Falling For Jack: Love In Santa Lena, #1

Prologue

Harper

Please, please, please, let me get home, I chanted and swallowed back the sour, bitter taste in my mouth. Beads of sweat dripped down my face and I used my bare arm to wipe them, careful not to take my hands from the steering wheel. The car had to stay on the road. Please, please, please, let me get home before I explode, I muttered again to no one. I swear I won’t ask for anything again. Ever.

The temperature knob on the dash protested, but in the end, I won the battle. Albeit, not without scars. Dammit all to hell! I yelled. My finger throbbed where the nail ripped after catching on the stupid thing. A broken nail sucked, but I needed warmth more than pretty pink nails.

Heat would stop the shivering. Right? The moldy stench of the long-dormant heater shot out of the vents. Blocked sinuses were a small price to pay.

The odd, gurgling noises emanating from my stomach reached DEFCON 5 volume. I refused to give in to the overwhelming desire to pull the car over and hurl my guts out. The traffic was unforgiving at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon, but I still had to get home, and fast.

Sour meat boiled up from the depths of my intestinal tract, but I forced it down. Damn my stupid cousin and her culinary ineptitude. My best guess was that she poisoned me with her horrible cooking last night. I knew better than to risk eating anything that idiot made, but I couldn’t help it. It took her ages to prepare it and I felt guilty because nobody else ate it.

She helped us move into a cheaper apartment—previous one was too expensive—and was taking the spare room. Her third of the rent was going to help a lot, as long as my husband stayed away from the tracks.

It took so long for that crappy roast to cook, that both my cousin and husband ordered pizza instead. Why I felt the need to eat that half-cooked beef remained a mystery. Huge mistake.

Ugh, stop thinking about that tepid roast beef. The memory was taking over my mind, and it was not helping my plight. Get home. Get home.

Shit, I nearly took a wrong turn. It had only been a few days, but I was still getting used to a new address.

No time to turn off the vehicle or close the door. Instead, I rushed up the stairs to our apartment, my flats sliding on the old painted wooden steps.

Instant panic flooded my body as I searched my empty hands for my purse and keys. Damn. In the car. Everything was in the fucking car. Infuriated with my stupidity, I kicked the apartment door and added to the variety of dents and scratches.

Hoping against hope, I reached for the doorknob. My sweaty palms slipped and slid against the warm metal, but I breathed a sigh of relief as it turned. Success! The reprieve, no matter how temporary, felt fantastic. Safe at home. Finally, home. Dizzy and woozy, I landed my hands against the wall. Bathroom. Get to the bathroom. Now. Mary-Jane’s cheap, black high heels tripped me up and impeded my progress. What the hell? Wasn’t she wearing those when she left this morning?

Not to be a bitch or anything, but even on a fabulous sale, I’d never buy such awful looking whore shoes. When I met Gabe, I gave up on heels—much to my mother’s dismay. He didn’t like me being taller than him, and you didn’t want to poke the bear. Trust me, giving up heels was the easier fix.

Bathroom. Focus.

Two steps down the hall, a wailing of, Oooooohhhhhh, Gabe! Yes, yes, yes! confused the crap out of me. Did Gabe leave the TV on in our bedroom? Wait. There was no TV in our bedroom. What the hell?

Then it all became crystal clear as I stood in the doorway and saw Gabe’s scrawny, bare ass on top of Mary-Jane—the whore—minus the whore shoes and everything else. He was still going for the gusto as my body stood there. Frozen. The next instant, my stomach fell and air was no longer getting into my lungs.

Gabe’s deep, methodical grunts and the rhythmic squeaking of our bed forced reality to set in and I rushed out, just in time.

Hands cupped under the faucet, I splashed cool water onto my sweat-covered face. Black mascara dripped down my cheeks as I glimpsed at myself in the bathroom mirror. Gabe’s face appeared above mine—the handsome face I used to rush home to see. The man I gave my heart to, but he never really wanted it.

And what happened when you finally figured out that you married someone who didn’t give one shit about you? Well, first, you blamed yourself. Then, you tried to change all of the annoying things about yourself so as not to set off your mate. Lastly, you ended up catching him in bed with your skanky cousin.

