If I Could Do It Again (19 page)

When there’s an impossible choice to make, when you must choose a path, how can you be sure you’re making a choice that you won’t regret?

Personally, I don’t think you can be sure.

The only thing I know for certain: I love Joshua. I love him despite his flaws. When I strip everything away, all the judgment, all the fear and uncertainty, and I just look at him, at the man behind it all, I know I love him.

I stare down at the diamond sitting on my trembling finger. I’ve already gotten our drinks, and as always, his Swedish Fish are sitting on the table, waiting for him. I don’t know what’s going to happen, what he’s going to think. I probably should have waited until he got here before getting the snacks, but the wait is taking too long and I needed to keep busy.

I glance at the clock again. It’s been twenty-two minutes now.

Twenty-two minutes of sitting in this uncomfortable chair.

Twenty-two minutes of stressing and fidgeting.

I wonder if I should go ask about him. Maybe he’s not even here. Maybe he’s gotten into trouble and he’s been put in segregation. Maybe he’s …

The door opens, and I swing my head that way, my breath catching, then gushing out of me when I realize it’s not him.

Another inmate walks in.

Another loved one stands up.

Another five minutes pass by.

I look to the CO’s desk again. Five more minutes. I’ll give it five more minutes and then …

The CO looks up then, glancing my way. He frowns at me, picking up the phone. I watch him for a moment, my brow furrowing as he hangs it up and walks over to me.

“I’m not sure what happened, ma’am,” he says apologetically. “We called for him, but he didn’t get the message.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, an equal mix of relief and nerves making my voice squeak. “Is he coming now?”

He nods, smiling warmly at me. “He should be here any minute.”

“Thank you,” I say, and he turns and strides away.

And then I wait.

And I watch.

And after a moment, the door opens, and Joshua steps through.

He doesn’t look around, doesn’t search me out like he always does. He steps up to the CO’s desk, checking in, and it feels like a whole year passes before he finally looks my way.

He starts walking toward me then, and the look on his face has me sitting up straighter. It’s a confusing look, one I’ve never seen before. It’s relief. It’s anger. It’s fear. It’s … everything. A whole mish-mash of emotions wrapped all up into one beautifully terrifying look.

He stops beside me and I know he’s waiting for me to get to my feet, but I don’t stand up. I don’t think my legs will hold me even if I try. They’re wobbly and shaky, the damn things jiggle even when I’m sitting.

“Baby, why are you sitting down?” His voice is gruff, emotion making it thicker than normal.

“I don’t know,” I say, my voice sounding tiny and quiet in my ears. “I just …”

Joshua grabs my hand before I can finish my sentence, yanking me up and pulling me to him, his arms wrapping around my body, his lips hitting mine before I can catch my breath. His fingers press into my flesh at the small of my back, pulling me tight against him. Then his tongue pries my lips open, darting into my mouth. His hand glides up my back, and he pulls my hair nice and hard.

I moan.

I can’t help it.

I’ve missed his touch so much that the sound just pours out of me.

I completely forget where we are.

I try to get closer, need to get closer.

My body takes over, my fingernails digging into his neck, my crotch pressing against his thigh.

And then, he pulls away, murmuring against my lips, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He lets me go then, taking a seat at the table, and I can feel the heat rushing to my face as I glance around, spotting a few pairs of eyes looking our way.

It flusters me.

I scramble back to my chair and Joshua slouches back in his seat, watching me with a contented grin as I drop down—ungracefully. I have a million questions for him, a billion things I want to tell him, but all that comes out is, “I didn’t know if I was ever going to come here again.”

“I’m so glad you did, baby,” he says. He scans me then, his eyes making a slow trail over my body, before settling on my hand. A slow grin splits his face. “You’re wearing the ring I got you.”

My eyes dart down to my hands, folded in my lap. I want to say something. I want to tell him I love it, that it’s beautiful, but my voice betrays me when I try to speak. My lips part, but the only thing that comes out is a gust of breath.

Joshua’s grin turns into a wide smile and he holds out his hand to me. “Give me your hand, beautiful. Let me see it.”

I do as he asks, silently extending my hand across the table, my fingers, my whole damn arm trembling. He takes it, his thumb rubbing up my ring finger, stalling when it brushes against the stone.

Silence falls.

He stares at the ring.

My stomach knots and my legs start to jump.

When he finally looks back up at me, there’s a question in his eyes. “So I take it this means you’re going to be my beautiful little wife?”

“Yes,” I whisper. I don’t mean to whisper it, but it seems as though my voice doesn’t know that. I clear my throat, trying again. “Yes, I’ll be your wife, um, if you still want me to be.”

