That could mean all kinds of things—good things. Like maybe she’ll be ready to meet some guy. To let herself fall in love.
Unfolding the piece of lined paper that I’ve carried around in my pocket for over two years now, I read the words for the thousandth time and realize that I don’t want her meeting some other guy. Falling in love with some other guy.
I want her to meet me. Trent Emerson. The guy who wants to feel the warmth that I know exists within her. The guy who’s tied to her forever, whether she likes it or not. The one who needs to somehow make things right with her because I made everything so wrong.
Before I can fully think through what I’m doing, I’ve copied Tanner’s email address into my own email and fired off a message, inquiring about an apartment.
By the time I’m out of the shower, I have a response. A one-bedroom is available beginning next week, if I have references.
I don’t. But I have money. That’s the thing about living the way I have for four years. Besides this condo and the Harley I bought three months ago after getting my motorcycle license, I haven’t spent a dime. I’ve got plenty sitting in my account.
Enough to cover six months’ rent.
In a matter of twenty minutes, I’ve secured a furnished one-bedroom apartment in the same building as Kacey Cleary, leaving me spinning. I was afraid this Tanner guy might get suspicious, having another person offer cash in place of references, and the exact same length of time. But if he is, he’s not letting it get in the way of a deal.
Is this really happening? Yes, it is. And she’s not going to ignore me anymore, I decide. I’m going to make her see me. But I can’t rush this; I have to get it right. I’m only going to get one chance.
Chapter 21
I can barely hear anything with the blood rushing into my ears as I watch my new landlord lumber through the common area with Kacey and Livie trailing behind, pink suitcases bumping along the path. It’s not much more than what I came with, given that I rode my bike down, figuring I’d just buy what I need.
For a few days there, I was afraid that I’d just handed Hank Tanner six months’ rent for nothing. That Kacey would have bailed. There was nothing stopping her from backing out. Maybe she hadn’t paid the guy upfront, after all.
But I can breathe now, because she’s here.
Through the gauzy curtains, I see the awkward Tanner thumb toward my apartment and I instinctively take a step back. I’d kill to hear the conversation. Especially if it’s anything like the “no orgies” rundown that he gave me before handing me my keys.
Within minutes, they’ve disappeared into the apartment beside mine.
And so I wait.
Tanner reappears a few minutes later, a fat envelope gripped within his meaty hand.
And . . . what now? Are they going to hang out in the courtyard? Do I just walk out and sit down beside them? No, that won’t work.
After twenty minutes of pacing, I settle back into the desk that I’d strategically pulled up to the window so I could attempt to get some work done. As far as anyone knows, I’m in Rochester, working away in my home office. Luckily my mom doesn’t do drop-ins. I stopped by her place the day before I left and gave her an extra-big hug, so big that I saw anxiety flickering in her eyes. I can’t forget to text her every day.
I don’t think she’ll ever stop worrying about me. Not in the way a mother worries about her child. The way a mother worries about the son who should have died. Twice.
But I’m not going anywhere now, not when I’m sure I can help Kacey. I just need a chance.
And I get that chance. Hours later, after they’ve gone and come back with grocery bags dangling from their fingertips, the door slams shut and a flame of red passes by, a laundry basket with bedsheets in hand.
I dive for my own sheets, gathering them into a bundle, my jug of Tide in my free hand. And I head for the set of stairs that lead down to the laundry room. Machine doors slam on the other side and my heart begins racing. Am I really ready for this?
I can almost hear the note that sits in my back pocket answering me, giving me courage. The courage that I will need if I want to make her smile again. Because it’s all I want to do.
To make her smile again.
Taking a deep breath, I push through the door.
Acknowledgments
This is an extremely sad story that for a long time I didn’t see myself ever writing. But I’m glad that I decided to do it. It gives Trent a chance to explain himself—what he went through and why he did what he did, as crazy as some of it seemed.
I have a few people to thank for their help getting me here.
To Treini Joris-Johnson, for your paramedics expertise. You helped me get that chaotic scene just right.
To my readers and my super-readers (the bloggers), for continuing along this journey with me, picking up my books, and for helping to spread the word.
To my street team, for your willingness to jump whenever I ask. You ladies are awesome.
To K.P. Simmon of Inkslinger PR, for dropping everything and calling me the moment I texted to tell you I was going to write Trent’s story.
To my agent, Stacey Donaghy, for coming full-circle with me and this series (and going above and beyond.)
To my editor, Sarah Cantin, for wanting this story. I actually knew where I was going with this before I started writing it! This is the first time (and probably the last time, so we should celebrate this.)
To my publisher, Judith Curr, and the team at Atria Books: Ben Lee, Ariele Fredman, Tory Lowy, Kimberly Goldstein, and Alysha Bullock, for helping me get this story out.
To my husband and my girls, for tolerating a surprise book in my already busy schedule.
Turn to the next page for an excerpt of K. A. Tucker's Burying Water
PROLOGUE
Jesse
now
This can’t be real . . . This can’t be real . . . This can’t be real . . .
The words cycle round and round in my mind like the wheels on my speeding ’Cuda as its ass-end slips and slides over the gravel and ice. This car is hard to handle on the best of days, built front-heavy and overloaded with horsepower. I’m going to put myself into one of these damn trees if I don’t slow down.
I jam my foot against the gas pedal.
I can’t slow down now.
Not until I know that Boone was wrong about what he claims to have overheard. His Russian is mediocre at best. I’ll give anything for him to be wrong about this.
My gut clenches as my car skids around another turn, the cone shape of Black Butte looming like a monstrous shadow ahead of me in the pre-dawn light. The snowy tire tracks framed by my headlights might not even be the right ones, but they’re wide like Viktor’s Hummer and they’re sure as hell the only ones down this old, deserted logging road. No one comes out here in January.
The line of trees marking the dead end comes up on me before I expect it. I slam on my brakes, sending my car sliding sideways toward the old totem pole. It’s still sliding when I cut the rumbling engine, throw open the door, and jump out, fumbling with my flashlight. It takes three hard presses with my shaking hands to get the light to hold.
I begin searching the ground. The mess of tread marks tells me that someone pulled a U-turn. The footprints tell me that more than one person got out. And when I see the half-finished cigarette butt with that weird alphabet on the filter, I know Boone wasn’t wrong.
“Alex!” My echo answers once . . . twice . . . before the vast wilderness swallows up my desperate cry. With frantic passes of my flashlight, my knuckles white against its body, I search the area until I spot the sets of footprints that lead off the old, narrow road and into the trees.
Frigid fingers curl around my heart.
Darting back to my car, I snatch the old red-and-blue plaid wool blanket that she loves so much from the backseat. Ice-cold snow packs into the sides of my sneakers as I chase the trail past the line of trees and into the barren field ahead, my blood rushing through my ears the only sound I process.