Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Chloe

Like a sister.

I close the door to Sam’s BMW with a little more force than necessary, fingers slipping from the handle due to the rain. Focusing my attention on the front door of the house, I walk up the driveway, each step squishing beneath my feet.

I’m so stupid. Naive. I guess I’ll never change.

Sam is still in the driveway when I get onto the porch, and I make it a point not to turn around and look at him. Really, I shouldn’t be mad. Not at him. He did nothing wrong this time, and offering to take me home so I don’t have to walk in the rain was nice of him, and I’m quite thankful because thunder is rumbling overhead again. The storm is getting its second wind—literally. It would have taken me a while to walk back from the picnic shelter. I’m already cold, and there’s no promise a tree wouldn’t have fallen on me. If the impact alone didn’t kill me, I could very easily become hypothermic and die a slow, painful death.

Okay, probably not, since it’s still seventy-five degrees out, but the dirt is cold, and I’d at least be chewed to near death from bugs. Sighing, I swing my backpack over my shoulder and get the house key, though I don’t need it. Dad left the house unlocked, like so many others do in this small town. Yeah, Silver Ridge has a low crime rate, but walking into an empty house that’s been left unlocked freaks me out a bit.

Balloon comes running, barking his little head off. At least I’d know if a stranger was hiding inside the house…unless they’ve secretly worked on slowly building trust and this little yorkie-mix sees them as a friend. Dammit, I overthink things way too much, but that’s what makes me a good writer, I hope at least.

“Hey, buddy,” I tell Balloon, peeling my wet clothes off in the foyer. I ball them up and bring them into the laundry room. I turn my boots upside down on a towel and make a mental note to put them out in the sun when the storm finally passes so they can dry.

I go right upstairs and get into the shower, grumbling to myself the whole time about how pathetic and stupid I am. It’s easier to focus on being angry, to mentally kick myself over and over, than it is to admit just how much it hurt—how much it still fucking hurt—to hear Sam refer to me as a sister again.

You were always like a sister to her…to all of us.

And she was to me, but Sam was never like a brother to me. So much for all the inspiration I found sitting out in the woods. If Kellie—my main character—were here, she’d slap me and tell me to get out of my funk. To get over it and not waste time on a guy. Though she’d also fight to the death for Marcus, her one true love.

“Fuck,” I sigh and sink to the shower floor, putting my head in my hands. I stay there for a few minutes, doing the breathing techniques I learned during my yoga lessons, and actually feel a little better when I stand back up, quickly shampooing and conditioning my hair so I can get out of the shower.

I started writing my Shadowfall series as an escape. Kellie is everything I wish I could be, and her romance is what I dream of. It’s not perfect, she and Marcus fight and bicker, but their love is truer than anything, and it’s one of the things people love so much about the series. Love can conquer all, even though you might have to kill a few demons here or there to get to that point.

Toweling off my hair, I dress in sleeper shorts and a baggy t-shirt. Balloon is waiting outside the door for me, and I go downstairs to get us both a quick snack. I have two and a half hours until Dad and Wendy will come back for dinner. I can get a lot written in two hours, leaving the extra thirty minutes to get myself looking halfway presentable.

But as soon as I open my laptop, I toss my head back in frustration. Charles matches the description of Marcus perfectly, and fans of the series had already envisioned him playing the sexy vampire before the books even got optioned for screen. Tall, muscular, with dark hair and dark blue eyes, Charles is perfect to play him, but I always envisioned someone else, and that someone just reaffirmed my worst fear from when we were kids.

The man I’ve been in love with sees me as his sister, and that’s not sexy in the least. I need to give it up, to get over it, and accept—finally fucking accept—that Sam will never see me the way I see him.

Looking at my notebook, I start to type what I wrote longhand, but find myself secretly wanting Kellie to get possessed by an evil spirit so she can slap Sam—aka Marcus—around a bit. I laugh at my own stupidity and set the notebook down, going onto social media instead. I’m cheered up almost instantly when I see some fan-made teasers for the series and feel inspired all over again.