My response makes him laugh. “Baby girl, of course I still want you. I’m going to want you for the rest of my life.”

“You didn’t call,” I point out. “You should have called.”

“You left me,” he says quietly, squeezing my hand within his. “I thought I lost you.”

“I thought I lost you, too.”

“Please don’t ever scare me again like this,” he says, his tone verging on pleading. “Don’t care how mad you are or how scared you are, you still show up. You come to me. You talk to me. We deal with it together. You hear me?”

I nod. “I hear you.”

He stares at me, searching my face as though he’s trying to decide if he can trust me or not. I see it in his eyes the moment he realizes that I’m not going anywhere.

“I never stopped missing you,” I tell him. “Never stopped thinking about you.”

He doesn’t respond right away, his gaze dropping to the ring for a moment, before he brings my hand to his lips, closing his eyes as he kisses the top. When his eyes open again, I see a softness there that I’ve never seen before. “You’re mine forever.”

“I’m yours,” I whisper.

“Never forget it,” he says. “Forever.”

I nod, my eyes blurry with tears. “Forever.”

Three years, two months, and ten days later.

Stepping through the gate, Joshua looks out across the parking lot toward me. The lot is packed today, and I’m stuck at the back.

I don’t think he sees me.

I start toward him, lifting my hands over my head, waving to him. I know it the moment he spots me. His eyes zero in on me and a huge smile lights up his face, brighter than I’ve ever seen before.

It’s beautiful.

It’s freedom.

My heart stops, then races, and my legs just stop working. I want to run to him but the damn things won’t move.

“Victoria Larson!” he calls out. “Get that sexy ass over here.”

I laugh—hard—and shout back, “Who’s Victoria Larson?”

He smirks and swaggers toward me, catching me by the back of my neck, pulling me into his body. “You,” he says, and winks. “If you play your cards right.”

I twine my arms around his neck. “Is that so?”

Lowering his head, pausing mere inches from my lips, he says, “Yeah, baby.”

And then he kisses me.

His hands slide down my back until he reaches my ass. Grabbing handfuls, he hoists me up. Instinctively, my legs wrap around his waist.

He kisses me long and slow, a deep, meaningful kind of kiss that sends tremors running through me.

The tears come next. It’s stupid, I know. I’d sworn I wouldn’t cry. I’d promised myself that Joshua would not see a single tear from me today. But the damn things seep from my eyes anyway as his lips devour mine.

The last few years have been … rough. We’ve gone through a lot, Joshua and me. We’ve had our ups and our downs. There were times I wanted to give up. There were moments when not having him by my side was so hard I thought I’d go insane. But the moment our lips touch, the second I feel his tongue against mine, I realize that this moment right here, it’s the moment I’ve been waiting for all my life, and suddenly, with crystal clear clarity, I know that if I could do it again, I wouldn’t change a thing.

He breaks the kiss, looking down at me. “Why the tears, baby girl?”

I shrug helplessly. “Because I love you. Because I never thought this day would come. Because … I just love you so freakin’ much.”

“Love you, too, beautiful,” he says. “Always.”

Joshua covers my mouth with his once more, kissing me softly, before sliding me back down to the ground, leaving me limp in his arms.

And then his hand is in my pocket, and he’s digging around.

“What are you doing?” I ask, laughing because it tickles.

“Looking for the keys.”

“Why?”

I balance awkwardly, sniffling and wiping away the tears, trying not to squirm too much as he grabs hold of them and yanks them free.

Grinning, he holds them up like they’re some kind of trophy. “Because I need the keys if I’m going to drive.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re not driving my truck.”

He doesn’t reply, but his eyes say it all. There’s no goddamn way I’m going to stop him. With a smirk, he turns and jogs over to my truck, climbing up behind the wheel.

Crap. He’s serious. Eight years without being behind the wheel and he is going to drive my truck.

I stare at him, stunned, as he starts it up, rolling down the window. “Come on, Chipmunk. I need food. Good food. Real food. I fucking need steak.”

I consider the situation. My truck is insured, I’m hungry, and steak is awesome.

“Okay,” I say, jogging over to the truck and hopping up into the passenger seat. “Let’s go get some steak.”

If you enjoyed
If I Could Do It Again
, please consider leaving a review or rating on the site where you purchased it. Word-of-mouth is crucial for any author to succeed and your review, even if it’s only a sentence or two, makes a huge difference in helping new readers make the decision to read my books. Many thanks for your support. It’s very much appreciated.

