All I Ever Wanted Read online

  an Abbott Springs Anthology

  by Marilyn Brant, Caisey Quinn, Rhonda Helms, and Lexi Ryan

  Formatted by E.M. Tippetts Book Designs

  All About Us, Copyright © 2014 by Marilyn B. Weigel

  All I Need, Copyright © 2014 by Caisey Quinn

  All For Love, Copyright © 2014 by Rhonda Helms

  All or Nothing, Copyright © 2014 by Lexi Ryan

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book, excepting brief quotations used in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, businesses or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Cover and Interior Design by E.M. Tippetts Book Designs

  About this Book

  ALL I EVER WANTED, a new adult winter anthology

  Winterfest is heating up in Abbott Springs...

  As the town’s yearly festival kicks off, cold days turn into steamy nights, new flames will be ignited, and old romances will be rekindled.

  All About Us by Marilyn Brant—All Sami Abbott ever wanted was permission to be herself. At home, she aims to be the perfect daughter but never measures up. At college, she’s the bold girl who had a one-night stand with sexy musician, Alex Hamilton. When he arrives unexpectedly in Abbott Springs, her worlds collide and she must reconcile the girl she tries to be with the person she really is.

  All I Need by Caisey Quinn—All pink-haired rocker chick Everly Abbott thought she wanted was acceptance in her straight-laced hometown. But her best friend and bandmate Justin Cohen is about to show her that what she thinks she wants isn’t necessarily what she needs.

  All for Love by Rhonda Helms—All Maya Monterey ever wanted was to belong. Happiest with the Abbott family, Maya’s been secretly in love with sexy pastry chef Oliver Abbott for years. With a flirty new look, she’ll pull out all the stops to get him to notice her. And if her plan fails, she’ll walk away from the only home she’s ever known—and Oliver—for good.

  All or Nothing by Lexi Ryan—After years of placing the wrong bets, all Aubree Baxter wanted was someone to take a chance on her. Golden boy Kennedy Hale plays it safe in life and love, but to keep Bree in Abbott Springs, he’ll have to go all in.

  by Marilyn Brant

  To J.W. ~ my favorite history teacher in the whole wide world.

  Alex

  Something about small towns.

  Not that I’d ever spent much time in any of them, but they were different.

  A little bit cool.

  A little bit creepy.

  And always packing way more secrets and drama than you’d expect.

  This one—Abbott Springs, population 3,564—looked like the freakin’ stage set of some CW television show. Normal-like at first glance, but who knew if there’d be vampires or shit hiding in plain sight at the state bank or the grocery store?

  I parked my car on a side street and locked it. Wasn’t that I thought my ten-year-old Toyota would be something these seemingly law-abiding residents might care to steal—not like the usual hoods and thieves in the city housing projects where I grew up—but I had my six-string Gibson electric in the back seat, along with my recently re-padded sax. I wasn’t about to tempt anyone.

  I wandered back to Main Street and saw a steady stream of warmly dressed townspeople scurrying like determined little beetles toward the town square.

  Took a deep breath. Zipped up my black leather jacket. Shoved my hands in my pockets to keep them from freezing. Then I followed the crowd.

  “Winterfest!” the bright blue and white banner arching over the center of the street proclaimed, complete with a frenzied snowflake design behind the words. Given that it was mid-January in Ohio, with temps hovering just over thirty-five degrees on this bright Friday afternoon, I was pretty sure no one would be contesting the “winter” part of the banner.

  The “fest” part? Well, that remained to be seen.

  A deep male voice jabbered a welcome on the steps of what looked like the Village Hall. The mayor, I gathered, from the collection of stiffs he had poised on either side of the podium. A wife with a brittle smile, a guy around my age looking uncomfortable, a couple of giggly daughters, and a straight-laced granny were all standing to his right. Officious adviser people were off to his left, and a rapt crowd stood before him, hanging on his every booming word.

  “Friends and Citizens of Abbott Springs, it is my pleasure and my privilege to welcome you all to the Fifty-Third Annual Winterfest Celebration!” Mayor dude adjusted his necktie and waited for the applause to die down. I moved a few feet closer. “We are all gathered here to join together as a community, share in the spirit of wintertime fun, and experience everything from delicious food to creative crafts to lively music,” he enthused. “We even have a special treat—a couple of our very own hometown kids and their band, External Resurrection, will be playing tomorrow night!”

  What? I squinted at him. Unless he was talking about some other band, that wasn’t the correct name of the group I knew. It was Internal Insurrection, but the mayor didn’t strike me as someone who’d overly concern himself with details.

  He blathered some more. Just when I thought he was finally done, he launched into yet another tale about the “great people in the area” and added a line about how honored he was to continue his service to the town. That soon he’d “pass along his legacy” to the next generation of Hales, a statement that made his son squirm even more than before.

  I studied the residents of Abbott Springs. At first glance, they all looked like good neighbors. The kind who’d help you if your basement flooded after a storm or be there with a fill-up if your lawnmower ran out of gas in the middle of your backyard.

