Forget Me Not

By K.S. Thomas

For seven years, Cooper's tried to forget. 

Forget the night she nearly died. Forget the weeks and months and hospitals that followed. And, mostly, forget Reed. The boy she nearly married. The boy she loved. The boy who woke up from the accident... and couldn't remember.

For seven years, Reed couldn't remember his life before the accident. All he had to cling to was the faded image of a face. Her face. Forever rising to the surface of his muddied memories. With nothing else to go on, it was easy to dismiss her as a figment of his imagination. Then a moment of Déjà vu changes everything.

 

Now, Cooper finally has her life back on track. She's got a home, a career, and a man who waited patiently for her heart to heal. Just as it starts to pay off to forget, fate threatens to steal it all away a second time when Reed suddenly shows up...and remembers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Never Did Point North Publishing
• Release date: Apr 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386202561

K.S. Thomas

Originally born and raised in Bremen, Germany, I currently reside in sunny Florida with my teenage daughter, our coyote, a three-legged roo, and a tamed wolf (AKA, our dogs). I like to think we have a bit of a Gilmore Girls thing going, except my kid is obsessed with dance not books, and I’m (much to my increasing disappointment) appropriately aged to have a teenager.    I love coffee and yoga and the ocean and cooking and asking 'none of my business' questions whenever possible. While I spent my childhood certain I could be a Disney princess, sitting here, surrounded by my crystals, smudge sticks and tarot cards, eager to get out to my garden and walk on the earth in my bare feet and chat with the lizards about not eating my plants, I’m pretty sure I grew up to be the witch. The good sort. And, obviously, I write romance novels. That is, after all, what brought us together. Our love for...well, love. And who can blame us? Love has the power to bring out the best and the worst in us. It can make us strong or be our greatest weakness. It can make us move mountains or make us do some of the dumbest shit in the history of dumb shit. In short, love is entertaining as hell.

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Olivia ‘Heartbreaker’ Badilla – The fierce and fearless queen of ink with a heart of gold. Outside of her tattoo shop and her friends, the only thing that matters to Heartbreaker is her seventeen-year-old nice, Madi, whom she’s raised from the time Madi was twelve.  

Lucas McNealy has been in love with Madi’s Aunt Liv for as long as he can remember. But the nine years between them has kept her from taking notice. Until now. Seven years in the army should be enough to help her see the difference between the boy he was then, and the man he is now.  

And maybe it is.  

But romance is the last thing on Heartbreaker’s mind when Lucas shows up ready to claim her. She’s got bigger problems than his childhood crush, mainly her criminal brother who’s back in town and wreaking havoc right outside her door. It’s what he always does. What he’s always done. Only this time, the toxic wake of his disastrous choices is spreading beyond his control. It won’t be long before it threatens to take down the shop and everyone in it. Including Madi.  

Heartbreaker is prepared to wage war against the evil her brother is in business with. And she’s determined to do it alone.  

What she isn’t prepared to do is fall in love with the worst possible choice at the worst possible time.  

But then Lucas might prove just as determined as she is...

IF YOU LIKE FIERCE heroines, tattoos, and swoon-worthy heroes, then you'll love this contemporary romantic suspense. Download it for free at: www.authorksthomas.com

BEFORE

Memories Made

Cooper

CHAPTER ONE

I CAN FEEL SOMEONE else in the room before I even open my eyes. It’s him. Bastian. The only biological child among five in my newest foster family. It’s not shocking to anyone that he’s their golden boy. The thing I do find more than a little disconcerting, is just how inept he is at living up to said title. He’s arrogant, not unusual for a jock, I suppose, but for someone who spends a great deal of time functioning in a team environment, Bastian is one of the most self-involved people I’ve ever encountered. He goes for seconds before some have had a chance for firsts at nearly every meal. He spends hours grooming himself in the one bathroom all five of us share, and in the three weeks I’ve been here, I have yet to enjoy the privilege of a hot shower.

But even his arrogance and intense levels of self-infatuation pale in comparison to his creep factor. He leers at the girls his parents insist on referring to as his sisters, myself included. I can’t count the number of times I’ve found myself half naked just to look up and see him standing in the room, acting as though he has every right to be there. I’ve complained repeatedly about the lock on my door being broken, but no one seems particularly bothered by it other than me. As a result, I’ve started dressing in layers just so I can switch outfits without ever having to be completely undressed. The bathroom is no better. Bastian has a tendency to leave his phone behind, in strange and hidden places, and twice I’ve stumbled on it only to find the camera running on record. I hate it here, but every attempt I’ve made to express my concerns have fallen on deaf ears. As usual.