Turning on my playlist I put together just for this book, I get back into it, pounding out over a thousand words in just half an hour. I’m back in the groove, patching the part where I left off to where I wrote that sword fighting scene Charles will be happy about.

And speaking of him, I never listened to his voice messages from before. It’s the downfall of sending each other voice messages instead of regular texts. Unless I have my headphones on, I can’t listen to them in mixed company.

I press play on his first message, listening to him ramble about some gossip he heard on set. Most of our messages are this way, talking about nothing in particular. The fifth message asks if I’m still alive, since I haven’t replied or even listened to his messages yet.

“Yes, I’m alive,” I say and send the message. “I went into the woods to try to get inspired and you’ll never guess who I ran into.”

Three little dots show up in the conversation, followed by a text.

Charles: At the gym, can’t listen. You’re alive though, right?!

Me: Chloe is alive for now. This is her kidnapper. I expect a million dollars and some nudes sent right away or I’m going to off her.

Charles quickly sends a photo of a very obese naked man holding a bunch of dollar bills.

Me: You sent that WAY too fast, sicko.

Charles: hahahaha you know I have an arsenal of photos like that just for you.

Me: I don’t doubt it.

I put the phone down and go back to my book, writing a few more sentences before Charles texts me again.

Charles: Just listened. Who did you run into?

I hesitate for a moment, feeling almost overly dramatic bringing it up. There’s no point. I might see Sam once or twice before I go back to LA, and then it’ll be business as usual. He’ll forget about me, and I’ll get busy and remember I don’t have time for a love life, even if the guy I do love decides to hook up with his sister—gross, Chloe. “Too far,” I huff, though that is how Sam thinks of me. I stare at the screen of my phone for a few seconds before texting Charles, hesitant to say it because I know he’s going to want details.

Me: Sam.

Charles: The guy who humiliated you in college?

Me: Yep. That’s the one.

Charles: Annnddddd?

Me: And what? We said hi, he drove me home because it was raining or else I would have had to walk through the woods and that’s it.

A few seconds pass by and Charles sends a voice message. “Remind me what happened again.”

I sigh thinking about it, refusing to let something that happened all those years ago embarrass me still…but it does. “They basically pulled a Vivienne from Legally Blonde on me and told me that a party was a costume party when it wasn’t. I showed up dressed like a pirate—and not the sexy kind—and everyone laughed and took pictures, and one of the photos ended up on the front page of the university newspaper. The sorority got in trouble for it and lost their credibility, so the rest of my senior year, the girls had it out for me, blaming me for their charter or chapter or whatever getting shut down.”

“Fuck,” Charles says back. “That’s fucking shitty—hang on, my trainer is coming back.”

Me: Go work out and stay in tip-top vampire shape. I’m going to try to finish another chapter before dinner with my dad. And yes, I gave you a sword fighting scene that’s really fucking cool, if I do say so myself.

Charles sends back a heart emoji, and I try to focus on writing again, but my mind goes back to that day in college. Sam wasn’t the one who lied to me, who purposely tried to embarrass me, but he was on-and-off dating Heather Hunt, the head bitch in charge at the sorority. I was under the impression they were off, and Sam had asked me to go to the party with him.

I thought it was a date…a real date. Our first date.

Heather was jealous of my close relationship with Sam, as well as raging that my short story won in a contest and hers didn’t even get an honorable mention. She was majoring in English and thought it was bullshit a sociology major was even allowed to enter the contest, let alone win.

The fake costume party was an elaborate set-up, and she got a lot of people in on it. If Sam was with Heather the night before like she claimed, then he had to have known, and that’s what hurt the most. He’d moved on to med school by then and wasn’t at Michigan State anymore, and arrived that weekend just to party with us. The contest was supposed to be judged on historical accuracy, so I went all out with my pirate costume and even got fake teeth to wear since mine were white and perfectly straight, thanks to wearing braces in middle school.

