It Will Always Be You (You Series Book 1) (9 page)

Tuesday, June 1

May passes into June. Peter never calls me. Not that I’m surprised in the least. I suppose he is one of Marshall’s employees, and who wants to piss off the boss? Poor guy looked terrified when he realized Marshall and I knew each other. There’s really no potential with Peter anyway, right?

Five of the longest days in my four years at Beacon are under my belt, and for all of them, Marshall was still back in Minneapolis, leaving no chance of my running into him. Knowing that I would have slept with a married man if I’d had the chance consumes my thoughts, but it’s the persistent wish that I’d never known he was married and that I’d have been brave enough to carry out my fantasies that has me rattled. I wanted—needed—to know what being with a man like Marshall would have felt like.

I finally have a day off. Krystal has insisted on coming over to get me out of my “funk.” She’s due to arrive in a half hour, so I decide to check my e-mail. Another mess of class reunion bullshit floods my inbox, only this time, I see there is a Facebook page for our graduating class, and I have an invite.

My finger hovers over the accept button while I contemplate what this means. I’m friends with some of my classmates, but I hardly ever look to see what they’re up to. Do I really want to be noticed, so more of them decide to friend me, granting them a look inside my mundane life? I decide not to accept, until I spot a small thumbnail with the picture of a baby and the name Holly (Pierce) Osborn. The post reads, “A few more pictures from back in the day.”

I go to my page and change my profile picture to one of me and a guy from
The Walking Dead
, his arm around me; he’d stayed at Beacon two years ago. At least one exciting thing has happened in my life that I can show off. After adding interior designer to my jobs, I reluctantly hit accept on my group invite.

I go right to the photos. Just as Holly had said, there were pictures from high school, and I’m in many of them: She and I peeking out of the top of Tanner’s red Camaro; several lake shots from the big graduation bash, where I later hooked up with Tanner; and, last but not least, one of my favorite pictures of her and me, smiling faces, arms around each other’s shoulders, sporting our best-friends-forever necklaces. I’m saddened by the fact that Holly and I are no longer in touch after fifteen years of friendship.

As kids, Holly, Rose, and I played house. I always seemed to get the role of the dad, but only because Rose and Holly always called the shots. I just kept my mouth shut. It was easier that way. It kept us from fighting, which I still try to avoid at all costs. Only when I was alone on the rarest of occasions did I get the chance to play the role of a mom or a bride and daydream about what it would be like to kiss a boy.

My first kiss was in the ninth grade, and it was nothing like my fantasies told me it would be. Wet, sloppy, and nervous—yuck. I was less than eager to kiss another boy after that day. I kissed a few more toads and even let one of them take my virginity. Surprise!—Not a prince in the lot. It wasn’t until the summer after graduation when I started sleeping with Tanner that I felt anything in a kiss.

It wasn’t love, but pure lust. Tanner was wild, kinky, and always in the mood. I loved the attention he gave to me and how he always wanted to try new things. Wanting to be adventurous where sex is concerned has never been a problem, but I keep finding myself settling for what I know and never taking any risks.

Kissing Gavin was like kissing a toad again, though I told myself time and time again that it wasn’t. But kissing Marshall had been something else entirely. It wasn’t like kissing Tanner and definitely not like kissing any of the toads. It was a shockwave through my entire being, an emotion I have never felt. It was new, but it was wrong. How can that be possible? I feel sick to my stomach with the thought of never kissing those gorgeous lips again, never getting the chance to explore the rest of him in every way possible. I think Marshall has ruined me. I can’t even fathom feeling a fire like that for anyone else.

I look at a few other classmate profiles. Most are married, some with new babies, and others are lucky enough to travel. My gut twists with envy. Even after being in a relationship with a pilot, I’ve never been in an airplane and have traveled no farther than Wisconsin. I send a message to Holly, asking how she’s doing and congratulating her on the birth of her third child.

“Maybe they’re swingers,” Krystal says when she finally arrives. She plops down on the couch next to me. She’s holding two shots glasses for the tequila, one for each of us. Along with pizza, tequila is her usual cure-all for crappiness. She’s one of those girls who eats and drinks what she wants, never works out, and never seems to gain an ounce of weight. As much as I love my good friend, I can’t help but find myself peeved by this.

She knew after Marshall’s visit the other morning that there was more to it all than I let on. She pours us each a generous shot of tequila.

“Swingers? That sounds more like something up your alley,” I mutter sarcastically before downing my shot and following it with a shot of pineapple juice—much better than salt and lime she calls training wheels —a trick Krystal taught me to put out the burn.

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Lizzie? No really, in all seriousness, I think you need to give him a chance to talk. That guy looks at you like he wants to lick you from head to toe.” She nudges me with her shoulder.

“Maybe I should get myself some cats. Give up on love. Let the inevitable happen and become an old maid.”

Krystal snorts. “For fuck sake, Liz, you’re only twenty-six. No need to go all doomsday.”

