue

Hate is such a prodigious feeling. It’s hot and oppressive like fire. It starts by burning through your God-given reason until there is nothing left of it but a mound of ash. It moves on to your humanity next, hot tongues flicking across the few remaining threads of innocence until they melt into each other and morph into something ugly. Then, in the rubble of what you were, hate plants a seed of bitterness. The seed grows to a vine and the vine chokes what it touches. That’s where I am; the vine wrapped so tightly around my neck I can barely breathe. One hand is on that vine, the other is pressed against my chest to keep everything from falling out.

He told me he loved me. He was supposed to protect me from hurt, not inflict it in the cruelest of ways. He betrayed me. I’m dying. I’m dead. Why am I still breathing? God, I don’t know how to make the hurt stop.

I still have backbone. I’ve been crippled in other ways, but I still have a backbone. His arms were warm. Now, the only warmth I feel is from the blood still pounding through my veins. That’s how I know I’m alive. I’ve faked orgasms. I’ve faked smiles. I’ve faked happiness. Caleb faked amnesia and then he faked an entire relationship. I took a hammer to his shins for it. He thought Olivia could hurt him, I’ll hurt him worse. I’ll keep hurting him. And if he goes after her again, I’ll rise up and do everything in my power to keep them apart. Some people never change. I guess I’m one of them.

Acknowledgements

I’m defiant by nature. My defiance evoked the Opportunist. My defiance pressed the self-publishing button on Amazon. But, no matter how spunky I think I am, it took a hell of a lot of people to push me through this process.  I’d like to thank some of them.

Mom, for telling me beautiful lies and nurturing the writer in me. Your stories and ‘only child’ indulgences fueled what I am today.

Dad, for thinking I’m the greatest thing ever. It’s important for your dad to think you’re the greatest thing ever.

Rhonda and Mark Reynolds, for believing in me and sacrificing for my story.

Jeff Capshaw, for giving me that initial shove to publish, and for the constant stream of books and music suggestions that fuel my creativity. (Rainer Maria Rilke rocks!)

Tosha Khoury, for possibly being the biggest Opportunist fan and supporter. Thank you for loving me and for sharing Snow White.

Melissa Brown, Kerry Ann Ramey, Calia Read and Rebecca Espinoza for being the first eyes to see this book. Thank you for your thoughts and encouragement. Maria Gowin, for your sharp eyes and willingness to help clean up my text.

To all of the readers! Cheers to you! Your enthusiasm and red hot anger, kept me writing.

Luisa Hansen, one of the best moments of 2012 was when I found out someone created a fan site for me. A damn fan site! The Pressed Penny rocks! So do the Passionate Little Nutcase shirts.

Sarah Hansen (not related to Luisa), thank you for your beautiful cover. You are a giving and talented wench. I love your angry eyebrows.

Tricia Tulchin Boozer, so glad you are the face of my villain. You are beautiful and funny and honest.

My intense and hands on agent, Andrea Barzvi. Thank you for your expertise and your questions about the story, which made it better. I feel lucky to be in your capable hands. Most of all, I appreciate your willingness to love a villain.

James, not a day since I met you have you doubted that I would sell books. Thank you for pushing me out the door every night so I could go write. Thank you for believing I could do this, more than I believed it .

And finally, Lori Sabin and Jonathan Rodriguez, my two closest friends. You both allow me inside your respective brains, where I pillage and steal all of your good ideas. Your grey matter makes me a better writer and a better person. Thanks for saving my story and my sanity and everything else in between. I hate you for your sheer artistic brilliance. I love you for your kindness. I bow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

True Love Story

 

By

 

Willow Aster

 

 

 

 

Available Early 2013

1 Layover in hell

 

It has been a year, two months and seventeen days since I last saw him. Two years, ten months and five days since he broke my heart—well, since I knew that he had broken my heart. Technically, he began breaking my heart the moment I met him, five years, eleven months and one day ago. I’ve traveled across the country to get away from him, changed my phone number so neither of us will be tempted to call the other, had one botched relationship after another, all in an effort to forget.

And now I’m 1,600 miles from home, waiting on another flight to head 500 miles further south, and he’s walking toward me in DFW airport.

Ian Sterling is oblivious to the fact that our lives are going to crash in … five, four, three, two…

I can’t move as he walks up to my gate and begins talking to the agent. I’ve seen the puddle-jumper we’re about to get on together. There is no escaping him.

Caving to the inevitable, I take him in. He is perfection, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. The ticket agent looks all aflutter as she gazes up at him and stutters. His thick hair is sticking up in every direction, just the way I like it. He looks sleepy and obscene; I want to slap him and wrap my arms and legs around him and breathe his air—me and every other woman who lays eyes on him. The guitar by his feet is like another appendage; I’ve rarely seen him without it.

Before I even know what I’m doing, I am on my feet and sprinting through carry-on bags and travelers’ feet. I have to get out of here. If he sees me, I can’t guarantee what will happen. I just don’t think I can risk it. My heart can’t take any more.