Unlike Elle Woods, I didn’t stay at the party, acting like it didn’t bother me. If I’d shown up like a sexy bunny, maybe I would have. But I ran out in tears, blinded from all the cameras flashing. The last thing I remember was looking right at Sam, who was already drunk. He just stood there, the shock obvious on his face, while Heather threw her arm around him, cackling as she took photos.

That was the last time we saw each other. He called me nonstop, and emailed me three days after that, but Farisha deleted the email saying I didn’t need to hear any bullshit apology. He didn’t do anything to stop them, which she said was just as bad as being in on it. He didn’t defend me. Didn’t run out after me. And from what I heard, he kept dating Heather after that.

It was the ultimate betrayal and would have hurt even if I hadn’t been secretly in love with Sam since childhood. Once a playboy, always a playboy, and I doubt he’s changed.

So as far as I’m concerned, Sam Harris can go fuck himself.

*

“No phones at the table.”

I flick my eyes from my phone to Dad, smiling. “Sorry. I’ve been waiting for an email from my editor all day, and she just emailed me back.”

“What did she say?” Wendy asks.

“She likes the chapter and outline I sent.” I trade my phone for a glass of sangria, which Wendy made herself and is really good. Wendy asks me about the writing process, which she’s asked about a dozen times before, but I have to give her props. She wants to be involved and wants me to know she cares, but also doesn’t want me to think she’s hoping to replace my mom. If I was younger, that could have been a concern, but it’s not now. Especially since ghost-Mom told me to push them together. She loves Dad even from beyond the grave and wants him to be happy.

“This is good,” I tell Wendy, scooping up another bite of homemade macaroni and cheese. “I could eat my weight in cheese, you know.”

“I do,” Wendy says with a smile. “There are lots of leftovers for you while we’re gone. It should last you a few days.”

“I’m capable of cooking, but thank you. It’ll save me time and save me from ordering pizza every day.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to tag along?” Dad asks, worried my feelings are hurt that I got here only for them to leave. It’s my fault, really, for not calling and making sure a visit worked for everyone.

“Yes. Having the house to myself will be peaceful. I’m hoping to have this book almost done by the time you’re back.”

“You can write that much in a week?” Wendy asks.

I nod. “I usually take like a month to write a book, well, the first draft. And that’s while maintaining somewhat of a personal life and going to the gym daily. With no distractions or other obligations, I think I can double my daily word count.”

“Just remember to shower,” Dad adds with a wink.

“You might want to text me on your way back and remind me. Or else you’ll come home to a week of me not showering.”

“Go out and enjoy yourself too,” Dad urges. “You can’t man the boat well on your own, but the jet ski is a one-man vehicle.”

“Or woman,” Wendy adds under her breath, and Dad gives her a you-know-what-I-meant look.

“The keys to both are in the mudroom cabinet,” Dad goes on. “Enjoy the silence while you can but have some fun too.”

“Writing is fun,” I insist, though there are many nights where I’d rather park my ass on the couch and not move for hours while I binge watch some show I’m not all that invested in. It’s easier than writing, after all. But I really do love what I do for a living.

“I might take the jet ski out for a bit,” I say. “It sounds fun and is a good way to work on my tan without lying in the unbearable heat. It’s so humid.”

“You don’t have much humidity out west,” Wendy notes. “Lucky.”

“Oh, trust me, I know how lucky I am.” It was one of the main reasons I moved to California in the first place. I was sick and tired of being cold in the winter and then melting from the humidity in the summer. LA is nice and all, with ideal weather, but it's never felt like home.

For some reason, I always had it in the back of my mind that I’d come back here. It was home for so long, and even though I’d prefer to be on the west coast in the winter, I can’t deny how pretty everything is when it’s covered in frost and snow, looking like Elsa came through and dusted everything in reflective glassy ice.

And maybe, just maybe, another part of me thought Silver Ridge would be my home again because I loved something—okay, someone—in it.