Anywhere But Here Read online

  “No. Don’t cancel.”

  Derek gave his head an amused shake. “You looking for a rematch?”

  “No, but hopefully she got all the violence out of her system and she won’t feel the need to hit me again.”

  He cocked his brow. “You’ve heard the saying, hell hath no fury. Well brother, you scorned her good. You really think she’s going to call one broken nose even?”

  “That was seven years ago.”

  Derek didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His expression said it all. Time apparently didn’t matter when you’d done what I did. He was around back then. He knew what went down. What really went down, which is why there was also sympathy in his eyes. I ducked my head and let out a heavy breath.

  “What’d you do to this girl?” Marcy asked and Laurel looked on with eager curiosity. I’d only met the two of them a few years ago when they showed up in town right around the time I was opening up. They hadn’t gone to high school with me, Derek and Shae. They didn’t know my history with her and I wasn’t looking to open up about it.

  “Nothing,” I muttered. Just broke her heart is all. In the worst possible way. Both girls looked at me like they could see right through my bullshit. “I’m gonna go to the ER, get my nose checked out. I should be back in an hour or two. Reschedule my one-thirty. I’ll call if I need you to reschedule my four o’clock.”

  Laurel nodded and I walked out, tossing the towel in the receptacle next to my bike.

  The waiting room in the ER wasn’t overly crowded, but I still had to sit thirty minutes before a doctor could see me. It was a bitch when he realigned my nose, but I was lucky I didn’t have to have surgery. The last time I wasn’t so fortunate. This marked my third nasal fracture. I wasn’t going to have much of a nose left the next time, the doc warned.

  He taped it and sent me on my way after I turned down the prescription for pain pills. A quick stop off in the men’s room showed me a not so pretty picture. Bruises were already forming under my eyes. The next few days were going to be shit until the swelling went down.

  On the ride back over to Bulletproof, I worked up a good bit of righteous anger and I was itching to confront Shae again. I stopped off at my place and cleaned up some, throwing on clean clothes since mine were blood spattered, and then headed back with plenty of time to make my four o’clock and prepare myself to see Shae again later tonight.

  Seven fucking years.

  We were teenagers back then. Just kids. I didn’t care what Derek said or thought, regardless of how badly I’d fucked up, she didn’t get to come back here swinging after seven damn years.

  Not because of high school shit that she wasn’t over.

  Walking back into the shop, my eyes caught on the back wall. The one I’d painted. If I was being honest with myself, I wasn’t over shit either. Proof of that was staring me in the face. And maybe that’s why I was letting myself get so worked up. She was the one that got away. Correction, she was the one I let go, and she’d taken a fucking chunk out of me when she left. But I’d moved on. Lived with it. Sure, I thought about her all the fucking time, even now, but I was living my life, not stuck in a past I couldn’t change, holding onto anger and resentment over it. I’d learned a long time ago that the anger didn’t do any good, and I’d had a lot of it back then. That’s what happened when you lost the only good thing in your life. The one thing keeping you from drowning in all the bad. That’s what she was for a short time. My life raft in a shit storm of bad. It was a long time after she was gone that I was able to crawl out of it and build this for myself, and be something more than my father and brother ever made of themselves.

  She was the first one to ever make me believe that was even possible. The first one to see something in me besides what the rest of the world saw when they looked down their noses. I wondered what she saw when she looked at me now.

  Three

  Shae

  April 29

  Present …

  Oh shit, what did I do?

  I hit him.

  I actually hit him. In the face.

  Wow, it felt good. I mean, my hand hurt like hell and I had to ice it as soon as I got to Didi’s house, but it was worth it. I’d been holding that in for so long, and then seeing him there on the street. He caught me completely off guard. And that damn smug smile. I’d sure as hell wiped that off his face. I grinned even as I felt all the tiny bits inside me that I’d been holding together for so long–too long– start to crumble. My hands began to shake and my breathing became labored.