XOXO,

Ashley Stoyanoff

A special thank you goes to Andrew. When I think about your unwavering support and encouragement, I can’t help but feel grateful and blessed to have you in my life and on my side. Your enthusiasm is contagious, and I love you for it.

To my friends and family, thank you for sticking with me through another journey. Without your emotional support and feedback,
If I Could Do It Again
would still be stuck on the drawing board.

And to my editor, Kathryn, I couldn’t have finished this book without you. You are a superstar and I’m so glad I have you on my team.

Last, but not least, a big thank you to all of my amazing readers. You all are the reason I keep writing. I love you all!

Romance author Ashley Stoyanoff is the recipient of two Royal Dragonfly Book Awards for young adult and newbie fiction. Her first book,
The Soul’s Mark: FOUND
, came out in 2012. Her other passions include reading and shopping for the latest fashions. Learn more about Ashley and her work at ashleystoyanoff.com.

One year ago, I became a missing person. I left everything behind—family, friends, school. It seemed like a good idea at the time. My only option, really, until I realized running from a police officer isn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

It’s been exactly three-hundred and sixty-five days since I left home, but I’m finally ready to take the step I should have taken a year ago. I’m done hiding. I’m done running. I’m going to take my life back.

It was supposed to be easy. A meeting with Jason Pierce, a private investigator, was set up for me. All I had to do was go to him, let him do his thing, and then I could go home, or so I thought.

That is, until I met Jason and things got … complicated.

Elena

I lost my life on my twentieth birthday.

I suppose one could argue the truth of that statement.  I know I have.  It’s probably more accurate to say that I lost my life four months prior, the day I climbed into the back of Officer Lawrence Peck’s cop car.  I just hadn’t realized it at the time.

But my twentieth birthday marks the day that I made the choice to leave it all behind.  It marks the day that I became a missing person.

Right before it happened, I opened a fortune cookie that read:
Your life will be happy and peaceful
.  I’m starting to think that cookie was meant for someone else.

I took it as a sign then, but it’s been exactly three-hundred and sixty-five days since I read that fortune, twelve full months, and happy and peaceful has not come my way yet.

I thought running was the answer.  If I could just get away from that man, I’d find my peace.  I’d find my happiness.

Turns out running from a police officer isn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

Today my fortune says:
A new environment makes a world of difference
.  I’m not sure if that’s true, but I’m hoping it might be.

Because today, I’m facing the nightmare that has become my life.  Today, I’m done hiding.  I’m done running.

Today, I’m going to take the step that I should have taken a year ago.  I’m going to take my life back.

I stare at the words on the small piece of paper, pinched between my fingertips.  A new year, a new fortune.  It was a tradition from my old life.  A fortune cookie on your birthday sets you on the right path for the year that lies ahead of you.  That’s what my mom used to tell me.  She believed them, followed them.  If she were here right now, I’m certain she’d be packing my bags and pushing me out so I could discover a
new environment.

But I’m already in a new environment.  A shady bar in a shady part of a city I’ve never been to before.

The bar itself isn’t exactly
new. 
The tables are scratched and gashed.  The leather-covered booth I’m sitting in has more duct tape on it than leather.  The lights are low, hiding most of the wear and tear on the establishment, but it can’t quite conceal the blistered and peeling paint or the layer of grime on the windows.

The music isn’t quite loud enough.  It’s almost a strain on the ears to hear the lyrics over the rowdy banter of the other patrons.  It’s rock music.  That much I can tell, but what song, what artist, I have no idea.

The men in this place look a little rough around the edges, so do the women.  But there’s something real about them.  They laugh too loud, talk too loud.  They aren’t hiding behind polite conversation or fancy clothes.  They are just … real.  Genuine.

It’s refreshing.

It’s comforting.

If you asked me a year and a half ago where I’d be on my twenty-first birthday, I would have said at a club.  Somewhere with pop music.  Somewhere I could dance.  Somewhere I could be with friends and drink and flirt.

But that was a year ago.

It’s different now.  That life, the one where I was a carefree girl, where I actually had friends, is gone.  I don’t know that girl anymore, but then I don’t really know who I’ve become either.

But I do know that I want to be someone.  I want to have a life that’s not full of fear and running.  I want to live in one place long enough to make friends.  I want to finish college, get a job.  I want to see my family again.

Most of all, I want to see Officer Lawrence Peck rotting away in a prison cell.

Sighing, I fold the tiny piece of paper in half and tuck it into my pocket.  I take a sip of my beer and glance around.  The air is thick and stuffy, and I’m tempted to head outside, just for a quick, fresh breath, but I don’t.

I can’t.

