Chapter 8

Jenica

It's one of those days where there's too much to do and not enough time. As soon as I wrap my shift at the store, I have to head back to Davenport and get to work on a paper that's due tomorrow. The only saving grace is that Travis is also working this morning, helping my parents out with inventory.

"Runaway!" I call out, stopping a rolling can of soup with my toe as I make my way down the aisle with a new roll of receipt paper for the register.

"Nice stop," he beams, scooping it up, twirling it in his hand, then placing it back on the shelf.

"Should've been a goalie, huh?" I continue down the aisle and he shakes his head and turns his attention back to the shelves.

When I reach the register, I set the roll down and lift the lid. Removing the old one, I wipe away the debris from the gears, then slip on the new roll.

"Ow, shit!" I yelp when I catch my finger as I lower the lid.

Julie, our newest clerk, rushes over. "You okay?"

I bring my finger to my mouth and murmur to her I'm fine, while making a beeline back down the aisle.

"Everything okay?" Travis asks as I hurry by. I mumble and fly into the office, heading straight to the shelf on the back wall where we keep the First Aid kit.

I set the kit on the desk, then assess the damage. Nail is broken and my finger is bleeding, which fits in perfectly with my ink-stained fingers and chipped manicure.

"What happened?" he asks, coming in through the office door.

I hold up my middle finger to show him the bleeding. "Well fuck you, too," he smirks.

I laugh and shake my head. "Come help me?"

He makes his way over and motions for me to sit. Sinking down in the office chair, I blow an errant strand of hair from my eyes, watching as he reaches into the kit and takes out a Band-Aid.

Ripping it open, he peels off one side, wraps it around my finger half-way, before peeling off the other and doing the same. "There," he says with a click of his tongue. "Right as rain."

"Uh-huh," I grumble.

He sits down on the edge of the desk and folds his arms over his chest. "Wanna talk about it?"

I grab the discarded Band-Aid wrapper and toss it in the trash. "Not really. It's just a nail."

"I wasn't talking about the nail."

I lean back in the chair, seat creaking like hinges on an old door. "What are you talking about then?"

"You've been off since you got back from Highland," he says carefully.

"Off?" I drop my hand and look up. "What do you mean?"

"Well…you've only been here an hour and already cleaned the bathrooms, replaced the broken light in the break room, and changed out that receipt paper like you were a pit crew member. And now," he watches as I reach for a yellow note pad on the desk, "you're looking for something else to do."

I reach for a pen and draw a line through the first few items on the running To Do list. "There's a lot to do in the mornings, you know that."

"Yeah," he nods, "but I'm not talking about the store. I'm talking about you. You're trying to stay busy and you do that when something's bothering you."

I doodle on the pad and shrug. "Nothing's bothering me."

He draws in a deep breath, then lets it out slowly, looking at me in a way that says bullshit, and he should because he's right. I am full of shit.

For the past week I have been off because I can't stop thinking about what happened with Jake the night of the frat party. I can't believe we had sex and that it was good—no great, actually. I wasn't a virgin and I wasn't a prude, but shit, I don't think I'd ever come so hard.

But it wasn't the fact we had sex that was throwing me. It was what happened after. The curveball he threw, with all that talk about what we could be. I was trying to close the door and he was trying to keep it open, and that fucked with me. It was still fucking with me.

For the first time in my life I didn't know what to say or do. I couldn't talk to him and yet, I hated not talking to him. What could I say after riding him like he was a prized stallion—hey, how was your day? Instead, I listened to the messages he left on my answering machine, debating whether to call him back or not. It was pathetic.

Dammit! Why didn't I just trust the Magic 8 Ball and stay away from Jake's room that night like I did my first night there? It said the outlook wasn't hazy. A stupid toy was crystal fucking clear and I'd ignored it. And because I had, I was now obsessing over one night that should have been nothing more than a memory.

But I can't tell my brother any of this. We may be close, but the last thing he wants to hear about is my sex life.

"I'm just tired." I push the pad away from me. "I've got a paper due tomorrow and haven't started yet."

"Is that all?" he asks, watching as I pick at the hole on the arm of the chair.