  But as individuals, I could guess at some of their stories, and it wasn’t all Beaver Cleaverish in this town.

  The First Family was a mess. Anyone with decent vision could see that, and besides, kids of town leaders, preachers or shrinks were always screwed up. That was a given.

  I saw this forty-something redhead sloshing her way through the crowd. She looked like she got wasted early and often. I checked my watch. It was only twenty past noon.

  A couple of high-school teens were doing something on the verge of illegal, I was pretty sure of it. One of them passed a small sealed brown envelope to the other, and I’d bet my life savings that it wasn’t a love note. Maybe a joint or some other kind of drug? A pair of bus tickets out of here? I had my theories.

  Then there was this clique of housewives whispering to each other and shooting very interested glances at a distinguished middle-aged man standing off to the side. The resident Lothario? Someone else’s husband? A loan shark?

  Hmm.

  The distinguished guy turned slightly, and I got a flash of a white collar. Ah. A clergyman. Every minute here things just got curiouser and curiouser. Especi
ally since Preacher Guy gave off much more of a player vibe than a spiritual leader one.

  “…and now I’d like to introduce my mother, Felicia Morgan Hale,” the mayor said proudly, finally winding down his monologue. “She’s here to tell you more about this year’s special Winterfest project.”

  Granny hugged her son with restrained affection and then stepped up to the podium. “Hale Bridge, as you know, has had a long and illustrious history in Abbott Springs,” the woman began, standing to her full height, which must’ve been around five foot ten, and wrapping her fur coat closely around her like a shield. She was someone clearly used to being listened to, but I wasn’t sensing people did it out of adoration or even simple respect. More like…habit.

  “It was built by the founding Abbotts, just before the turn of the last century, when Abbott Springs was established in eighteen ninety-four,” she continued. “When the bridge fell into disrepair back in the nineteen fifties, however, the Hale family was quick to step in and finance its restoration. It has been heralded as a regional treasure, featured prominently in the poignant nineteen seventy-nine Oscar-winning romantic film Last Waltz at Midnight, and I know it’s a spot in which many residents have personal memories too.”

  She paused, and there were a lot of shared, heated, or embarrassed glances being exchanged among people in the crowd. Interesting. Before I blew out of town, I was gonna have to get a look at this famous bridge. Or maybe infamous was more like it.

  “My late husband, Barnaby Hale, and I were honored to be of service to our community in the past, but this time the restoration of Hale Bridge is in your hands as well. The Hale Family Trust will match the collective contribution of this year’s Winterfest proceeds, but we’re going to need a significant amount of help funding this latest renovation. Especially so if the bridge is going to last to the end of our century and remain a standing monument in our town for our great-grandchildren and beyond.”

  Yeah.

  My buddy Justin had been running at the mouth about this bridge and how it was the reason for the fundraiser his band was doing. The reason, when I ran into him at our gigs at Peabody’s in Cleveland this week, he’d asked me for this big favor. Said their band was a last-minute addition to the program, and they were desperate for help setting up the stage and working the sound during the show. If I could assist with that, he’d be real grateful.

  And since Justin was a good guy and, apparently, I couldn’t say no to a friend in need—even if it involved a weekend in Mayberry—I was here. But where was he?

  I scanned the crowd but didn’t spot him. I didn’t spot anyone who looked familiar. All I knew was that Justin had told me that his cousin Ginny would give me a free room at her and her husband’s bed-and-breakfast for the next two nights. Where the hell that was, though, I still didn’t know.

  Before I could pull out my phone, a little kid bundled up like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man came racing toward me and squealed, “Wanna program?”

  He didn’t wait for me to answer; he just thrust a thin blue sheet at me and kept running.

  I glanced down at the paper.

  Winterfest!

  Friday, January 10th

  12 noon Opening Ceremony

  12 - 7pm Craft Fair

  1pm Kids’ Treasure Hunt

  3pm Bake Sale

  5pm Sled Races

  Saturday, January 11th

  9 - 11am Pancake Breakfast

  9am - 7pm Craft Fair

  1pm Ice Sculpting Competition

  4pm Winterfest Parade

  7pm Art Show

  9pm - 1am Winterfest Dance in the Old Abbott Barn

  Featuring special guest Internal Insurrection

  and later, DJ Mick Barrett of KLUV - Columbus

  Sunday, January 12th

  9am - 7pm Craft Fair

  12 - 3pm Ice Skating on Mirror Lake

  3pm Manly Beard Competition

  7pm Closing Ceremony and Bonfire across from Hale Bridge

  Sled Races? Art Shows? Pancake Breakfasts?

  Wow. Wholesome.

  Not exactly like weekends in my South Boston neighborhood growing up. That program would look more like:

  7pm Gas Station Robbery in Progress

  7:30pm Drug Bust

  8pm Listen for Blaring Police Sirens

  9 - 11pm Gunfire Battle Between Rival Gangs at the Intersection of 5th and Eastman

  Yeah. Justin and I grew up in different worlds, but for whatever reason, it was wicked important to him that his band, Internal Insurrection, rocked this gig at the Old Barn tomorrow night. And that was what I’d help him do, although God knew this quirky little town with all of its homespun TV-sitcom-worthy residents were weirding me out already.