I know the breath will turn into ten, and ten will turn into twenty, and once I hit twenty, I’ll start to second-guess myself.

And then I’ll end up running—again.

I cut my eyes to the table where the man I’ve come to see sits.

It’s him.  I know it is.  I studied his picture for hours before I came here.  He’s tall, and solid in a way that says he spends a lot of time working with his hands.  A black tee hugs his torso and he wears a pair of blue jeans.  His jaw is square, strong, with a dusting of black stubble, and his nose, straight and smooth.  His black hair isn’t long, but it’s not short either.  It curls slightly at the ends, and looks as though he just rolled out of bed and ran his hands through it a few times.

He sits there, nursing his second beer, and laughing with another man—a friend, I assume.  Maybe it’s one of his partners from PRG Investigations; I’m not sure.  I wasn’t given pictures of them.  He has two that I know of, though, Wesley Gates and Vance Rutherford.

As I contemplate how to approach him for what has to be the hundredth time, my heart races, each beat almost painful.  They’ve been here for about forty-five minutes, and I’m still not sure what to do, or what to say exactly.  It would be so much easier if the guy had an office.  I could just call, make an appointment.

But he doesn’t have an office and his number isn’t listed.  He works by referrals only.

I almost feel like a stalker.

A third beer is set in front of him.

Oh God, I can’t.  I can’t …

I have to do this.
  I can’t keep running.  And he knows I’m coming.

I watched Mr. Chapman send the email before he packed me up into a car with a GPS and a few hundred dollars in cash.  The man has a picture of me, too.  He knows why I’m here.  He knows my story.  He probably clocked me sitting here the second he walked in and is waiting for me to make the first contact.

Just get up and walk over there,
I tell myself.  Waiting is only making it harder, and with each minute that passes, my nerves fray a little more.

I take a deep, calming breath, let it out, and then, I slowly slide out of the booth and make my way through the bar.  Anxiety mixed with excitement fills up my stomach.  What if he won’t help me?  What if he does?  In this moment, I’m not sure what would be the better outcome.  Both seem just as terrifying.

The gap between us closes too quickly and I stop a couple feet away.  I stand there for a moment, wiping my sweaty hand on my jean-clad thigh, and hold my breath, waiting for him to notice me.

It doesn’t take long for him to glance my way, only a couple seconds.  He’s smirking, a confident and perhaps a little amused smirk, but there’s also a sort of soft concern in his eyes as he looks at me.

It’s kind of impressive, the mixture of confident and soft.

It’s also a bit unnerving.

His eyes scan me, pausing on my breasts, before making their way down in a slow, thorough inspection, following my curves all the way to my toes.

Embarrassment heats my cheeks.  Not only am I sweating, but I’m also wearing worn jeans that are too big and frayed along the edges, and a plain cotton top that’s wrinkled and grungy from spending two days doing nothing but driving.  My hair is wrapped up in a messy twist on top of my head because I haven’t had a chance to wash it since I started my journey, and I’m not wearing a stitch of make-up.

I feel exposed under his scrutiny.

Too exposed.

I didn’t wear my usual hoodie, ball cap or sunglasses to hide under.  I didn’t want to chance him not recognizing me and taking off.

Suddenly, I wish I had worn them.

For a moment, I find myself fighting the urge to glance around and make sure no one else is staring, but then, his eyes come back to mine and he smiles, and good God, but that smile has my stomach doing flip-flops and my brain stuttering.

His picture was impressive, but up close and with that smile …

“Hi, darlin’.”  His voice is deep and husky.  It’s the kind of voice that calls for attention.  Full of coolness and confidence, and matches the rest of him perfectly.

My entire body flames with heat and my throat dries up.  I swallow hard, and attempt to smile back.  “Hi.”

“You gonna have a seat?” he asks, jerking his chin toward an empty chair.

I glance at the empty chair at their table, think about sitting, but don’t.  Anxiety makes me feel a touch sick, and I know if I try to sit, all I’ll do is fidget.

Instead, I hold up my beer, showing it to him, and say the first thing that comes to mind.  “Just having a birthday drink.”

He cocks an eyebrow, and his smile deepens, revealing a set of perfect dimples and straight white teeth.  He chuckles, a rich, deep sound that unleashes a swarm of nervous butterflies in my belly.  “Celebrating alone?”

Shaking my head, I say, “No.”  I take a breath, let it out, take another, and blurt, “I’m here to meet you.”  My voice comes out strained, and although I know that I need this man, I’m starting to feel like this was a terrible mistake, especially when I watch his forehead crease with confusion and his smile falter.

It’s intimidating.

He’s intimidating.