"Well, no," I admit. "If you must know, I'm bummed I won't see Ellery again for a few months."

"Really?" he asks. "Why?"

"I'm low on money," I sigh. I hope to hell he doesn't ask why. That will only unravel more lies and I just can't go there right now.

Surprisingly, he doesn't. "Go see your friend," he says cheerfully, pushing up from the desk. "I'll take care of the plane ticket."

"What?" I look up. "Did you win the lottery?"

"No," he shakes his head with a laugh. "Just getting better with saving."

While I would love to see Ellery next month, I'd already come to the decision that I would not. Last week was supposed to be my last trip to Highland. That's why I crossed the line with Jake in the first place. I'd see her and Cruz wherever they moved to when he was drafted, but the three of them wouldn't be living together by then.

"I love you," I smile at my brother, "but no."

"Man, you're just like Mom," he shakes his head. "Stubborn as a mule."

"Yeah," I lean back. "Well, you know what they say, like mother like daughter."

"Uh huh." He shoves a hand in his pocket. "They do. And I'm saying, maybe it's time to be less like her, and more like Dad."

"Meaning?" I arch my brow.

"Take a page out of his playbook," he suggests, "and give yourself a break."

I lay my head on the back of the chair and spin around, looking at the smattering of photos on the wall. Be like dad, huh? Because that worked so well in the past.

My father had always been a dreamer. Sure, he taught us important lessons and hard truths, but there was a part of him that truly believed anything was possible. No matter how many times life had beaten him down, he never stopped believing that. I didn't have the heart to tell him that dreams only came true in fairy tales and people like us had to scrape and claw for everything.

I look down at my nails, the irony in that thought hard to ignore. Once upon a time I couldn't have them. Long nails were a hazard to my game; the potential of one catching a seam and throwing off a pitch, something I couldn't afford. My arm was the ticket to a dream where I wouldn't have to fight so hard and nails—or claws as my brothers called them—were an impediment.

It was the only good thing to come out of a career-ending injury. No more softball meant no more short nails. It was a shit consolation prize for a dead dream and no longer being able to play the sport I loved.

I didn't always love it. Like my brothers, my first love was baseball. Daddy started all of us young—T-ball first, then little league. But when middle school rolled around, instead of continuing with hard ball like my brothers, he suggested I try softball, and that's when everything changed.

At first it felt foreign. The ball was too big and the bases were closer than I was used to. But something happened the day I tried my hand at fast pitch. The power I felt as I released the ball was intoxicating. But hearing it pop in the catcher's mitt…man, I will never forget that sound. I still dream about it, even now.

From that day on, whenever I had a minute to spare, my father and I would head out back with a ball and glove and throw until the light faded and bugs came out. As I practiced, he'd share stories about baseball like a docent at Cooperstown, making me believe I too, could be among that history.

Softball was once my life. I never felt freer than I did standing on the pitcher's mound—the seconds before wind up, filled with a special kind of magic that nothing had ever come close to—but in the blink of an eye it was taken away, and I hadn't felt that magic since.

I turn back around and push up from the chair. "The only page I am taking from Daddy's playbook is to leave the store the way it was when I arrived—clean and ready for the next shift."

I grab the end of my work vest and straighten it before making my way to the door. "You shouldn't be here," he says as I walk past.

I stop and look over my shoulder. "Finger's fine, Trav."

"I wasn't talking about work," he says matter of fact.

We look at one another, both growing quiet. Sometimes, the truth is hard to admit, even for those with grit and determination in their veins. I shouldn't be in Cherry Cove. I should be living my dream. But here's the thing about dreams—sometimes, they become so damaged they're hard to hold onto.

***

When my shift ends, I make my way to the staff room to grab my bag and clock out. As I reach the door, a horrible retching coming from the bathroom stops me. Making my way over, I rap my knuckle on the door. "Everything all right?"

The heaving stops for a moment and Julie calls back. "I'm fine."

Since it sounds like she's emptying the contents of her stomach, I lean against the wall and wait for her to finish to make sure she's okay. When the door pushes open a couple of minutes later, I take one look at her sweaty forehead and flushed cheeks and know it's not the flu.

