Burning for You (Blackwater, #1)

Chapter 1

Ever since I was a kid I’ve had a thing for the villain. While my sister paraded around the house in our mother’s high heels and dresses, I was begging my mother to let me dress as the Wicked Witch of the West for Halloween. She wouldn’t dare, considering our small town’s and family’s history of witchcraft. Even though the history of burning witches and trials dates back centuries ago, the people of Blackwater, Michigan are still as superstitious as ever in present day. Never mind about that whole thing they call science and freedom of religion, you can’t ignore history.

I get off the highway and find myself driving through the entrance to my hometown. I pass by the water tower and then the word Blackwater written out with trimmed, stout boxwoods on lush green lawn. Nothing ever really changes here. There do look to be some new restaurants on Center Street, I notice, but they’re using up old buildings, and I try to mentally place what they may have been when I last drove through here. I pass by streets named after gemstones, one by one. First Hematite, then Opal, Ruby, Sapphire, Emerald, Diamond, Agate, Topaz and Amethyst. Everyone who has ever lived here knows the exact order by heart. There’s even a way to remember them – HORSE DATA. I doubt a single gem mine ever existed here, but someone had the bright idea to name every East/West street for a precious or semi-precious stone. I pass by the Moonstone Market, where women in Blackwater bicker with Joe the butcher over the thickness of lamb chops. If Joe didn’t die of a heart attack yet – he was three hundred pounds and not all muscle the last time I saw him. Aries Auto is where I got my first car towed to after I ran over a parking median and lost my muffler on a slightly intoxicated joyride with my friend Eleanor. Star Freeze is where I had my first date with Andrew Laurent, who managed to almost get to third base that night, until I chickened out and made up a story about my curfew.

I wonder how I ever let things come to this. When I was seventeen, I made a solemn vow to myself never to come back to Blackwater when I ran off to Chicago. In fact, I remember screaming that vow to my mother the day I packed my shit and left. She seemed unfazed, as usual, and perfectly composed. The only sign that she might have been affected by my harsh words were raising a manicured hand up to her ear and covering it just slightly, as though my voice grated on her nerves but any more pressure might ruin her hair. Everything about me grates on my mother’s nerves. It’s a gift I have that my sister Heidi never really got the hang of.

While most towns have updated to the present day, Blackwater looks exactly like how I imagine it did in the 70’s when my parents met. There are a few chain restaurants and a mall to defy that, but certainly no superstore where you can get 89 bottles of water for $1.68. Center Street is the main strip and every place you could possibly shop is located here. Women opt for local boutiques instead of driving outside of town to shop at stores that exist in places that aren’t Blackwater. Housewives here pride themselves on uniqueness, but just end up looking like everyone else who lives here. The overall effect is incredibly Stepford, since they all buy their clothes from the same places. Luckily, the schools all opted for uniforms so that the children growing up here don’t realize that it’s nearly impossible to express any sort of individuality. The general attitude of those who’ve lived here forever is why would anyone want to do that?.

Subscribing to that conformist attitude is my sister Heidi, who I am also not looking forward to seeing again, though to a lesser degree than my mother. It’s not that I don’t like her, it’s just that we are so ridiculously different and yet we share some DNA. It almost doesn’t make sense. Don’t think for one second that I haven’t researched the adoption theory. I tried that one out when I was eleven and unfortunately didn’t discover anything that would lead me to believe that I’m not related to these people. It’s horrifying enough to come to terms with that when you’ve just watched your own birth video, complete with hippie 80’s parents.

Blackwater is a small town and has every intention of staying that way. Apparently the population is getting larger, though, since the small high school was packed to the brim when I attended, oh, let’s say ten years ago. Alright, twelve years ago. I’m actually twenty nine and I’ve decided I’m going to stay that way next month when I’m supposed to hit my dirty thirties. My mother was twenty eight for the first eight years of my life until I smarted up and figured out that couldn’t possibly be true. Plus, I finally saw her driver’s license when she got it back in the mail after getting it suspended for crashing into nine inanimate objects in a sixty day period. She has this exceptional ability to drive without looking at the road. She manages to not kill anyone but the mailboxes aren’t so lucky.