His newest stalking hobby is yet another step closer on his ever-shortening ladder toward total sexual assault and I have no intention of sticking around to see how long it takes for him to climb that final rung.

Get out of my room, Bastian, I hiss, without moving a muscle or conveying just how awake and alert I am. I’m desperately hoping for this aspect of surprise to work to my advantage.

I’m not in your room, I’m in your dreams. Just go with it. Apparently not.

More like a fucking nightmare. I still don’t make any efforts to sit or act too bothered. Instead, I carefully glide my hand along the mattress and reach between it and the box spring. I should warn you, I tend to wake up screaming from those. My hand curls around the handle of a wooden spoon I swiped from the kitchen last week in anticipation of this very moment. Not my first foster family nightmare. Loudly.

In mere seconds, he’s hovering over me like a hawk on his prey. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll be quiet.

I move the handle toward the edge of the bed, ready to yank it out and attack. How exactly is that in my best interest? These encounters often go nicely with blackmail. If he has some angle in that game, I prefer to know ahead of time.

If you don’t, I’ll tell my parents I caught you sneaking out again. And when I tried to stop you, you screamed.  Even in the pitch-black I can see his shoulders move up and down in a casual shrug. I know you meet up with your little boyfriend when you leave here, I hear he’s got quite the bad rap already. Doubt it would be hard to pin a little more bad news on him.

You leave him out of this. You don’t know anything, I snap, fear and frustration coming to a head. But I do. Maybe I’ll tell a little story of my own. How would you like that? Huh?

He laughs. Right, because when given the choice between their only son and the troubled foster kid they were gracious enough to take in, my parents will totally believe you. He leans down until his mouth his right beside my ear. His breath is hot, and it reeks. Oh wait. They wouldn’t. Because they never do.

Well, that confirms my concerns regarding whether or not he’s graduated predator high yet.

And I’m done playing.

Bastian’s hand is making a bold move for the back of my thigh just as my own comes flying out, swinging the wooden spoon straight for the side of his head.

He calls out in pain, falling backwards off my bed. I don’t hesitate to scramble out of my covers and for the window. I’m struggling to unlatch it when his fat meaty fingers clasp my wrist, squeezing hard. I refuse to succumb to the pain, if I do, more will follow. So, I fight through it and kick back aiming for his groin and throwing my heel at it as hard as I possibly can.

I can hear him howling in pain even as I’m crawling over the shingles toward the rain gutters. Within a matter of seconds, I’m running down the driveway and disappearing into the safety of night. Three weeks. It’s not the shortest stay I’ve ever had.

I run and I don’t stop. Not when my side hurts. Not when my bare feet hit rocky, pointy gravel. Not even when my lungs feel like they’re on fire and I can no longer catch my breath. I run through it, my only focus is on my destination. Whaler’s Home for Troubled Boys. I briefly consider changing course and taking off without aim, just running away and hoping for the best. But then I think better of it. Guys like Bastian will always weigh out the desire to bust over the need to avoid unwanted attention. As long as no one woke up from our altercation tonight, he won’t say anything. I’ll get dinged for taking off, but the altercation won’t make my record. No need to buck the system today.

Besides, if I ever took off without Gunnar, he’d hunt me down and kill me. All out of love, of course. I’d do the same to him.

The house is dead silent when I reach it. The only light still shining bright is the one on the front porch, same as always. There’s another light on the side of the house activated by sensor, I learned that the hard way and nearly got caught my first visit. Now I know to slink along the wall and avoid it.

It takes a few practiced moves and I’m around the main structure and climbing up the orange tree reaching perfectly around the corner of the house. It’s not strong enough to hold the guys, so no one has bothered to trim the easy access limbs, but I’m still small enough to make my way across the longest branch and straight up to Gun’s window.

As quietly as I can, I slide my finger into the small crack he leaves open just for this reason and grip the edge to pull it up. When I have just enough space to crawl through, I slide inside, thinking for the hundredth time or so that black jammies would go a long way in my life, but accepting that the bright pink tank top and lime green bootie shorts definitely aided in keeping me from becoming roadkill alongside the highway tonight.

I take a moment to just stand still. To breathe. To listen. It takes a good long minute before I can hear anything outside of my own heart beating a mad bass rhythm in my ears. Though thankfully, I don’t hear much. Everyone is sleeping, including Ed, Gun’s new roommate.

