Crash into Me

By Danielle Taylor

HIS FUTURE IS UNCERTAIN...

I thought I knew where my life was going. Thought I knew what I wanted, what my place in this world was.

I was wrong. So wrong. The choices I made took three long years away from m

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writend Publishing
• Release date: Jul 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781785201394

Book preview

1. Rescue me

The ground shook, forcing my eyes open, forcing my body awake. My chair tipped to one side, dropping to the rocky surface beneath me, brittle wood shattering, splintering, smashing apart. And just like that, after fucking months of imprisonment in this stinking wasteland, I was free. My hands and legs were still bound but I could move them.

I ached. My stomach lurched; vertigo; acid retched into my mouth, exploding on my tongue, spraying out. I heaved. Once. Twice. Again and again. I shook. Or . . . no, it wasn’t just me; I was trembling, but the ground, the earth under my fucked up, tortured body, it was shaking too.

Earthquake.

A random act of Mother Nature took place and suddenly, I was free.

Thank fucking god.

I got to my feet. It took me a few tries—how long had it been since I stood up on my own steam?—but I did it and it felt like a freaking goddamned miracle. My body was waking up, bones getting stronger, muscles snapping back to life, coming to attention, even for a moment, hopefully long enough to carry me away from here. First I needed to get these ropes off.

The table. Always filled with instruments of torture; knifes. I grabbed the first one my hands landed on—it was the same blade they used to cut open my right thigh, twisting the flesh, tearing . . . I shuddered at the memory and a fresh bout of nausea rocked up the last of my stomach contents. Then I took a few breaths and cut my bonds. Finally, my hands were free. My feet were free.

I was free.

Free.

Actually, literally, finally fucking free.

I ran. I fucking ran, pushing my legs as far as I could, away from the concrete compound in the face of a mountain. I ran downhill, knowing I would be more likely to run into some village or something if I did. I would steal some clothes, some food, just a little, and find a way home.

At some point—I had no way of knowing how long I ran for through the pitch black of night—I stumbled into a familiar face. Not a face I had ever seen before, but dark skin and eyes and uniform . . . I had never been so happy to see another human being in my entire goddamned life. Then I collapsed in a heap of aching muscles and worn out bones. Let myself drift, relax, sleep, really sleep for the first time in only God knew how long.

Military transport wasn’t built for comfort but at the moment this was the most welcoming sight I had ever seen. I slumped against the inside of the aircraft, leaning on the marine half–carrying me to a seat, letting them buckle me in, like a baby. I felt like a baby. Weak. Useless.

I’m going home.

Tears pricked at my eyes. I didn’t shed them though. I was in the company of marines, of men who trained in worse conditions than I was held in for the last . . . however fucking long I was held in that concrete living hell.

But that’s the fucking problem, one of the marines said. Those assholes aren’t afraid to die. Fuck, they welcome it. Think they’re gettin’ into Heaven for their ‘sacrifice.’ What kind of bullshit is that, anyways?

Thing is, if you get ‘em young enough, it’s easy to control anyone’s way of thinking. You can even like, get in their heads and shape how they continue to think and process information as they get older, a second marine said.

I felt too weak to argue. Too weak to lift my head and open my mouth and say something. Yeah, it was the truth, but not all of them were to blame. Stolen from their parents at a young age, rounded up and shoved in caves, brainwashed. Yeah, they hated westerners, but they were taught to hate us.

Another marine hocked and spit on the floor near his boots, scuffed and covered in a layer of desert dust. Makes me sick to my goddamned stomach.

The motion of the aircraft rocked my bruised and battered body in and out of consciousness. I picked up bits and pieces of conversation, most of which I didn’t want to hear. Hate bred hate. A vicious cycle. Technically these marines were no better than the terrorists who stormed the village my unit and I were patrolling.

Maybe they assumed I wanted to hear it. Maybe they thought, after spending so much time away from home soil, that I hated the people who held me without just cause and tortured me for information I never gave up.

Sure, I despised the men who had no courage, no honor. But they didn’t speak for everyone else in their country, all the men, women, and children who were innocent.

Turbulence jolted my head against the wall of the military jet. I slammed into darkness; into a dreamless sleep.

Four months later

2. More than this

I stared out the window of Frankie’s Diner, the cozy family–run eatery where I worked, overlooking a small park, watching happy mothers and fathers playing with their kids. Pain bled through my chest, squeezing my heart in a vice–like grip. Crushing. God, I missed out on so much. Too much.

Turning away from the happy scene was for the best. I should be using this time alone to refresh supplies on the tables, not trying to sort through the myriad of emotions swimming around freely inside the empty black cavern of my body, weaving in and out of my organs, continuing their never–ending confusion. This was my life; I had no escape button, no opportunities for change.