"How far along are you?" I ask, pushing up from the wall.

She fidgets with the hem of her work vest and looks down. "Seven weeks."

I sigh and make my way into the office. "Follow me."

Setting my bag down, I reach for the clipboard on the wall and scan the employee roster. Since Travis left an hour ago, it was just Julie and I, and clearly she needs to go home.

"Sit," I nod to the couch along the wall reach for the phone to work my way down the list. "There's crackers in that drawer." I point to a brown cabinet next to her while dialing the first number on the list.

After calling everyone and getting nothing but answering machines, I drop back down in the chair and look over at her. She's nibbling on a saltine while jiggling her knee and clearly in need of a shower and some rest.

Morning sickness can be a real bitch. More than a few classmates in high school had gotten pregnant and I would see them in the bathroom in between classes puking or downing 7-Up. I remember thinking to myself, that would never be me. I had plans and a baby just wasn't part of it.

"Okay," I look up at the clock. "I'll cover the rest of your shift."

Her face brightens. "Yeah?"

"Yup. Go home, shower, and have some soup."

"Thanks." She smiles sheepishly and gets up from the couch slowly. "You won't tell anyone?"

I pretend to zip my lip and toss the key. "Not my business, not my gossip."

She exhales with obvious relief and turns for the door. Just before she reaches it, she stops and looks back at me. "Do you think I should keep it?"

"Not for me to say," I shrug. "Only you can decide."

She swallows and nods. "Would you?"

For me, the answer was easy—no, I would not. I never had a chance to be a kid and wanted to live my life before being responsible for someone else's. But it wasn't my place to tell anyone what to do. The choice was no one's to make but those whose lives it would impact.

"You'll know what to do when the time comes." I push up from the chair and look to the door. "Now go home and get some rest."

She gives me a grateful smile, then turns and leaves. After slipping back into my work vest I head for the front of the store but when the bell over the staff entrance chimes, I stop and turn. Expecting to see Julie, thinking she forgot something, I start back toward the office, but when I see it's not her I freeze.

Standing no more than ten feet away is Langston Richardson, Royce's father. I forgot how much they looked alike. His dad was taller, but they were both thin with a pale complexion, plain brown eyes and hair, and the same look of arrogance and conceit.

Ellery was being generous the day she said Royce was decent looking. I think a better word would have been creepy because that clean cut, perfect look of his should have tipped us off that a psycho lurked beneath. Eerily enough, his dad has the same look, and given what I now know about him, it's not a stretch to think like father, like son.

"Ms. Miller," he smiles. "Good day."

"Mr. Richardson," I swallow, wondering why he's here, and at the same time, wanting him gone. "The door for customers is in the front."

I hold my chin high and hold my breath as he approaches. Where Royce once doused himself in Obsession, his father bathed in deceit and Drakkar Noir. You could always tell when he was near. It suffocated all other smells and lingered in the air for days, clinging to everything like a leech.

"Now, Ms. Miller," he stops a few feet short of me and grins. "You know I'm more than just a customer. I am an old friend."

"You got one word in that sentence right and I'll let you guess which."

He flashes me a malicious smile, and the way it reminds me of the one Royce had on his face that night, just before I shot him, makes my stomach turn.

"Well, you got me there." He runs a finger along the top of a picture hanging in the hall, flicking his fingers to remove the dust that I know isn't there. "A customer is one that buys, and I am here to give."

"Oh yeah?" I arch a brow. "And what is it you want to give, a bad time or heartburn?"

I hated the Richardson's. Not just because of what Royce did to Ellery but because of the way his father swung his dick around like he owned us. Thanks to a bad business deal, in a way, he did.

When my father's grandparents built this store, they owned the land and the acreage around it. But sometime before I was born, Royce's father swindled mine out of the property. It had been a bone of contention with my father for as long as I could remember, and why he let us to talk to the Richardson's, any way that we wanted.

"I think the office is better suited for what we need to discuss," he says cryptically.

I straighten my shoulders and ignore the knots in my stomach. "Whatever it is you can tell me right here."