  No.

  It’d been so long since I had a breakdown. I would not have one now.

  My first instinct was to pop the cork off one of the bottles in Didi’s wine rack, but that would lead to me drinking the whole thing, which would interfere with my appointment later tonight. Instead, I found a glass in the cupboard, filled it with cool water and sipped from that.

  Seven years.

  Seven damn years and I couldn’t even lay eyes on him without losing my shit.

  Why did he have to look so good?

  Why did he have to look pleased to see me?

  I wanted him to be balding with a beer gut. I wanted him to be miserable in a crappy life. I wanted him to spend every day of that crappy life being sorry, but mostly I just wanted seeing his face to not hurt as much as it did.

  There was a time when I believed he was the only thing I needed. I was convinced that Kellen Nash was my happily ever after, but I’d been wrong. So very wrong, and I’d paid dearly for that mistake. Trusting him once had cost me more than I’d been willing to give up. It had nearly cost me my life. I used to wish it had. I used to think it was better than living with the feeling of being hollowed out and empty inside except for a raw, agonizing pain that took a long time to go away, and even then it never went away completely. It just faded into the background as I had no choice but to go on with my life.

  Now, six hours of being back in this town and I was falling into a backslide, remembering things better left forgotten. Not that it was possible to ever truly forget, but I could shove it all down. I needed out of this town before everything was dragged back up. My meeting with the real estate agent couldn’t come fast enough. Suzie Q, my VW Bug, and I needed to be back on the road to New York ASAP.

  My phone dinged in my purse, and without checking, I knew it had to be one of two people. Hoping it was Lizzie, my best friend, and not my editor, I chanced a look. I found text messages from both that I’d missed throughout the morning. I satisfied Liz’s with a quick reply that I’d made it to Conway alive and hopefully would make it back out the same way in a couple days. I didn’t mention my run-in. I’d save that for a phone call later. She shot back a good luck attached to several kissy lip emojis. I swear she couldn’t send a message without emojis.

  That left replying to Pat, who no doubt was wondering if I was making any progress on my latest manuscript.

  I had to go out of town for a few days, but I’ll work while I’m here. I added almost ten thousand words yesterday.

  That should appease her. I sent and waited for a response, which came almost immediately.

  Out of town? Send me what you have so far.

  I sighed and typed out another reply.

  Family stuff. I’ll send it when it’s finished.

  She’d been bugging me to get her hands on the new manuscript since I sold her on the story, but that wasn’t how I worked and she knew it. I didn’t let anyone peek at it until I’d typed out the proverbial ‘the end.’ She knew this, but it wouldn’t keep her from harassing me.

  Fine. You better be working wherever you are. I’ll need it soon.

  Her not so subtle reminder that I did have a deadline looming pushed me to retrieve my laptop from my bag and set up in what used to be Papa’s den. The publishing company was supportive and they gave me a lot of freedom, but they would only wait so long, and I’d promised them I would have this one done by the end of May. That was after I missed the first agre
ed upon deadline at the end of March. Until yesterday, it had been slow going. For some reason I was struggling to get this story out.

  It was only after I got the news of Didi’s death, that I found the words I’d been trying to put onto paper for months. It seemed that I worked best under emotional distress.

  My first book was what kept me alive after everything that happened when I left Conway. Instead of letting the pain destroy me like I almost had, I finally found a way to release a tiny bit of it about five years ago. I put words onto paper and they became a story. My story. A story that Lizzie encouraged me to share with the world. She was the only one who knew it wasn’t a work of fiction. She was the only one who knew that the pain, devastation and heartbreak on those pages were my own. We met in group therapy during what we referred to as the dark days. It was there we were encouraged to write down what we felt. It helped. It didn’t heal, but it helped.

  Almost four years later and I had a contract with a major publishing house and five successful novels under my belt. They wanted more, and with this latest one, I was running the risk of them losing interest, because too long between books and readers would do the same. I had to finish this one. Like yesterday.