Between the breakfast crowd and lunch crowd, hardly anyone came inside the diner for more than a coffee to go. During the quiet time from eleven until about noon, I spent the time filling up the serviette dispensers, refilling ketchup bottles, sugar jars, making sure everything was perfect. And of course my stupid thoughts ran rampant.

The little bell above the door jingled, admitting an attractive couple. He was big, in every sense of the word. Burly, I would call him. Broad shoulders barely restrained by his t–shirt. His mouth twisted in a scowl . . . dark and intimidating . . . and his hunter green eyes narrowed in warning. Did he mean the warning for me? I wasn’t going to be intimidated by a stranger, especially not here, where I worked!

The man spoke first. Look, I don’t want to talk about it, okay? His voice reminded me of gravel being ground over black ice.

The woman frowned, her emerald eyes as close to shooting daggers as I had ever seen, hands planted on her hips. You think you can just push it under the rug and that’s the end of it? Jesus, Cade! You were gone for three years. Three. Long. Years. People thought you were dead!

Shh! The man—Cade, I guessed, by my incredible powers of deduction (okay, he was the only other guy in the place besides Frankie in the kitchen)—glared at the woman who looked about my age. Can we just get some damned food? I want to finish a meal without anybody pestering me for once.

Tension flared between the pair. Usually I read people well but something was off about this situation. The woman stood with her ram–rod straight spine, slender shoulders thrust back, fire in her eyes. The man . . . well, he was the most gorgeous man I had ever laid eyes on and looked like he hadn’t a shred of fight left in him, despite the ire in his voice. He sounded worn out. Beat down. Absolutely drained.

The woman sighed; capitulated though she didn’t look happy about being brushed off. They took a table near the far end of the diner. The man sat with his back to the wall surveying the empty space with sharp green eyes. Eyes that didn’t miss a thing. I watched him palming the knife on the table, tanned fingers curling around the handle. He spotted the mirror behind the counter; the emergency exit; the door to the kitchen. He missed nothing.

I grabbed two menus and the pitcher of ice water from the fridge under the counter then made my way over to their table. His eyes landed on me and his shoulders rose, nostrils flared, lips curled down. He looked at me like he despised me, loathed me—and he didn’t even know me! Sure, okay, if he did, he might have reason for that hatred, but he didn’t know me. Couldn’t know what I had done.

Despite stumbling over my own feet on the short trip to their table, somehow I made it there without spilling too much water on the floor. My stupid hand shook while filling the two clean glasses. A little water dribbled onto the table, splashing the man. He swore. I jumped.

Cade, a little diplomacy, please. The woman grabbed the pitcher before it fell. I’m so sorry— She squinted, reading the nametag on my burgundy uniform —Amy. Just ignore him okay?

How anyone could ignore a guy like Cade, I didn’t know. The man had presence; sucked all the light from the room until all I saw was him; all I felt was him.

Cade, do you have anything to say to Amy?

Hard edges formed around his eyes. I’m not a fucking child, Chantelle. And leave your psycho–babble bullshit for school and Mom. Bitterness dripped from the words.

While the pair—brother and sister I figured from their likeness, or maybe that was hope?—bickered, I studied his profile. Rugged; the word described him perfectly. A few small nicks were hidden in the short stubble covering his jaw and one just below his left eyebrow. Made me wonder how he got them, and if it had anything to do with his acerbic personality.

His hair was longer than most men wore; the ends almost touched his shoulders. I wondered if those chocolate locks felt as silky as they looked. I bet he used conditioner, too, and I wrinkled my nose. Someday I hoped to find the kind of man I read about in books: the rough–and–ready dreamboats who probably didn’t exist. Oh well, I would have to settle for the heroes in my book collection for now. Maybe forever. Then there was the fact that I wasn’t deserving.

Hmm I think I’m going to go with the double bacon cheeseburger with curly fries, Chantelle announced, folding her menu. And a large latte. What about you, Cade?

Yeah, I’ll have the same. He turned his head, eyeing the view from the window through narrow slits of eyes framed by long, thick sable lashes. No coffee though. Coke.

Sure. I waited, just to see if he would change his mind, and when he didn’t, I turned on my heels and walked away from the table; Cade watched my every retreating step in the mirror. My heart slammed against the inside of my ribs.

I took the order to the kitchen. At fifty–one, the diner’s chef and owner Frankie Domani was the closest thing I had to a father figure, or even a brother. He lived next door to me growing up and when things took a turn for the worse he said it was only natural to let me stay in the small apartment above his diner. Rent free, of course. He’d no sooner take money from me than he’d fall in love again after his wife lost her battle with cancer eight years ago.