“I know it’s a stupid thing to say, but I needed to throw a little pity party for myself.” We share a laugh. “Anyway, what could he possibly say to me that would make any of this okay? He named his top-shelf absinthe after his wife, Sweet Sarah. Those were Peter’s words. Why do you think Peter was so shocked? I know it was because he couldn’t believe that Marshall is a cheating ass. Man, can I pick ’em.” Anger bubbles up again in my throat.

“He’s not Gavin, honey. I know men, and I’m not convinced that that pretty boy is the cheating type.”

“Well, we both know I’m not the best judge of character. I picked you as my best friend.” I eye her with a wan smile.

After a few more shots of tequila and one too many slices of pizza, I call it. “I don’t feel like talking about it anymore. I’m exhausted.” I’m so glad Krystal brought a movie, some action film. No chick flicks for Krystal, and for once, I’m grateful.

***

Wednesday, June 2

I’ve once again become a drone, going back and forth between my townhouse and Beacon Pointe, and I’ve begun to wonder what the point of my life is. Why am I settling for less than I’m capable of achieving? Why have I prevented myself from pursuing my dream? Is it because I failed with Marshall? I’ve been so determined to keep my mind off of Marshall that I’ve hardly touched my design portfolio.

It’s a rainy evening, and I collapse onto my couch with my tablet and decide that the words my father spoke about having my back and believing in me should not go unheard. I decide to buy a website domain and hosting package. I go with www.elizabethrosedesign.com, and within an hour, I have a website. I wonder what advice Marshall would have for me starting a new business? What would working alongside Marshall be like? Would I have the ability to focus with him next to me?

I lose myself in my work, all the while trying not to think about the disastrous experience with Marshall. Derek told me about his cousin Max, who is a great photographer and is just out of college. Thankfully, I can afford to hire him.

Over the course of two days, we go from place to place, shooting all my previous work. Max has as much if not more ambition than I do. Max is wonderful to work with, and I insist he let me help. I’m extremely thankful to be kept busy. He has me moving lights, grabbing light meter readings, and positioning every room element in line with every image as he looks through his wide-angle lens. I enjoy this part immensely and am grateful for our easy banter.

I’m running on very little sleep, but caffeine and straight-up hard-core determination can make you go for days—heck, maybe weeks. I will soon find out at the rate I’m going.

Friday, June 4

Over dinner at my sister’s house, I receive a pep talk from Rose and Derek, who tell me incessantly how they are madly in love with their living room design. I decide that these next two weeks will be my last at Beacon Pointe.

I come home to an envelope taped to my door with the words
Please Read
in a black cursive handwriting that is clean and precise. I pull it down off the door and stare at it for a moment. I run through a list of possible messengers, but I cannot recall anyone having penmanship this nice. Perhaps a potential client? My landlord? Could it be …
him
?

I stare at the letter for some time before I head inside and place the letter, my purse, and my keys on the antique half-moon side table in the foyer. I walk away from the letter, feeling a sense of dread flow through me. I’ve done pretty well with averting my attention from Marshall, and I don’t know if I’m ready to revisit my heartbreak just yet. Perhaps I will read it later tonight, but for now, I just need to unwind.

I put the leftovers my sister gave me into the fridge. She insisted that they wouldn’t eat them, but I know it’s just her way of taking care of me. It was hard to argue since she had made one of my favorite fish taco recipes. Rose is a natural nurturer, born to be a mom and a teacher. I can hardly manage taking care of myself most days

A text from Krystal wakes me from my reverie.

We are still on for the music festival tonight, I hope. Dirty Red Doghouse is playing and would hate to go to it without you!

I pound the words onto my phone, feeling a rush of regret for agreeing to go.

I told you I would.

I had hoped to simply crash and burn while watching some gory action-filled thriller with no prospect of a love scene. My lack of sleep is finally catching up to me. But hey, I have successfully kept
him
off my mind. Well, at least a little anyway. It takes every bit of my willpower to walk out that door without opening the letter, but I just need more time.

The parking grounds, side streets, and lots are packed full, but I stubbornly drive around looking for a parking space that is closer to the entrance. It’s not that I’m too lazy to walk; it’s just that it’s late and dark, and I don’t feel like walking a half mile by myself.

After about five minutes of driving around, I spot two older women heading to their car parked underneath an old weeping willow tree next to the fence. It’s a tight spot, but I manage to work my way in as soon as they back out. After pulling out my phone and texting Krystal that I’m here, I step out of the car.

Dirty Red Doghouse is loud, and once I’ve downed a cold beer, I find a place to stand and watch the band without being bumped into. I lean back against the fence where Krystal’s clan is stationed. I do my best to ignore the wild conversation about the two guys Tracy (the one I call Drunk Blond Girl) took home last night and try my best to get lost in the music. The thought of sex, however, only brings me back to Marshall, sex, and what could possibly be in that letter.

Krystal yells, shaking me out of my near coma. “Lizzie, they’re doing our favorite dance song.” She grabs my arm, and we make our way to the middle of the crowd where people are dancing.