  And it wasn’t like I didn’t need the time to work on my own songs for my own band this weekend. I’d been trying like hell to write this one tune. The melody was coming along, but the lyrics were a bitch. Nothing fit.

  I sent a quick text to Justin:

  I’m here in Abbott Springs, man. Let me know when you need me to show up to help, OK?

  Within twenty seconds I got a reply back from him:

  Thx, Alex. I owe ya. You’re off the hook for 2nite, but by 7pm tmrw we need to start getting set up at the barn. BTW, my cousin Ginny’s B&B is at 236 Preston Ct. She’s expecting you.

  I texted Justin that I’d see him tomorrow and was headed to Ginny’s now when, across the crowd, I saw a flash of long silky brown hair with a touch of gold in their strands and a grin I’d never forgotten.

  Amanda?

  Nah. Couldn’t be. I stared at her more closely. Hell…yeah, it could be. In fact, I was pretty sure it was.

  The granny had stepped back from the microphone, and in her place was a middle-aged couple wearing matching thick, bright yellow sweatshirts that read “Abbott’s Sweet Confections.”

  The man announced, “As part of the opening ceremonies, the Abbott family would like to extend our welcome to each of you and offer you all a complimentary cup of our famous hot spiced cider!”

  Amanda, the big-city college girl who was supposed to be somewhere in Switzerland this semester—or so she’d told me a few months ago—was expertly balancing a tray filled with Styrofoam cups of steaming cider and passing them out to the residents nearest her. A different girl, some blonde, came by with a tray and offered me a cup too. I took it. Drank without thinking—my eyes still on Amanda—and burned my damn tongue on the first sip.

  Amanda. What was she doing here? Looking not at all like a visitor in Mayberry either, but a whole lot like a town regular. There was something very familiar about the way the other residents reacted to her. Looked at her. Talked to her. Held themselves around her. Like she was one of their own.

  Which would’ve been real odd for someone who’d said she’d “grown up in the Pacific Northwest” when I met her that night in Cincinnati. Said she’d “just moved to Ohio.” Yeah, right.

  I took a step forward and accidentally bumped into a stout old man dressed in a red parka and wearing a plaid hat with earflaps. The guy had a weathered expression on his face like he’d seen a lot of war and fought in battles he’d never again discuss. I could imagine him as a Marine. One not quick to smile.

  “Sorry,” I said immediately.

  He gave me the once-over with his shrewd, dark eyes. An assessment I’d gotten used to whenever I met people who weren’t urban folks. He had to have guessed right away I was an outsider, but I figured he was just trying to tell if I was the kind of outsider who’d cause trouble or not.

  One advantage of winter weather was that my leather jacket hid the leopard tat on my left forearm, but it didn’t hide the piercings in my ears or my rocker haircut or what I’d been told was a dangerous glint in my eyes.

  “You lost, son?” the old guy asked.

  I shook my head. “Nope. Justin Cohen asked me to help out his band tomorrow night.” I waved the blue program at him like a prop. “We’re doing a fundraiser for the bridge.” />
  The instant this information registered in his brain, I got a nod of respect from the old man. “Oh, you’re a friend of Jubby’s! Good. You know Everly too, then, right?”

  I nodded back. I didn’t know Everly Abbott as well as I knew her band mate, but she was always nice enough to me when we ran into each other at gigs. Didn’t put her last name together with the town until just now though. And I’d have to rib Justin about his cute nickname later—Jubby?—but all I cared about for the moment was getting over to Amanda. Asking her why in God’s name she was here. And why she’d never called me back. Especially after the heat of our one night together.

  “Welcome to Abbott Springs, son,” the old dude said, finally cracking a smile. “What’s your name?”

  “Alexander Hamilton,” I told him. I could tell from the puzzled look on his face that he was reevaluating me. My name sounded far more posh than I was. I’d always known this. Felt it was like a lifetime of false advertising.

  “Like one of our country’s Founding Fathers?” the man asked carefully.

  I forced a laugh. “Yeah, but no relation.” Not by a long shot.

  “Well, welcome anyway,” he said, and when he grinned this time, it was broader, showing several crooked teeth and a couple of missing ones. He followed my gaze to Amanda. “Lotsa pretty girls in town, eh?”

  I agreed. I pointed to the one I knew. “She and I have met before.”

  This was, of course, a massive understatement. We didn’t meet. We collided. It was a fierce, combustible thing.

  The old man actually winked. “Ah, Sami. Samantha Abbott. Yes, she’s a lovely one.”

  I stared at him.

  “Samantha?” I said slowly, pointing again to the pretty, dark-haired goddess I was quite sure had answered to the name “Amanda” at the college gig I’d played in October. I remembered calling her that—repeatedly and insistently—as I leaned into her gorgeous curves, flattening her body against the wall and pressing kisses along the side of her neck between song sets. And then there was later, at my hotel room…