My cat Carlton lets out a deep meow which lets me know he’s bored. The first hour of the trip was spent with him pissed off at me for putting him inside of his carrier and he let me know it by howling. The second hour the howling slowed down and was less adamant. By hour three I think he’d resorted to napping, and we stopped at a rest stop and I let him wander around in the grass for a bit, which made him happy. Then he started howling all over again when I scooped him back into his carrier and put him back on the front seat, but I got smart and blasted some loud rock music to drown him out. He’s a giant orange striped cat with a head that looks kitten sized and a body that looks overweight toddler sized, with one ear that never really likes to stand on its own. He’s only four years old and he went from the tiniest kitten ever to a monster in a year and a half. Last time the vet weighed him he was twenty eight pounds, and was put on a diet. The diet did nothing except drain my wallet and make Carlton more vocal, and he’s already vocal enough. I had to upgrade from the carrier I took him home in when he was a kitten to a dog sized one. This is his first time outside since I brought him home from the shelter I found him in, and he’s less than thrilled.

I roll down the windows and immediately regret it. The crisp fall air is not exactly conducive to my asthma and I begin to cough. I dig in my purse for my inhaler and take a puff and shake my head. Even the air is out to get me here, I swear. I’m grateful I got my prescriptions refilled before quitting my job, packing my bags and leaving Chicago. I’ll have to find a new allergist out here, I suppose. Coincidentally, I pass by Blackwater Memorial Hospital while I’m pondering my own health. I’m hoping not to have to be dragged there too soon because I currently have no insurance. At least I’m still in my twenties and have an excuse to be irresponsible. Well, barely in my twenties. I have to stop thinking about these things before I hyperventilate and need to use more of my inhaler. I can’t be wasting puffs.

The Worst Traffic Light in the World comes into view. I slow down to a stop behind a stream of cars in the left hand turn lane to turn on to Emerald. It’s 5:17 pm which means people are trying to get home from work and I’m right in the middle of the chaos. For some reason the light on Center and Emerald has this annoying little habit of making you think you will make the left turn and then changing to red just as it’s your turn to go. The assholes in front of me have apparently never learned that a green arrow should indicate move it or lose it and not, let’s check my hair in the mirror and sit here pissing off the person behind me. I’m guessing no one has bothered to make the light last longer since I was last in town, sitting forever at this light. A quick glance up tells me that the Blackwater police have installed one of those fancy cameras that take a picture of you as you’re running a red light, which is nearly every time I cruise through this intersection. It doesn’t really make sense since Center and Emerald is right by the police station, so who would want to run a red light? I mean other than me. I watch the left turn arrow on the traffic signal turn from green to yellow and I press my foot down on the gas as hard as I can. I decide to simultaneously flash my teeth in a wicked smile and extend my middle finger out toward the windshield. Enjoy that picture, Blackwater Police Department! Then, for my grand finale, I slam into the bumper of the car in front of me in the middle of the intersection.

Fuck! I try and shout, except I’m muffled by my airbag and the awful smell of gunpowder that comes with it. Carlton howls at me. I feel my lungs constricting and fumble for my inhaler, which has spilled out of my purse that was sitting on my passenger seat and onto the floor. Getting out of your car after a crash with an inhaler in your mouth is almost like showing up to your court date wearing a neck brace, isn’t it? Except that I just ran an almost red light, flipped off the police and rear ended someone, so I’m pretty sure justice is not about to be in my favor. Double fuck. I try and decide whether it’s better to get out of the car and assess the damage or to just stay where I am and try and turn invisible. I see the car in front of me put its hazards on and drives carefully over to the right lane on Emerald and so I put my hazards on and follow and park behind it.