I didn't want to go into any room with Langston Richardson. I'd heard rumors of his preference for younger women and wouldn't put it past the bastard to try something if given the chance.

He looks down the hall to the main part of the store, and seeing it's empty, looks back at me. "Even if it has to do with my son?"

Feeling like a rug's just been pulled out from under me, I pitch forward. Grabbing my elbow to steady me, he looks down and the way his eyes bore into me, sends a chill down my spine. His grip is cold and my nerves thin.

He flicks his eyes to the office door, then back to me. "It is better that we talk in private."

I yank my elbow from his hold and step away from him. "What do you want? We're about to close."

"Close?" He looks around, shoving a hand in his pocket, jingling what sounds like keys and change. "Now that is not good for business, Ms. Miller."

I lift my chin and ignore the weight pressing down on my chest. "Business is fine."

He flashes me a smile that is neither sincere nor appealing. "You are so much like your mother. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"No," I bite out, but it's another lie. For as long as I can remember, folks have told me I am just like my Momma.

Everyone who knew Dawn Raylene Miller loved her. Runner up in the 1965 Miss Georgia pageant, she was as beautiful as she was tough, and had a smile that could light up a room.

While I had inherited her dark hair and blue eyes, I failed to channel any of her pageant poise. She could hold court with The Pope one moment, and tell someone to go to hell the next, all the while maintaining that gorgeous smile of hers that nearly won her the crown.

"Why are you here?" I ask crisply, not in the mood for any kind of pleasantries. I don't like it when he's here. The way he looks at me and my family like we are for sale draws an ire fueled by a lifetime of being looked down upon.

"Get down to business, hmmm." He clasps his hands together and holds them in front of him. "Very well then. I assume you heard about the body they found on the beach last week?"

The moment he says it, my chest tightens and my throat pinches. "Yes," I manage. "And?"

"Well, Royce's mother believed that body could be her son. She was so convinced in fact, that she asked me to come down here and provide CCPD with a DNA sample so they could run tests." He pauses for a moment and looks at me, and I do my best not to let him see me struggling to breathe. "I agreed," he continues, "because she deserves closure. Every mother does. Sadly, she will not get that closure because the tests have come back and that body is not our son."

A wave of relief crashes into me, and I fight the urge to clasp my hands together and shout up to the heavens, ‘Thank you, Jesus.'

I never really stopped thinking that body could be Royce, but I pushed it to the back of my mind because I believed Jake when he said it could not be. I always believed him. It was a gift he possessed. And now that I know he was right, I want to call and tell him he was.

But as profound as my relief, I also feel something deep in my core. Indignation. Ripe and righteous. The gall of this jerk, coming into my store and using words like peace when referring to his monster of a son.

"Tell me, Mr. Richardson." I clear my throat and look him straight in the eyes. "What kind of closure do you think the families of those girls deserve?"

"I have spoken with the families Royce impacted," he answers coolly "I have expressed my family's condolences and compensated each for their loss."

"Compensated?" I look at him in disbelief. "You can't pay people off for destroying their lives. There is no amount of money that can replace their children or make right what your son did. He didn't impact their lives. He ruined them."

He looks down at me with cool indifference. "I am sorry you feel that way because as I said, I am here to give, not to take."

My head jerks back; blood, powered by adrenaline, whooshing in my ears. "Whatever you're selling, I don't want it."

"I am not selling anything, Ms. Miller. And if you meet with me, I will explain everything."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card, extending it to me. I look at it with reservation. "I said, I don't want it."

"Take the card," he encourages. "It will not bite."

I want him to shove the card up his ass and leave. That's the only thing I want. But realizing he is not going to until I take the damn thing, I yank the card out of his hand.

Gripping it between my index and middle finger, I look down at the card and see an address. "Where is this?"

"Old Route 12," he says simply. "Be there today, three o'clock."

"Why?" I flip the card over in my hand, the texture sending goosebumps down my arms. It's smooth like silk, and the edges, fine.

"Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Ms. Miller. You never know when it may be your salvation."

I look up, finding his calculating gaze on me, then without another word, he turns and walks out the door, leaving me in a cloud of cologne and colloquialism.