Desperate to Forget

By Vanessa Holliday

Cold concrete cradled the spine and harrowing unresolved robbed the restless. Not everyone reveres their hometown but for uncouth Dani Poe it is something disparate. Fourteen years have passed since glass ripped flesh as Grey Vein firefighters pulled a child through a shattered window and the aftermath forced those to flee. She has no intention of ever returning until the last thread of family arrives on her doorstep and asks for a favor. Returning to its setting however will unravel repercussions of a sadistic nature. For thriller fans fond of the irresistible enemies to lovers trope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Mar 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662922275

Book preview

THIS IS HOW THE HORROR MOVIES START.

That new girl, she’s so hot, Travis chanted for the fiftieth time.

Yea, I got that. Can you shut up about it now? Ian was propped up against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, irritated as usual.

The rain picked up momentum outside and pounded harshly on the metal roof above them. The sky exploded with multiple lightning bolts, and pockets of thunder popped with ear-piercing cracks. It took him a moment to recognize her through the window. Despite the weather, the new cashier was walking in slow strides while everyone else ran for shelter like there was no tomorrow. You’re dating Rebecca, you jackass.

Well, not really.

Just banging her then. Chivalrous.

"Dude. I bet she looks smoking in a bikini."

Ian craned his neck and looked at him. I can’t listen to you anymore. Eager to slip away from him, he headed for the register.

She was counting money when he closed the distance. Her natural dirty blonde hair was wet from the storm. Fun in the rain?

She looked up but didn’t say anything.

He cleared his throat. Got a pen?

She stoically placed a cup of pens on the counter.

Alright. He fingered through the writing utensils and scribbled with one to make sure it worked, but mostly stalling for time. He smiled. Thanks. I’m Ian Price by the way.

No smile was returned to him. She resumed counting the bills in her hand.

He refused to walk away. Now tell me your name.

She looked up, her face pinched with annoyance. Why the hell do you want my name?

What the shit.

He kept his feet planted to the place in front of her. They both stared at each other, neither of them blinking.

Liza passed him to unlock the doors and let in the promise of whining patrons. Ian, position.

With that, he backed up and walked away.

* * *

On the second workday, the same Rebecca girl manned the hostess podium. Dani didn’t envy her. Customers always rejected the first offer of a seat. She had suffered through that aneurism-worthy task before.

"Can we sit by a window?"

We’d like a booth.

We need a larger table.

It’s too loud over here.

Yeah, this ain’t happening.

Like where they sat was life or death to them. People are starving all over the world, but these people couldn’t eat unless their ass cheeks were mashed against booth cushions in perfect coordinates.

Where’s the restroom? Someone had come up to the counter.

Dani robotically pointed. As the woman hurried away like her bladder was three seconds from exploding, the phone rang its fourth ring.

Rebecca glared at her from across the way. You going to answer it or stare at it like a retard?

It would be highly unnecessary to conduct an analysis to classify the hostess into its correct phylum. Rebecca was a hateful bitch.

She yanked up the phone. Steak Grate. How can I help you?

Umm . . . yeah . . . I need to order something. The caller was nearly inaudible.

She looked around for a pad and pen. Go ahead.

What you got?

She looked under the counter and plucked up a menu.

Hello? prompted the man on the phone.

Yes, sir. Our dinners are rack of ribs, sirloin—

Yea, I’ll have that sirloin.

She wrote that down.

I want it medium-well.

She wrote that down too.

Actually, make it medium-rare.

She scratched out her previous.

Don’t I get two sides?

Yes, sir. What would you like?

What you got?

She searched for side orders. Cajun fries, baked potato, asparagus—

Umm . . . hold on a sec. Honey, what side you want? Ok, yeah. Can you read those off again so my wife can hear? She’s deaf as a post.

Cajun fries, baked potato, asparagus, Caesar salad—

Alright, she wants a loaded baked potato, extra sour cream, lots of sour cream. How much is an extra side?

$6.45.

Forget that then.

Anything else, sir?

Umm . . . hold on. Honey, you want something else? Nah, we’re good. How much is two of those?

She calculated it in her head. $59.90 plus tax.

Good gracious! You got chicken? Then he coughed so loud in her ear it felt like her eardrum burst.

$17.95.

Where do you get off charging people that kind of money? I’m taking my business elsewhere.

Click.

Someone shoot me. She hung up the phone already out of mental deodorant for the day. For the week. No, month.

A half hour shy of closing time, Liza appeared at the counter. I need you to get paper towel boxes from my car. They aren’t heavy.

No problem.

Liza fished in her pocket for the keys. It’s a white minivan, upper parking lot.

It was a long walk then.

Liza caught Dani’s worried flush, but she slammed the keys down and walked off anyway. Such a classy broad, that one.

It provided little comfort that the adjacent shops outside were closed and lifeless. Liza’s lack of foresight this was dangerous for a young woman perturbed her. She walked up the paved hill and heard the chronic buzz of overhead signs above her. This is how the horror movies start.

She browsed through the cars and espied a white van. She unlocked it and climbed in. Her boss needed to do a serious cleanup because the smell of rotten food curled her nose hairs and her sneakers stuck to the floor.

She went straight for the boxes. They aren’t heavy, my ass.

She climbed out with the cargo, locked the door with her elbow, and shut the door with her hip. She tightened her grip on the boxes as she walked with partial vision.

Her heart skipped a beat at footsteps behind her.

No. It was just her nerves.

A man in tattered clothing darted in front of her. What’s the hurry, honey? He made a sick sound with his mouth like he was slurping through a straw.

She let go of the boxes and clenched her fist. Get away from me.

He slapped her to the pavement.

She backed up on her palms and ran.

When she realized no one was behind her, she looked back. Her eyes widened at the sight of two men in a brawl behind her.

When she reached the gas station it was difficult to communicate without enough oxygen in her lungs for the attendant to call the police. The man nodded and informed the operator. After providing the necessary details, he hung up and asked if she was ok.

She gave him a thumbs up. Still in hyperventilation mode, she sank down to the floor and used a shelf as a back prop. She felt her heart pulsing through her neck and wondered if it would ever calm down again. She touched her cheek. There was a gash and she was