I watch the car in front of me in anticipation. The car is one of those damned SUVs everyone thinks they need in the winter around Blackwater River because of all of the snow we get. The truth is, my tiny little red 1997 Acura Integra with its skinny little tires cuts through the snow better than the thick wheels you always see on an SUV. SUV tires are wider and slide around, making for the scariest ride of your life. I would know. My soon-to-be-ex-husband in Chicago drives an SUV, which makes me hate them. The SUV I just hit is even larger and more menacing and it makes me decide to hate the person getting out of it even more.

The driver’s side door opens and my defenses wither completely. Something happens when I see the driver step out of his vehicle. I feel something ignite in my chest and spread through my extremities, leaving me paralyzed with a feeling that I can’t even explain. It’s not that the man is good looking. Well, okay, he is so handsome that he literally makes me gasp and my heart pounds like a fifteen year old girl, sending flutters down in my belly in an embarrassing way. Handsome isn’t even a word that does him justice, but more like breathtaking, if that were a safe word to use for a man. I’m pretty sure it’s not. This feeling is something different, though, as though something awakens inside of me that’s been dormant my entire life and I can barely move or breathe. The driver’s hair is a rich dark brown with warm amber hues that catch the sun, and he looks like he needs a haircut from the way he has to push the front out of his eyes to avoid the glare of the sunset. Except the back of his hair is trimmed and clean cut, so the long bangs seem intentional and almost punk-rock. He looks swarthy, as my mother would say, with an aquiline nose, a large, full mouth and deep shadows under his eyes, just above his high cheekbones. At first he looks to be about seven feet tall but as he comes closer he evens out into perspective. Still, he’s probably close to six and a half feet. His faded grey jeans encase slim but well defined legs and he wears a black leather jacket over a black v-neck shirt. He leans down at an uncomfortable angle since my car is so low to the ground and knocks on my window. Miss? I hear him say. Are you all right? I nod and swallow, deciding it’s safe to come out of the car. Any person who asks someone who rear ended them if they’re okay is probably not filled with road rage, so I suppose he’s not planning to punch me anytime soon. I can’t tell whether my heart is pounding because of who I hit or the fact that I hit someone. I open my door and step out of my car on shaking legs. Then I realize that six and a half feet is probably a good guess. I’m not by any means short – five foot nine, actually – and he’s still a head taller than I am, which is unusual for any man standing next to me. I gulp and take him in.

Instead of being eye level as I am used to, I find myself staring at a silver circle charm hanging from a chain around the man’s neck. The charm shows a horizontal line and three vertical lines coming up from the horizontal line. I haven’t seen one since I left Blackwater, and it startles me, even though I know exactly what it means. The man who I hit had an ancestor who was burned for witchcraft. My mother has one too, except hers is a horizontal line with a triangle below it, the symbol for drowning. There is also a symbol for a hanging, which is an upside down L, like a hanging post, with a circle hanging from it. The one that freaks me out the most is the symbol for being buried alive. That has a horizontal line with what looks like an exclamation point below it, to show that witches were buried head first underground. People in Blackwater killed witches based on the element they were able to control – drowning for water, hanging for air, burial for earth and obviously burning for fire. Did I mention that Blackwater has a crazy history full of crazy people? People wonder why I ran away to Chicago the minute I could sign my own lease.