What the fuck are you doing home so early? I thought you were at work? he asked accusingly. As if him being inside my cousin was somehow my fault.

I wiped my face, turned around, and scowled at the imbecile before me. He was wearing a robe, my Christmas present to him last year. You couldn’t get fucking dressed before coming to talk? I flipped the towel out toward him. The thought made me want to hurl again.

We thought you were at work. I swear we thought you wouldn’t be home, Mary-Jane chimed in, now cowering behind Gabe. Good freaking God. Was this bitch for real? She reached for his arm, but he yanked it away and glared down at her. Maybe that was why he liked her—she was much shorter than him. And dumber. Both being difficult feats to achieve, but Mary-Jane fit the bill. Congratu-fucking-lations.

Are you wearing my robe? My heart began to beat faster, and my face heated. "Do not tell me you’re wearing my fucking robe," I growled, shaking my head. My eyes squinted at my daft cousin, and all I could think about was wrapping my hands around her puny little chicken neck.

Unable to wait one second longer, I lunged in her direction. Gabe anticipated my move and got between us before I reached her neck, but I seized a handful of her robe instead...my robe.

Mary-Jane squeaked and ripped the material out of my hand as she backed up. Are you crazy? What’s the matter with you? she screamed at me, clutching my robe around her unblemished neck.

Get your hands off me, I said to Gabe as I struggled in his hold. I want my robe back. Give me my fucking robe. Mary-Jane’s face froze in terror, then she turned and ran back to my room and slammed the door. The little slut.

Settle down, he grunted, dodging my swinging arms. The belt of his robe didn’t withstand our tussle and it opened, revealing everything his momma gave him. Gross. His naked body, fresh from doing my stupid cousin, was more than I could handle.

I shoved him one last time with all my might. Let go of me, you asshole. You and your hick-loving hands. He stepped back, stunned, and stared at me as if he’d been shot.

My short burst of energy disappeared, and any minute the floor would be my new best friend. Go. Just grab your shit and leave, I told him, gripping the faux-marble vanity for dear life. My long hair stuck in clumps to my damp face, and I tried my best to shake it away, unable to let go of the sink. And take your hillbilly whore with you, I said over my shoulder.

The mirror reflected the sight of a scared stranger. She was barely recognizable—long, straggly blonde hair, mascara running down her cheeks. What gutted me the most was the look of pure devastation in her eyes. Helplessness. What the fuck was happening? I gasped for air, but I refused to cry in front of this asswipe. I would not let him know how deep this cut.

Honey, it doesn’t have to be this way, Gabe said as he walked up behind me. He placed his hands on my shoulders and squeezed. Again, I cursed as his face appeared beside mine in the mirror.

A loud snort came out. Honey? When was the last time you called me honey? I sneered at him over my shoulder, my hands still white-knuckling the edge of the counter. The touch of his filth on me was too much to take, so I shook him off. The only time you ever acknowledge me is when you want a beer but don’t want to get up. My legs were shaking, and my knees were about to give out, so I risked the few steps to the side of the bathtub.

The cool porcelain comforted my burning skin, but only for a moment. So much for small pleasures. I said, I want you and that fucking idiot out of my apartment. I reached for the closest thing and threw it. The soap bounced off his chest and landed on the floor between us.

He repeated his earlier mantra, It doesn’t have to be this way. Look, it was a one-time thing.

I screeched at the top of my lungs, I said to fucking leave! Are you deaf? Oh God, now my head was splitting in pain. I cradled my poor pounding brain and rocked on the edge of the tub.

We can work this out. She means nothing to me, he said, pointing his finger in the general vicinity of our room.

Obviously, I don’t mean anything to you either, I said, peering at him through my fingers. I wish you could be a better man. God knows I’ve been waiting for you to change. My voice cracked. But no matter what I do, no matter what self-help books I read, you will always be…you. I nodded to him and my overheated body shook.

When I married Gabe, I thought I finally found a real man, but a real man wouldn’t gamble away money his family didn’t have. A real man wouldn’t let TV shows and video games be more important than his wife. A real man wouldn’t spend so much on a car that we had to eat ramen noodles and mac and cheese most nights.

A real man wouldn’t have been inside my cousin, having the time of his life.

What the hell was wrong with me?