Now that I’m standing here, nothing left to run from, the events leading up to this moment start to catch up with me. My feet hurt. I’ve got cuts and blisters that will likely make shoes impossible for several days and I’m envisioning a disgusting and disturbing trail of bloody footprints marking every step of my path. I squeeze my eyes shut, shake the visual from my head and thank God for Florida’s year-round flip flop weather.

What little material my clothes consist of is soaked, I’m drenched to the bone in sweat. Repugnant, fear induced sweat. Running somewhere in the ballpark of eight or nine miles to get here, probably contributed somewhat as well. I need a shower. I feel filthy. But I felt that way before I left the house tonight.

Bastian.

Fuck him. Fuck every Bastian I’ve ever had to deal with. He’s lucky I love Gunnar more than I hate him or he’d be a dead man.

Gun.

He likes it here. I can tell because he never wakes up when I sneak in and there’s a lot to be said for feeling safe enough to sleep so soundly. On the rare occasions that he does pass out beyond waking, it’s like I get to peek back at the boy he was before I knew him, the kid who lived in a car with his mom. Who was alone and forgotten most of the time, and who knew it was best to keep quiet, to stay small and out of the way. It was safest to just sleep.

Gun’s not little anymore. He towers over me by a long shot, towers over most. But, when he falls into a deep sleep like this, he still curls up into a tiny ball, knees pulled up to his chest, arms hugged tight around them and his face, the one that’s worn and wise so far beyond his years, is sweet and almost at peace, tucked close to his arm, chin nearly meeting with his kneecaps.

I watch him like this for a long time. Even after I’m too tired to stand upright and wind up slowly crumbling to the floor. Eventually I curl up into a Coop sized ball myself and finally get some rest. The last thing I remember, is watching his chest rise and fall with the silent rhythm of his breath and wondering what sort of things he dreams about and if in those dreams, he’s the sweet boy he sleeps as or the guy I know who wakes.

CHAPTER TWO

I CAN FEEL GUN WATCHING me out of the corner of his eye as we walk but I ignore him, instead focusing all my efforts on devouring this breakfast sandwich consisting of all of my favorite foods – pancakes, bacon, eggs and a healthy drizzle of syrup to make it all stick together. It’s not so much that I’m more devoted to this meal than I am to my best friend, as it is that I know there’s stuff brewing behind his heavy stare and I’m not ready to find out what it is. Mornings that come with a hot breakfast are few and far between, and just for the moment I’d prefer to pretend they were a common occurrence and that my life is no different than any other seventeen-year-old’s walking to school this morning. I can’t do that if I pay attention to Gun and his stare.

So. His elbow lands in my side, forcing my attention away from my food and onto him. As soon as I look up, he smiles broadly, a clear indication something is up. He never smiles. Not like that. Where are we headed?

I shrug and take another bite in hopes it will sway him from pursuing this conversation. School? I mumble the obvious.

Apparently not so obvious to Gun. Nah. I’ve got a total bitch for first period. Not feeling it. I say we take off. Fuck all of ‘em.

I freeze up mid-step, an empty set of pancake rims now permanently abandoned and dangling listlessly at my side. So much for enjoying breakfast. We can’t just take off, Gunnar. You finally have a decent place.

It’s a fucking group home, Coop. Not the Brady Bunch.

My eyes roll up into their sockets. He drives me crazy. Mr. B and his wife may not be parents, but the way they run the house they may as well be. They make you pancakes for breakfast.

So does IHOP.

Gun.

I can hear him release a long, ragged breath as he tries to calm his screaming demons. He won’t yell. Not at me anyway. But he doesn’t exactly have to. He gets his point across just fine without ever raising his voice at me. Like via that noisy-ass exhale.

No. I’m not sticking around to eat paaancakes, he elongates the word, doing an exceptional job today of trying to make me out to be the irrational one, while you’re stuck in a house you don’t feel safe in.

I can’t argue with him when he’s like this, there’s no point.  And I knew he would be like this. He can’t stand it when something good happens to him but not to me. Annoyingly, he never seems to have this issue when the situation is reversed.

I drag my flip flops across the sidewalk and start moving again, tossing my leftovers as I shuffle along listlessly. I’ve lost my appetite completely, but maybe there are some birds or squirrels around who will enjoy the treat.

It’s not that bad, I mutter, making a last-ditch effort to sway him. I’ll deal with it. I won’t come running to you again.