I guess I should ask if you’re alright, I finally say, taking a step back and looking up at him. His eyes are practically black, and the word smoldering comes to mind. He looks young, possibly younger than I am, which annoys me slightly, but also relieves me. I’m crushing on a kid…except kids don’t give half lidded seductive gazes like he’s giving me now, so maybe he just looks young. My knees are shaking, and I lean back against my car to steady myself. I can barely breathe, but it’s not an asthma attack, it’s something much different, and almost scary. I feel my blood coursing through my veins, making my face grow hot, the heat traveling down to my chest and lower. Embarrassingly lower. His nose is slightly large for his face and his mouth is large too. My god, why the hell is he smiling? I bet he is going to sue the crap out of me. I keep thinking about how he needs a haircut, but perhaps he was on his way to get one when I so rudely interrupted him. I look at his SUV and see that there isn’t much damage except for a slightly dented bumper. My little Acura Integra, Betsey, is crumpled like a piece of paper in the front and I want to burst into tears. I love my car. It was Heidi’s when she was sixteen and two years later she got a new car. I turned sixteen and got Betsey and have been driving her ever since. I realize she’s seen better days but she’s seen me through college, or some of it, and all the way through the end of my shitty marriage. I can’t imagine being without her. I was hoping she’d make it through my divorce. I can’t exactly afford something as extravagant as a car right now.

I’m fine. Are you alright? he asks me. His voice is like dark brown velvet, smooth and soft and encasing my brain in warmth. My head begins to pound. He looks concerned yet he is smiling simultaneously, curving his mouth into an expression that shouldn’t even be legal. It makes me feel dirty just thinking about where I want that mouth to be right now.

Not really, I say, not able to hold back the tears. Oh god, what the hell am I doing? Get. My. Purse. I am trying to breathe but it’s not working out, and I begin flailing my arms and waving them in my face, wanting to wipe the tears away but wanting to keep my face uncovered in order to get as much air as possible. The man delicately moves me out of the way and goes through my driver’s side door to grab my purse off the passenger seat. He holds it open in front of me so I can grab my inhaler and puff twice. Okay, I say, steadying my breath. That’s better. I look at him standing in front of me still holding my purse. He looks pretty silly with a purple leather knock off Prada purse, and I attempt to avoid smiling, but I can’t help it. Thanks, I tell him.

You’re welcome, Miss…?

Holt, I say. Leah Holt. I’m so sorry about your car.

He shrugs. I’m sorry about yours. Should we exchange information?

I nod and reach into my purse. Luckily, car insurance isn’t dependent upon employment so I still have that, though I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to pay the bills on it. Plus it’s a Chicago company, and I wonder how terms will apply outside of the state of Illinois. I find a piece of paper and pen and write down my phone number and insurance information on it and give it to him. Then he does the same for me on my notebook and hands it back with his information and phone number. Ash Lavanne, I read. He even has a hot name. Welcome home, Leah, I think to myself. Nice to meet you, Ash. I’m…sorry about your bumper.

Nice to meet you too, Leah, he says. The corners of his mouth are twitching slightly, threatening to make me think naughty thoughts again. Sorry about your car and your asthma attack. Are you okay to drive?

I should be, I say. I notice I’m still shaking a little bit but I feel a bit better and calmer. I realize that it’s probably just getting colder outside as the sun is setting and my jacket is still in the car. I’m fine.

Good, he says. I’ll call my lawyer and he’ll contact you immediately.

Lawyer? I gasp. Are you kidding me? My insurance should take care of it. No need to take this to court or anything. Oh god, where was my inhaler?

I’m kidding, he says, holding his hands up. Horrible joke, I know. Don’t have another attack. He grins to reveal perfectly even teeth, then he turns and walks back to his car, letting himself in. I stand in shock and watch as he waves with one arm out the window and drives away. I decide to do the same so I don’t block any more traffic at the Worst Traffic Light in the World. Besides, it’s cold out and I have to pee.

Well Betsey, I say out loud like an idiot once I am back in my car. This is probably just the first shit storm of today that I’ll have to go through, but I’m sorry you got the worst of it. In response she comes to life with a twist of my key in the ignition. Thanks for that, I tell her, grateful she is still drivable.

Carlton howls at me. Oh shut up, I say grumpily. We’re almost there and you’re totally fine.

And now off to deal with my mother.