1

Harper

I don’t care what that asswipe said. I looked freaking gorgeous in that dress, I mumbled under my breath, as I continued cutting his pathetic looking face out of my wedding photos. Gabe no longer deserved the right to have his face next to mine.

For one brief moment, I considered burning the entire album, but that would have been a waste of gorgeous hair and makeup. Not to mention the fire codes in my crappy apartment building likely didn’t approve of torching your wedding album in the living room. They should, though. Especially if said album contained a lying, cheating, bastard of a man who broke your heart.

We should have sprung for an apartment with a fireplace.

Oh well, too late now.

Over the years, Gabe had extracted me from my life and deposited me into his. It happened slowly, an imperceptible shift. First, he didn’t want to go out with my friends anymore. Next, he complained whenever I went out with them. And soon enough, I stopped going out altogether so I wouldn’t have to deal with his temper tantrums later. Trust me, the guy could put on a good show.

The situation was impossible for me to see at the time, but he had slowly and methodically separated me from everything and everyone I held dear in my life. I didn’t even know about his gambling until we were well into our marriage. The warnings had gone unheeded—heaven knows everyone and their dog tried to advise me. But marriage was forever. Right? You didn’t give up when the going got tough.

But you did give up when you came home to find your betrothed going at it with your cousin. I shivered at the memory of those two. If only there were brain bleach that could kill that image from replaying inside my head.

I kept cutting. The five-layer cake in the picture was phenomenal in both looks and price. Extra pink roses and detailing cost an arm and a leg, but it was worth it. Wasn’t it?

What was not worth it was listening to Gabe regurgitate those facts back to me for months…years to come. He always had to one-up me, and his logic was, if I got my wedding—that we saved up for—he could get whatever he wanted. Whenever he wanted it. Which was mostly booze, gambling, and games.

So, no, the cake and the wedding were not worth it.

Harper, don’t you think it’s a bit much? I mimicked Gabe’s voice in a too-high octave. What will people think? That was what he said about my dress. My beautiful dress with a fitted bodice that flared out to a fluffy, full floor-length skirt.

The pictures I held in my hands displayed a happy princess. Too bad the guy turned out to be a toad even after I kissed him.

Was I blind? Was I too fucking blind to see what was happening? The scissors flew across the room and stuck in the drywall above the TV. Uh-oh. They almost hit the TV. Gabe’s precious fucking TV. The TV he couldn’t stop watching to pay me any attention. Bastard.

Before I realized what was happening, I barreled toward his gaming system, my vision clouded with rage. He wants his fucking game back? I screamed at the TV. Take your fucking game back, you piece of shit. And then the gaming system somehow flew through the air and crashed into the TV.

Glass was everywhere. Something registered that I should feel terrible about destroying something so expensive, but what I felt instead was far from guilt. I felt powerful. Relieved. Trashing his shit made me feel better. Therefore, I needed to trash more of his shit. That made complete sense.

The pounding in my ears was so loud it was impossible to hear the pounding on the door—or perhaps I just didn’t care. There were curtains that needed replacing. The curtain rod made a loud snap as my hands gripped and pulled down the long, thick, black drapes. "Who the fuck puts up black curtains? Huh? What kind of psycho puts up black curtains?" I yelled as I fought with the velvety material. It wasn’t coming down without a fight, so I grabbed on tight and gave one last yank.

Is everything okay? a sweet voice called from my doorway. Startled, I fought and wrestled with the heavy material that had fallen on me.

Fine, I said, struggling to catch my breath. My nerves got the best of me and I ran my hands through my hair, as if tidy locks would erase the damage I’d done. All good in here. My new neighbor stood staring at the display before her. Her white pantsuit must’ve cost a mint and fit her like she was born to wear it. And those leather heels with criss-cross straps would have set me back a paycheck or two. A thought suddenly occurred to me. How did you get in? I was sure I locked the door, I said, absolutely positive I had done just that.

Did that asshole do this? she asked, changing the subject. Her face scowled as she examined the shattered TV and glass all over my living room.

Uh, I assume you mean my cheating husband. But, no. I did it. All me, I answered with a shaky voice and a shaky smile to match. Sorry for the noise. I just...got...angry, I told her, then wiped under my eyes to catch the tears that fell. Shit, sorry, I apologized again.