  I sat down and started to type. Words came to me faster than I could hit the keys to get them out. It seemed the block was over. In my head the story started to take on a new life and new direction, and I felt some of the excitement I’d been lacking.

  Writing was my way of processing life, the pain, struggle, overcoming, even love. I found inspiration everywhere. In a song. In a story on the news or radio. Talking to a stranger. Or not talking to a stranger. Sometimes just a face and the emotion I saw on that face could inspire a story, but my best writing was always sparked from my own emotions and experiences. Loss was something I knew, something I felt deeply, something I could take and channel. The deeper I felt, the more I could connect with my characters and breathe life into them. Didi’s loss gave me plenty of emotion to feed off. The good memories. The safety and comfort. The love, laughter and support. All of the beauty she’d instilled in my life created a warmth that spread through my chest. And then there was the sadness of knowing that was all gone. I used all of it, every last drop, even as the tears fell, until my hands actually started to ache and I felt emotionally exhausted.

  The clock in the corner of my screen told me I’d been at work for three hours and added almost another six thousand words. If I kept this up, I would be finished sooner than expected, which would make Pat happy. For tonight I was done though. It was five, and I only had an hour until my appointment at Bulletproof Ink.

  If writing was my way of releasing everything inside of me, getting inked was my way of holding onto the things I didn’t want to let go of, the things I wanted to keep with me forever. Not everything was bad. I had experienced some truly beautiful and wonderful moments in my life. Sometimes they were overshadowed by the darkness, but with my ink, I brought them into the light. I reminded myself of the good, and that I was a survivor. I hated that Didi was gone, but I would keep her with me and the lessons she taught me, forever.

  I dumped my bags in the guest room and freshened up in the shower before making the drive back across town. The same blue haired girl sat behind the counter, still chomping on pink bubblegum, headphones in and eyes fixed on the computer screen in front of her. When I approached the counter, she looked up and popped the earbuds out and then glanced almost nervously toward the back. The same two artists were at work on different clients, and a curtain had been pulled around a third work station.

  “Um, he should be just about ready for you, but I think there’s something you should know.” She didn’t get the chance to finish her thought, because the curtain was pulled back and once again I my body stiffened at the voice that had always wreaked havoc on my nerves.

  “No need to warn her away Laurel. Shae’s never been the cowardly type to run away from a little conflict. Oh wait …” he deadpanned.

  I closed my eyes, drew in a fortifying breath and then turned. “This is your shop?” Of course that would be my luck.

  “Don’t look so shocked, sweetheart. I know everyone always said I’d never accomplish anything–”

  “Don’t you dare throw that in my face.” I took an angry step toward him and dropped my voice to a harsh whisper. “You know I never– I always believed–” Gah! I couldn’t do this. I shook my head and spun around, retreating.

  “So there it is. Running away. Again.”

  I stopped, turned and tried not to let him see how much being near him again was affecting me. “I’m sure as hell not about to let you tattoo me, and I have zero interest in rehashing the past, so there’s no reason for me to stick around.”

  With two long strides, he destroyed the distance between us and it took everything I had to stand my ground. I was close enough to see the swirls of grey and the different shades of blue that made up his eye color. It was like looking at a stormy sky with bright flecks of the purest blue shining through the clouds, offering hope that the storm would pass. I’d always thought of him like that. An uncontrollable storm, an unstoppable force of nature, but I’d also believed there was a gentler side to him. I’d seen it. Then the illusion came down and I realized it was a lie. He was destruction personified, determined to take out everything in his path. Unfortunately I had landed there.

  “Someday you’re going to have to let go of that past and quit blaming me. I stopped blaming you a long time ago for how things ended up.” His softly muttered words were a slap in my face.

  “You stopped blaming me?” I spit incredulously.

  “I know I fucked up back then, but I wasn’t the only who made mistakes.”

  I laughed bitterly. “My only mistake was believing a single word that came out of your mouth.”