Chapter 2

The house I grew up in is a two story Tudor on the corner of Amethyst and Sinistro. From the front it looks like an average sized house, though if you view it from the side it seems to stretch on forever. The mass of weeping willow trees in front shield the view of the sides. It’s a huge house that my dad bought on a police chief’s salary. The Holt family stretches back a long way in Blackwater and hasn’t always been blue collar, so the term old money applies to us. My memories of the house are twisted up in my brain into something that the house no longer is. I remember it being warm, with dark hardwood floors and large leather sofas. I remember a place where Heidi and I would climb on my dad and he would tickle us and give us bear hugs. Persian rugs covered the floors everywhere, heaped upon each other in no logical fashion or pattern, but it made the décor all the more unique and cozy. Our live in housekeeper, Isabel, took care of Heidi and me as children and well into our teenage years. She was always baking something from scratch, from fresh bread made in a Dutch oven, to cakes, brownies and cookies. It’s a wonder I’m not four hundred pounds, but thankfully my height and frame prevent me from gaining weight too visibly.

Since Dad left almost fifteen years ago things have changed. The dark hardwood floors have been bleached to California Blonde. The masculine leather furniture is now white microfiber and looks like it shouldn’t be used. The Persian rugs are gone, the bleached hardwood bare and gleaming, refinished in the places where the rugs wore down the wood. The entire freezer is packed full of Lean Cuisines and the fridge and garage have at least a month’s supply of Diet Coke, since my mother no longer needs Isabel to cook for a family of four and my mother never learned how to do it herself. Everything has been painted over in white. Family pictures with my dad have been removed and replaced with forced family photos of my mother and Heidi and me, all taken from when I was fifteen to seventeen. In them, Heidi and my mother’s smiles are forced and look almost plastic and painful. I don’t smile at all. I’m a horrible liar.

I am here unannounced and my mother is sipping a glass of white wine across the counter from me in the kitchen. Her unlined face says it all. Why are you back? Besides the occasional phone call home on my part for holidays and birthdays, contact with my mother has been practically nonexistent for over ten years. She looks the same as the last time I saw her, with platinum hair pulled back in a waved upsweep that any 1950’s housewife would have envied. She never changes. She even wears an apron over her beige silk dress as her Lean Cuisine spins in the microwave. Her eyes are the same ice blue as Heidi’s, and I tower over my mother and sister by a half a foot. All of my height and looks are purely my father’s side of the family. My mother refers to our looks as Black Dutch, which is her politically incorrect way of saying we’re dark. My dad and I always tanned easily, have dark brown hair and the same coffee-with-cream-brown eyes. Heidi and my mother are Barbie doll blonde, except the Barbie height and boobs are all mine.

The microwave beeps and my mother pulls out a container with butternut squash ravioli and broccoli that smells like burned plastic. She carefully peels off the plastic that covers the steaming processed food and obtains a plastic fork from a drawer. She has perfected the art of housekeeping by making everything in the kitchen disposable. Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat? she asks me.

I’m fine, I tell her. I ate not too long ago on the road.

Hopefully not fast food, she says, as though her Lean Cuisine is so much better. Do you know the other day I was watching the ten o’clock news and they were talking about how a woman found a beak inside of her chicken sandwich? Can you imagine?

I stay away from fast food, I tell her. Remember it makes me sick?

Well it’s not obvious to me, she says, stabbing into some ravioli with her plastic fork. She eats standing up. It looks as though you’ve let yourself go a bit. You’re so tall, it’s amazing I can see any weight gain at all on you.

I glare at her. Mother, I’m currently at a healthy BMI. I’m just not a teenager anymore.

She ignores me. I know you’re having a rough time, but it’s important that you eat well and stay active now that you’re planning to be single again.

Mom, I’m a size six. That’s hardly fat. And I run practically every day if I have time. My mother never seemed to understand that while she and Heidi are wispy women, I’m actually curvy. It definitely shows in all of the right places, but clothes have always been a problem to fit correctly. Running sometimes requires multiple bras, depending on what time of the month it is.

She points her plastic fork over to the