Orders up, Frankie. I grinned and handed him the slip.

Frankie eyed the order, grinning. Ooh, my favorite. I’m gonna have one as well, with extra cheese and bacon. Not like I have to watch my weight anymore, right? He didn’t wait for me to answer him, but he laughed his infectious, bubbly laughter. You want one too?

My stomach growled. I might have forgotten to eat breakfast this morning.

Yeah, I’ll make you one. Frankie chuckled again, heading to the fridge.

Thanks, Frankie. I took a few plates out for him.

"Any time, cara."

Every time he used the Italian word for a loved one the cracks in my heart smoothed over, just a little. I wasn’t proud of the things I did to put me on this path, but if I hadn’t done what I did, a) I wouldn’t be here now, and b) the same thing might have happened to someone else.

Sometimes I wished I was another person. Just for a day. Just to see how life worked for them. Maybe they had a boyfriend. Maybe they were getting married, starting a family. All the things I couldn’t do.

"Don’t forget that Coke, cara! Frankie called. And the latte!"

I jumped, scrambling back into the front of the diner where I took a clean glass and filled it from the fountain. Ugh, how did I let my thoughts run away with me again? Stupid. Stupid!

The man, Cade, watched me set the glass down on the counter. He continued watching me make his sister’s latte. Did he think I would spit in their drinks or something? What kind of place did he think this was? Or maybe a better question to ask was, what kind of places had he been to in the past that made him this way?

The machine finished brewing the espresso and I mixed the single shot of rich coffee with hot, frothy milk, then carried both drinks to the table. Cade observed me via my reflection in the window. His eyes dipped every so often—very noticeably—to my chest and hips. And, I imagined, my butt, when I walked away from him. The idea warmed my cheeks. I ran back to the kitchen to hide. My cheeks were red, my breathing heavy. I hated when guys looked at me the way this Cade guy was looking at me now, but instead of wanting to punch him, I was blushing like some high school twit.

Frankie finished with the orders shortly after I got back into the safety of the kitchen. I slunk back out to the restaurant, carrying both plates. Thank goodness the pair were deep in conversation when I set their plates down. I slipped into the kitchen and nibbled on my fries, popping into the main restaurant area every so often, just in case I was needed. The second Cade shoved the last bite of his burger in his mouth he was out of his seat and stormed through the door. Like he couldn’t escape quickly enough.

I’m really sorry about my brother’s attitude, Chantelle said through a tight smile, rising from her seat. He’s . . . well, I’ll just say he’s been through a lot in the past few years. Please don’t take it personally.

Hard not to.

I’m not, I lied through a toothy and fake smile of my own.

We’ll be back though. Cade really enjoyed that burger. I haven’t seen him eat so well in a while. Chantelle smacked a pile of bills on the table. Keep the change.

The woman left, meeting her brother outside on the sidewalk. I looked down at the bills on the table, my eyes wide, jaw dropping. Keep the change? She had put two twenties down and their total only came to fourteen and change!

They gone? Frankie called from the kitchen—he heard the bell over the door chime.

Y–yeah. I picked up the money, my hands trembling.

What’s the protocol when a customer gives you far too much money as a tip? Should I keep it aside for when she returns and give it back to her?

Yes. That’s what I would do.

Come and eat your burger then, Amy. Before it gets cold.

Frankie . . . I grinned.

Always taking care of me.

Always my surrogate Papa.

3. The girl at the diner

I stood on the sidewalk outside the diner, my belly full and heart cinched tight, a violent mixture of anger and shame burning inside my chest cavity. Chantelle made me look like a fucking fool in there. I wasn’t five years old—hell, there were four years between she and I. And that damned girl . . . Amy. She looked so delicate, like a fucking flower. All I wanted to do was bend her over an empty table, peel down her panties, lick her clit until she came, and ram my stiff cock inside her.

Which confused the hell out of me. I hadn’t gotten turned on like this since before I left, way before I set foot back on home soil. The odd morning wood didn’t count. Could have been that body of hers. All tiny and curvy at the same time. She was compact without being bony. Soft. Glowing. Dewy.

I shook my head in absolute bewilderment.

What the fuck?

What the actual goddamned fuck?

I shook my head again and shoved chilled hands in my pockets. Fucking freezing out here. And I had lost my goddamned mind, for sure. What guy called skin ‘dewy?’ None I knew. I must be tired. Yeah, that had to be it. Tired. Fucking exhausted. My eyelids felt heavy.

You had to be a jerk.

Aw, Chantelle, come on. Much as I loved my younger sister, she gained too much attitude during my . . . absence. Don’t force me to—

"It’s not about forcing you to do anything, Cade. It’s about reminding you how to treat people. We aren’t the ones who .