She sighed and let her hands slide from her hips. Kicked him to the curb, did you? I heard the disturbance over here yesterday. Have to say I pegged him as a cheater the minute I laid eyes on him, she mused as she moved the wedding photos to the side with her perfect shoe. Five-tier wedding cake. Good choice, she said and half-nodded. Nice touch with the cascading pink and white roses. This chick really knew her wedding cakes.

It was alternating vanilla and chocolate layers, I told her as my voice cracked and my eyes filled with tears again.

Her delicate hand swooped down to grab one of the cut-up photos. Although, she tapped the picture with her professionally manicured finger, that’s a bit more glitter than I’d personally put on a wedding gown.

Yeah. I smiled at her through my tears. Isn’t it great? The bridesmaids had matching iridescent glitter on their dresses. Her sharp eyes took me in and assessed. My legs wobbled from my emotion overload, and without warning, she stepped in and grabbed me in a tight hug. It was incredibly weird but incredibly comforting. I held on for dear life and continued sobbing. I was embarrassed for the tears and snot I was likely getting all over her expensive suit, but I couldn’t stop. It was the most secure I’d been in ages. Maybe ever.

My tears slowed, and my sobbing stopped when a loud, What is happening? boomed from the doorway. Some kind of raid? The r in raid was rolled in a beautiful accent. I looked over to see my other neighbor in a blue, white, and green striped brunch coat. We represented the entire spectrum of fashion—angel in her high-class white suit, me in baggy jeans and a sweatshirt, and the old woman in...pj’s.

I stepped away. Oh, no, sorry. I got mad and smashed my TV to smithereens, I tried to explain, pointing at the TV and sounding like a complete moron.

Good. Her arms went up in the air. Anger is the first step to getting over these things. You got lots more to go, but this is good start. I’ll go get garbage bags and gloves to pick that up. She motioned to the glass with her pointy, red polished finger. Nobody touches nothing until I get back, she ordered and turned to walk away.

I’m Riley and that was Roza. We’ll be helping you clean up this evening whether you like it or not, she said with such sweet, sincere, hopeful eyes.

For some reason, we both burst out in laughter. Suddenly, at that moment, I didn’t feel quite so alone anymore.

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER…

There was knocking at my door, followed by a loud voice yelling, Hello? Harper, open up. I’d know that voice anywhere.

Stepping over the few shoes I kept in the entryway, I opened the door. Hi, Roza. Since the night she and Riley came to my rescue, we were all pretty tight.

Harper, she bellowed, even though I was right beside her. With her Czech accent, it sounded more like, Harrrrrpurrr. She had two levels on her voice volume-o-meter—loud and burst-your-gosh-darn-eardrums. I loved her, but sometimes she made my ears bleed.

I wished I could rrrrrrolll my r’s like her. Sometimes I practiced in the shower. Roza must be in her mid-seventies by my best guess. She was sweet as heck, once you got past all the layers of gruff and bossy.

Roza pointed at me. Go outside, my love. What you think, man of your dreams will pop out of window? She swung her long arm out toward the big window where the morning sun streamed in. Her arm stopped moving, but the skin under her arm took a few more seconds to come to a complete halt.

Today’s brunch coat was bright yellow. You would think that someone who wore pajamas all day would look like a slob, but not Roza. Her blonde-gray hair was always styled in an immovable high bun. I had no clue how she achieved that incredible feat. It could be windy as hell outside, but Roza’s hair wouldn’t budge. Perhaps it was too scared?

Do you want coffee? I made a pot. I walked to the kitchen and grabbed two mugs from the top cabinet. It’s seven a.m. I’m sure all the available bachelors are still sleeping. Most mornings I try to wait until at least nine to pounce on my unsuspecting victims. What a joke that was. I hadn’t pounced on anything besides my battery-operated buddy in well over a year and a half.

Am I still breathing? Of course, I want coffee, she said and frowned at me. But it wasn’t a real frown. And don’t blame me for you not having a man. You need to start early in day if you want to find good one this time. Not another skinny little wimp like last one, she said, sucking in her cheeks and squeezing her arms to her sides in an attempt to make herself small. This did not work. Roza was not and would never be small. She was built like a brick shithouse. "I’ll pick good man