I avoid his general direction and am making progress when I get snagged on a zebra print suitcase with purple trim. The hem of my mini catches on the handle of the bag and one yank doesn’t do the trick. My skirt will not budge. Panic begins to overtake me; my hands are a shaky mess. I am just about to rip a hole in the material so I can keep moving when I hear him.

His raspy voice cuts through the chatter around us. I’ve missed that voice. “Sparrow?”

My whole body goes still. Except for the tremors in my hands and knees and guts. I grab my skirt again, and this time it miraculously comes loose. Traitor!

Ian is clutching the counter in front of him and for a moment, I think he’s going down.

“Sparrow?” He says again and gives his hair a nervous tug. His eyes swallow me up and I know I have to sit before I’m the one that goes down.

I put on my calmest face and give a polite, but cold smile.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I say.

He nods and reaches out to touch my face.

I back up. If he touches me, it’s over. I pretend to not see the hurt in his eyes.

“Sit with me?” He asks.

I collapse in the first open seat. So much for getting away.

Ian sets his guitar in front of me and sits on the higher end: elbows on his knees, knees against mine, his eyes trying to read me. Those eyes have been the death of me many a time. I sink into them far too easily. He has the eyelashes that all women envy and I study them instead, remembering all the times I’ve teased him about being so pretty. He leans in even closer. I cannot bury any further into my seat than I already am.

All of a sudden, he backs up and looks around. “Is your mom with you? I knew I should have shaved,” he mutters.

A surprised laugh pops out. “No, Charlie isn’t here. Settle.”

“Whew.” He rubs the stubble along his jaw and grins. “I can’t believe you’re here in front of me. You look good, Sparrow. So beautiful.”

He reaches over and gently pulls one of my curls, watching it boing back into place. He places a hand on each cheek, his eyes studying me until they stop on my lips. He always had a thing for my mouth. And my hair. He used to list what he loved about each of my body parts, going into such detail that my neck would get splotchy. And then he’d tease me about all the splotches, while kissing each one.

I have to stop my brain.

“I see this face every night when I close my eyes. All day long, I think I see you, everywhere I go…” His eyes cloud and he drops his hands. “I’ve dreamed this so many times, I’m not even sure you’re real right now. Are you really here?”

A thick lump burns in my throat, making it harder and harder to swallow. I know all about seeing his face everywhere. And not sleeping. And how long it took me to even eat again after he tore my heart out and stomped on it with the black combat boots I bought him that hellish Christmas. Shoving the ache down, I take a deep breath and fix my face as a blank slate, void of all feeling. Except the hate I wish I could have for him.

In our stupor, I think we’ve missed a few of the boarding calls because the ticket agent looks pointedly in our direction as she loudly makes the FINAL CALL TO BOARD. All the other passengers are sitting and waiting on us when we get on the plane. I sense some hostility. I don’t want to make a Texan mad at me.

“Well, what do you know, our seats are next to each other,” he smirks.

“I’m sure it helps that we’re the last ones on,” I snap out of the side of my mouth. I sit down and yank the neckline of my shirt up higher when I see his eyes wandering.

He sits down and laughs. “Come on, Baby, I have you for one hour. Let me look at you.” The way he says have you makes me feel feverish.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Let me see your ticket,” he grabs it before I can say no. “4B.” He holds his up so I can see 4A. “I couldn’t have planned this any better myself…”

I lean my head back on the seat and close my eyes. It’s not even two minutes before we’re rolling and taking off. Now I know why there is a general glare in our direction from the other passengers; we held up the flight.

The air is thick with sorrow and desire. I have always known the minute he is in a room. It didn’t matter if it was a room of a hundred people or across thousands, I could spot his inky black hair and swagger from a mile away. To be in such close proximity after so long apart is threatening to make me sick. Ian is watching me, his head leaning on the seat and his whole body shifted toward mine.

A flash of color catches my eye—no, surely those things aren’t still in circulation.

“Tell me you’re not still wearing the elephant socks.”

His grin takes over his entire face, stopping my heart in the process.

“They’re a little holey now.”

I snort. It’s a good thing my mom isn’t here, she’d be mortified. “Yeah, I bet.”

“I’ve never stopped loving you, Sparrow Fisher.”

I focus on breathing and not losing my coffee and muffin all over him. That would serve him right.

“I’ve never loved anyone but you.” He goes on, seemingly unfazed by my silence.

I turn my head and the look on my face seems to scare him. His eyes widen.

“It doesn’t matter, Ian. Love … it means nothing, at this point. And I’m the only one in this non-relationship who can truly say that I’ve never loved anyone but YOU. So don’t even give me that nonsense about only loving me. That’s a load of crack.” I huff and look out the tiny window, trying to forget he’s there.

He chuckles and I whip my face around to see what could possibly make him laugh.

“You still love me,” Ian whispers, stroking my cheek. “And you said, crack.” He smiles sadly at me; his eyes searching mine, pulling me in … deep.

“We don’t say Crap; we say Crack.” I recite.