He’s back at my side in a flash. You know damn well that’s the last thing I want. Just tell me what’s happening, and I’ll take care of it.

No. I bite down and make every muscle in my face go stiff. The last thing I need is for him to see me get upset. I don’t even know which is harder to swallow, my own freaking life or the fact Gun’s about to blow up his own just to try and save mine.

Cooper.

You can’t, Gun. There’s nothing you can do, okay? I shout, the helplessness of it all driving me over the edge. It’s their son. I caught him standing over my bed last week while I was sleeping. I screamed when I saw him, and his mom came rushing in. He told her some bullshit story about how I was having a nightmare and he came to check on me and that was the end of it. Didn’t matter how much I insisted that wasn’t what happened, no one believed me. I force myself to gulp down the rest of the story. I already told him too much.

I watch in slow motion as the anger spreads from his inside to the out. His body changes, tenses, and fury flares in his face, though he still doesn’t say a word.

You can flash your eyes at me all you want, Gun. I’m not going to let you screw up your good thing just because I’ve hit another little snag on the road through foster hell. It’s senior year. We’ll both be eighteen before summer. We almost made it through. Let’s just stay on track and get there. I point ahead at the hypothetical path we’ve been put on. We could make it. I could make it. It’s not that much longer.

Look, Coop. You’ve got two choices. Either we head for the train station and get the hell out, or I’m walking you to school and I’m tracking down the piece of shit who left a mark on you – yeah, I saw your wrists – and I kill him. It’s as simple as that.

Don’t be stupid. I kick at a rock on the sidewalk. Not the smartest thing I’ve done today given the shape my sad, swollen feet are in. Not the dumbest either. You’re not going to kill anyone. I’m reminding him. Mildly, casually begging him.

The only thing I’m not going to do, is sit on my ass and eat pancakes while someone is threatening you. He takes a step into my path and stops. See this? A few hundred dollars in twenties are dancing around in my face. It’s enough money to get us by for at least a week. Maybe longer if we’re smart about it. By then, we could be on the other side of the country. Why the hell wait for eighteen? Let’s just go now.

Where did you get that money? I ask, pissed and panicked competing for top spot now.

I stole it, what do you think?! He makes a face and returns the stash of bills back to his pocket. "Before you freak, it was cash Mr. B took out to pay some dude to replace the downstairs carpets. It wasn’t their money."

Fantastic. I slam my hands into him and shove him out of my way, stomping off before I blow up at him. So now it doesn’t matter what I say or do, you already fucked up your chances of ever going back there.

I really think you’re putting way too much importance on some fucking pancakes, Coop.

I stop, succumbing to a full-on tantrum. Why can’t I ever win these fights with him?!

I turn back to face him, fully prepared to give him a last, angry piece of my mind, when he does the thing he so rarely does, and grins, rendering me completely useless.

He juts his jaw out playfully, like the last ten minutes never even happened. How do you feel about Arizona? I’m thinking we need to stay south. Let’s be real. You’re not cut out for any sort of winter.

I hate that you did this, I grumble. I’m giving in but I’m not happy about it. I hate that you’re always ruining your life for me.

Don’t hate that I’m doing it. Hate that there are shitty people out there who don’t give me a choice but to do it.

I shuffle back to where he’s standing and curl my arm around his. He tugs me closer. As soon as I feel the strength of his body against mine, I remember how exhausted I am. He steadies me, as my muscles slack and I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder as we slowly begin to meander down our new path.

Colorado, I mumble, I don’t care what you think. I want to see snow.

Colorado it is then, he agrees. And we walk, pretending to have a destination, but knowing our aim hasn’t changed any from the last damn time we ran away. We’re not really going anywhere, we’re just trying to survive.

CHAPTER THREE

JANE COOPER?

That’s me. I get up, I start moving, following the voice who said my name. It’s all on autopilot. The voice is different. The long, dark corridor is different. Even the plastic chairs were a different shade of puke green this time, but the process, it’s always the same. You get busted. You get dragged in, shoved in some corner and then, eventually, someone shows up to drag you back out and onto the next place. Sometimes I recognize the person who picks me up, sometimes I don’t. I’ve been in the system my whole life and I’ve been passed around between social workers from the get-go. No one’s wanted to be stuck with me. Not from the moment I was born. Even before I could make my own bad choices, I had my mother’s working against me and the stigma of being her child followed me for years.

There’s an exchange between the adults as I’m passed off, but I’m too busy staring at the floor and wondering where Gun is to care. I haven’t seen him since we were cuffed and crammed into the back of that cop car. No one will tell me where they took him once we got here. No one cares. I’m a minor. And we’re not related. They don’t get that we’re the only family the other’s got.