  He flinched, almost imperceptibly, and then covered it up with a shake of his head. “What the fuck happened to you Shae?”

  I thought that answer was pretty obvious. “You happened to me. Or have you forgotten?”

  “Believe me, I remember every detail. Vividly.”

  Four

  Shae

  September 5

  7 years ago

  Senior year …

  “Don’t get too comfortable in your seats,” Ms. Renner announced just as Jeremy and I dropped into side by side seats at one of the two person tables in the front of the classroom. He would have preferred to sit in the back, but I liked to be up front. He knew this and didn’t complain. Ms. Renner had different plans for us though.

  “You will be pairing up for semester projects, and we’ll go over those after we get through the syllabus, but the seating chart will be based on your pairings. You’ll draw numbers to determine who you’ll be working and sitting with this semester.”

  Several groans sounded throughout the class and Jeremy spoke up beside me. “Why can’t we just choose our partners?”

  “Where’s the fun in that for me?” Ms. Renner smirked and then stepped forward, grabbing the Panthers ball cap from Jeremy’s head. “And since you’ve decided to ignore the classroom hat policy, I’ll be borrowing this.”

  “What the hell, Ms. Renner!”

  “Language, Mr. Black.”

  I elbowed him to get him to knock it off. He grumbled something and folded his arms across his chest, slouching in his chair, affecting a ‘whatever’ attitude. Ms. Renner walked over to her desk and dropped a handful of folded slips of paper into Jeremy’s hat. “There are twenty-six of you in this class, and I’ve numbered these slips one through thirteen, and the tables accordingly starting by the door in the front row. There are two of each number. I’m sure as seniors you can figure out how this is going to work.” She walked up to Sarah Marsh and Jenny Lippincott at the first table and held out the hat to them. From their pouty expressions when they unfolded their slips, it was apparent they hadn’t drawn the same number.

  Ms. Renner did the same thing at table two with Doug Sanders and Cory Mitchel
l before she was standing in front of me with the hat held out. Jeremy and I both reached in and pulled out slips of paper. Unfolding mine, I was dismayed to see an eleven. It meant I would be moving to the back of the classroom. I peeked over Jeremy’s shoulder and saw a four, putting him at the first table in the second row. He looked at my eleven and frowned. After Ms. Renner had made it past the table behind us, where his two best friends, Matt and Josh were sitting, he turned to them and started to whisper. I was sure he was trying to find us a way to trade numbers, but Ms. Renner was sharp.

  Without even turning her head toward Jeremy she spoke. “Mr. Black, I’m sure you’ll find table four is as nice as any of the other tables in the class, even if it means you’ll have to stare at Ms. Bradford from across the room.”

  Several snickers rang out from our classmates and I blushed. Jeremy just laughed it off and then leaned over and kissed the corner of my mouth. “Sorry babe, I tried.”

  “It’s fine,” I mumbled, not as comfortable as he was with the public displays of affection. Once all the numbers had been distributed, everyone shuffled around the room to find their designated seats and to see who they were stuck sharing them with. There were a few high fives and more than a few grumbles. I took my seat at the second to last table in the back and waited for someone to claim the seat next to me. I watched Daisy Brighton take the seat beside Jeremy and bit back a grin. Whatever this project was, I didn’t know which one of them to feel sorrier for. Daisy was as much of a slacker as Jeremy was. They both usually relied on their partners to do the majority of the work when it came to group assignments. I’d had the pleasure of partnering with both of them in the past.

  I could see Jeremy working the same thing out in his head and then he shot me a pitiful look. I tried not to laugh. He was cute when he was pouting, but if I was being honest, I was glad I wasn’t working with him. Just because I was his girlfriend didn’t mean I wanted to do his work for him. Yet, somehow he always managed to talk me into it, using football or baseball as an excuse. He was too tired, he didn’t have the time, did I really want him to fail and the team to lose their star player, etc …