“We don’t say Shi—“ I clamp his mouth shut before he can say the rest. “We say Shoot.” He finishes, muffled. He kisses my hand and I am sinking, sinking fast. My stomach is back on the ground, and my heart is in my throat. I’m not sure how long his mouth mesmerizes me. His tongue flicks around my middle finger and I’m jarred awake. I rip my hand away.

“Oh, Spar…” he begins.

“You know what? We’re stuck on this flight together. I don’t want to talk like this anymore. We can talk about other things. Like—what’s new with you? Or, what’s happening with your career? How is your mom? Things like that … the rest, I just do not even want to hear come out of your mouth. Got it? And if you can’t keep your end of the bargain, I can ignore you the rest of the flight. Deal?”

His eyes are dancing and I want to smother him with the airsickness bag. Yeah, I can’t say barf bag either, okay? I have this thing about words. Sometimes it feels like a disease; other times, it feels close to a gift when I’m writing and come up with meaningful words instead of slang drivel. Disease or not, my editor appreciates it.

“Deal,” he says and he reaches out to shake on it. His rough hands feel like home, laying claim on me all over again.

I gradually thaw just enough to carry on a conversation. I figure for all the times I’ve wanted to know where he was, what he was doing … this is my chance. I can pick up the hurt again later. The rest of the flight breezes by in fast-forward. We talk about the details of his career, although I’d kept track of a lot of it online. Ian’s a professional musician and has spent time in both L.A. and New York playing on any and everyone’s projects. He’s considered the best guitar player out there; guitar companies vie for him because Ian Sterling playing their guitar one time will increase their sales by insane percentages. But even more than that, his songs … he can write a song like no other. And then there’s his voice; it’s exceptional. He tells me about his new friendship with J. Elliot, his lifelong idol.

“Working with Elliot has been a dream. He’s really pushed me to do a solo project with the songs I’ve written the last few years.” He does his anxious hair tug thing and looks at me, watching for a reaction.

I know what this means, but don’t acknowledge it. I’ve known it would come to this. The songs he wrote for me a couple years ago will be playing every time I go to the mall, every time I turn on the car radio and probably in a cute romantic comedy that I need to avoid. Ian Sterling has been successful for years, but with Elliot behind this project, he will explode. And I’ll be the roped up ball of sadness. That’s what my future holds right there. Little prickly threads of devastation hanging out of my gnarly, ransacked heart.

“You deserve all the royalties. Every single song is about you.” He leans over and rests his forehead on mine. “God, I want to kiss you.”

My eyes close and for a moment, I just inhale him. How many times have I dreamed of being this close to him? I feel the pull he’s always had on me and am tempted to give in one more time. Sanity fortunately returns. I shove him off and he holds up his hands as I stare him down. “Fine, fine! I’ll behave!”

Relentless. I’m torn between throwing up and making out with him in this tiny airplane.

“What are you doing in New Orleans? Besides being by my side day and night?” He smiles as my eyes narrow. “What?” He asks with a shrug. “It’s a reasonable question.”

“Tessa’s getting married on Saturday. I’m the maid of honor. There’s a lot to do in the next five days.”

“Ah, Tess. I’ve missed her.”

“Me too.”

I lean my head back on the seat again. Ian is staring me down and I’m exhausted.

“Sparrow, we don’t have much time left on this flight.” He presses his eyes with his fingers and takes a deep breath. “Give me your number. Please. I promise I won’t…well, I can’t really promise that. Just say you’ll see me again while you’re here.”

“It’s not a good idea.” I shake my head, as much to myself as to him.

“Well, my number is the same. I will never change it. You know, hoping one day you’ll call and say you’re taking me back,” he says earnestly.

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re delectable.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“You’re edible.”

I sigh, frustrated and turned on.

“You know it’s true.” He inches closer.

“No, I can’t really say that I do.”

“Well, I can.”

“Ian!”

His eyes are distraught when he looks at me. “Sparrow, I know you’ve already heard me say I’m sorry, about a thousand times … but if you can’t hear anything else, hear this … you changed me. Please let me…”

I hold my hand up and look straight ahead. It helps to not see his face. “Don’t. Just … don’t.”

His face crumbles and I think I see his hand tremble as he runs his hands through his hair. His eyes fill and for a moment, he doesn’t look nineteen. He doesn’t look thirty. I see what he will look like at sixty and it makes me sad.

The plane is already beginning its descent. I look out and see the lights of the city and think about how I’d give anything to get lost in Ian’s words. It’s a powerful feeling, to know this magnetic, dangerous, quirky, beautiful, sexy … man wants me. Agony is almost worth it if I could just be with him.

It’s as if no time has passed at all. I see with sickened clarity that I will never be over Ian Sterling. Never.

He’s watching me, waiting for me to say something. Just one word to give him hope and we will be back in our own little world of love and lust and banter.

I turn to face him and he looks at me with expectancy, willing me to let him back in. Willing me to say yes…

I shake my head and the cobwebs clear. I remember. I remember it all. I want him to hurt.

“How’s Laila?”

True Love story

Coming February 2013