We step outside and the bright sunlight blinds me. I’m suddenly woefully aware that I’ve lost all track of time. It was dark when we got here. Was it last night? Has it been longer than twenty-four hours?

You hungry? A man’s voice. It’s familiar. Curiosity gets the better of me and I look up. All sense of familiarity disappears again. He’s Korean with a nice face and wavy black hair he keeps longer than any social worker I’ve ever dealt with. He’s young too. Maybe in his thirties. Probably late twenties. Even when he’s just staring at me, waiting for me to respond, there’s an uncanny kindness about him I don’t fully know how to process.

Who are you? It was probably mentioned at some point back inside, but I was too preoccupied being pissed off about Gun to listen.

My name is Bon-Hwa Amante. I run the Whaler’s House. He smiles. And I know why I thought I knew him. I have heard his voice.

You’re Mr. B. Hope blossoms slowly in my chest. Where’s Gun?

He seems slightly disheartened. They’re not being as cooperative as I’d like. I’m afraid Gun’s going to have to spend another night here, but don’t worry. I’m taking care of it. His hand meets my lower back, and he begins to usher me away from the building. Trust me, I’ll have him back home just as soon as I can.

You’re letting him come back? He has to know Gun stole that money.

He nods. Of course.

I laugh, not because I find him funny. Because I find him naïve. Is it a Jesus thing? I ask snidely.

Excuse me? He releases his hand from my back, and we part ways at the passenger side door to a large SUV. I guess this is his ride.

You know, forgiveness, turn the other cheek, save the children and all that jazz?

He chuckles. All good things, but no, that’s not what I’m in it for.

I lift the handle until it clicks and opens. Mr. B mirrors me on the other side, and we face each other again inside the vehicle as we slide into our seats.

Then what?

Smiling, he places his key in the ignition and starts up the truck. You never answered me about food. But I know what those places serve up. How do you feel about Italian?

I frown, skepticism keeping me at bay. I’d rather just get this done and over with. I know I’m not staying at your place. Where are you taking me?

He shifts into reverse, still grinning. Italian food it is.

I’d argue, but he’s clearly not listening to anything I say.

Since talking isn’t getting me anywhere, I resort to staring out the window. Mr. B doesn’t seem to mind a little awkward silence. He just turns up the radio, singing along to nearly every song. Sometimes he gets the lyrics right. Sometimes he doesn’t. It’s almost like he’s most committed to belting as loudly as he can when he knows he’s butchering the words. He’s funny. Which I find a little annoying. I don’t want to be amused right now. I don’t want to go eat Italian food. It’s all wrong. Gun should be sitting in this truck with him, not me.

I’ve been zoning out for a while when we stop, and I have no choice but to check back in with reality. There’s no restaurant in sight. We’re in a neighborhood. Old houses, most of them the size of small castles, line the street in both directions. Right across from us is a lake. It has to be a lake, we’re nowhere near the coast, but it’s so damn big I can’t see land on the other side.

I thought we were going to get food, I point out, following his lead and getting out of the vehicle. I have to hurry to catch up when I’m out. He’s already halfway up the walkway leading to the door.

We are. Best Italian around. He winks at me over his shoulder, then knocks. And walks right in. Ma? he calls out into the stone paved hall. It echoes. The place is huge with a gorgeous, warm Mediterranean theme all throughout. If this is the house Mr. B grew up in, I don’t know what in the hell he finds appealing about the Whaler’s House for Boys. This place is like something right out of a fairy tale.

We’re just barely turning the corner into the next room when I hear voices. A lot of them. All ages. Kids. Babies. Men. Women. Then, a woman old enough to be my grandma, I’m guessing, I don’t have a grandma, comes hurrying out to greet us. She’s got thick black hair, laced with grey and white streaks, resting on her head in

Reviews for Forget Me Not

[Penny Leidecker · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

WOW, what an amazing read! I absolutely love this book. I couldn't put it down until the end. This book will make you fall in love with Gunnar, Cooper, and Reed. This book is well written and the characters are spot on. I can't wait to read more from K.S. Scott. One-click your copy and fall in love with some new bbf's.
I received an advance reader copy of this book and this is my voluntary and honest review

[Norhane Abbassi · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

quite a story, I was curious to see the end which was quite expected but a lot of suffering for not much in the end
I prefer last girl from the same author