I don’t fight her, knowing I could use a good dance-your-ass-off kind of moment. We find our way to the very middle, and it doesn’t take long for the music to pull me into its trance. I feel the rhythm throughout my body, and it wills me to move. We smile at each other as we start jumping and hollering, which leads us into hard-hitting shoulder pulses. We work our hips like we’re teenagers. I don’t care how it looks; it just feels so good. I get lost in the music, arms up above my head, eyes closed.

I feel someone come in close behind me and snap my eyes open to see Krystal and Greg bumping and grinding in their usual flirty way. The dance floor is packed, and the person behind me is so close I can’t even turn. A hard chest pressing against my back is clearly a male, but he is keeping his hands off. Hell, it’s harmless. The song ends, and warm breath hits the back of my neck, making me shiver, and not in a good way. I push myself forward, away from him, not concerned that I’m pushing the girl dancing almost directly in front of me. “Hey,” the girl yells, but I ignore her and turn to see who it is behind me. All I see is a crowd of heads. No one behind me is looking my way, and no one is close enough to have been inches from my neck, leaving me with an uneasy pit in my gut. All I want to do is get out of this sea of people.

I push my way through and can feel Krystal staring at me as I leave the dance floor. I walk to the outskirts of the crowd before I turn around, and that’s when I spot
him.
He’s with Aubrey. Her arms are wrapped around his arm, and she’s leaning her head on his shoulder. My heart begins to race, and I suddenly feel a bit dizzy. I stumble back but manage to keep myself upright.

“What the hell, Liz?” Krystal looks annoyed. “Dancing and having a good time is exactly what you need to get over—” She scrunches up her face, realizing she shouldn’t bring up his name.

“You mean the cheating bastard right over there.” I look over at him and point. I quickly lower my finger when I see that he is looking right at me.

“Sorry, Krystal. I need to get out of here. I can’t look at him right now. Plus I’m so tired I can’t even see straight.” I notice him approaching us. Krystal glares at him. I give her a quick hug and turn toward the exit.

“Beth!” I hear him yell, but I keep a steady pace.

I wring my hands and bite my tongue as I head to my car. I’m in a hurry to go in case he follows me. I can’t do this right now. I fish my keys out of my pocket.

“Hey there, Firecracker,” I hear from behind me, causing my hair to stand up as if from an electrical shock.

I know that voice. I quickly slip my key into the lock as a hard hand grabs my shoulder. I gasp and drop my keys.

“I was looking forward to the day I would run into you again. I’m just disappointed that your sister isn’t with you, so I could double my pleasure.”

I’m sweating profusely, and my chest is heavy. I can hardly breathe. I bend down to get my keys. My head jerks back as he grabs ahold of my hair and lifts me to stand.
I need to scream. Why am I not screaming?
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“You stupid cunt, you made me look like an idiot,” he spits. “I was only trying to have some fun and you—” He swings me around to look at him, still with a death grip on my hair. His cold eyes look me over, and his sick little smile makes my skin crawl. “Remember me? You’re not so tough without your big, giant purse to protect you, huh?”

He pushes me up against my car, taking the keys from my hand. I manage to get out “Help me,” but with the loud music, I hardly believe anyone will hear me. I can hardly hear myself.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says as he reaches for the unlock button.

I manage to get out “Somebody help,” but then he slams my head against the car, causing a stinging, throbbing pain in my temple.

“I told you to shut up, Bitch. Next time will be much worse.” He opens up my back door and pushes me in. Is he taking me somewhere? How does he expect to keep me in the backseat of the car?

“You made everybody laugh at me, and you need to pay for what you did, just like that girl from high school had to pay.”

I try and sit myself up, and as I do, another blow to the head hurls me back against the passenger door. He enters the backseat, leaning over me and pulling a knife from his hip, poking it under my chin. I feel warm liquid run down my neck, and I’m not sure if it’s blood or sweat.

“I’ve always wanted to bang a redhead, and now that I’ve seen those hips move, it would be a sin not to find out what it’s like,” he says while his beady little eyes look me over.

Oh, God, he was the one dancing behind me. Bile rises into my throat, and I’m sure I will vomit all over him.

His hand travels over my stomach, then to the top of my pants. Fuck. He’s working on getting my pants down. The button on my capris gives way, and now he moves his hand down.

I can’t let this happen. I have to do something.

One arm, my right, my stronger arm is pinned under me, so I have to make something happen with my left. I ball up a fist and hit him in the throat, causing him to sit back and gasp for air. I struggle to free up my right arm, but his knee has it pinned tightly underneath me. I give him another left-handed punch, this time to the groin. I know I need to knock the knife out of his hands or get away, or this will be my last day on earth.

I frantically work at freeing my right arm before he recovers from the hit. I feel a hard slam on my right side. I’m dizzy. I can’t see. I’m starting to black out. I feel a tugging on my clothes followed by cool air touching my skin. In a mumble of sounds, I can hear Krystal yelling, “Get off of her!”

Am I screaming? What’s happening to me?

Another crack to my skull. The screams fade.