Suddenly he doesn’t look amused anymore.  His gaze turns hard and a touch cold.  “You sure about that?”

Strained silence stretches as he waits for me to answer, but I don’t.  I just stand there, tongue-tied, shifting from one foot to the other.

His friend is watching me with cool amusement.  His eyes are active, though, cataloging every inch of me.  He’s not missing anything.  Not a twitch or tremble.  It’s almost too much.  Invasive.  A little scary.  For the last year, I’ve worked on being a ghost, and now, under their scrutiny, I feel very much alive.

I’m not sure I like the feeling.

I want to run away, but I don’t.  Mr. Chapman trusts this guy.  He wouldn’t send me here if he didn’t.  He wouldn’t put me at risk.  I know it.  I try to smile, but it feels flat and lifeless on my lips.

“You are Jason, right?” I ask.  “Jason Pierce?”

He arches an eyebrow, but doesn’t confirm or deny it.  Is he testing me?  I don’t know what to say.  I take a small sip of my beer, trying not to fidget.  If I didn’t know any better, if I didn’t watch Mr. Chapman send that email to him, I’d think this guy has no idea who I am.

But I was there.  I saw the email send.  I listened to Mr. Chapman leave a voicemail, too, telling Jason to meet me here at Constant Pub.  He may have been fifteen minutes late, but he did show up at the right place on the right day.

Sighing, I look away, and then back at him.  “Yeah, I’m sure,” I say.  My voice surprises me.  It’s stronger, more certain, and makes me feel a bit more confident.  I smile.  “I’m here to meet you.”

He considers this for a moment as his gaze sweeps the length of me again.  The moment feels like a year as I try not to hide myself from his eyes, before he finally meets my gaze once more.  “Who are you?”

Who am I?  I laugh, a nervous little bubble of sound.  I could give him the standard answer.  My name is Elena Reed.  I’m twenty-one, live in New York.  That’s what you’d find if you glanced at my driver’s license.

But that’s not what I tell him.  I give him the real answer, the honest answer.  “I don’t know.”

Jason

I let out a light laugh.  Her answer is an interesting one.  Clever.  Clever enough to peak my curiosity.  She may have meant it to be cute, but there’s truth to it, too.

I’m good at reading people, always have been, but she’s easier to read than most.  I wonder if this girl has any idea how transparent she is.  She’s attempting not to show it, but she’s nervous.  I can see it.  I can sense it.

It’s written in her coiled muscles, and the way she unconsciously fidgets with the hem of her shirt, rubbing it between her forefinger and thumb.  She lifts her glass to her lips and it trembles ever so slightly as she takes a sip.

The poor girl actually looks close to terrified, but yet, she doesn’t retreat.

She’s watching me, her expression blank, completely devoid of emotion.  But those eyes …

Pretty, soft blue.  The most soulful eyes I’ve ever seen.  Her expression may be sealed up tight, but those eyes give everything away.

She’s not just nervous.  She’s desperate.

Wes makes a choking sound, fighting off a laugh.  His lips are pressed in a tight line, hiding the shit-eating grin that’s trying to push its way onto his face, although he can’t quite hide the laughter in his eyes.

Bastard.
  He’s loving every second of this, whatever the hell this is.

I consider telling her to go.  I should just tell her I’m not interested.  It would be the smart thing to do.  Young and hot doesn’t always make for a fun night.  She can’t even hold my gaze without fidgeting.

But … for the first time in years, I find myself curious.  The girl’s been sitting in a booth across the bar for the last forty-five minutes watching me, and despite the fact that she’s obviously uncomfortable, she figured out my name, got up the guts to approach me …

“Have a seat, darlin’,” I say, gesturing to a chair across from me.  “Let me buy you a birthday drink.”

She takes a step closer, small and hesitant, and then she drags her teeth over her bottom lip and shakes her head slightly.  “I think I want to stand, um, if that’s okay with you?”

I shrug a shoulder, leaning back in my chair.  I don’t even know what to say to that.  She doesn’t want to sit?  Fine.  Whatever.

“What’s your name?” I ask.  “And don’t give me any of that
I don’t know
bullshit.”

She shakes her head again; a few blonde curls that have worked their way loose from the knot of hair piled on her head bounce against her shoulders.  Her eyes flick to Wes, and then back to me.  “I want to know who he is first.”

A pang of irritation hits me at her question.  I try to push it back, but it seeps into my voice anyway.  “Yeah?” I say, sitting up straight.  “And why the fuck would you want to know that if you’re supposed to be here to meet me?”

She looks at me as though she wants to both devour and strangle me.  I chuckle softly.  She’s fucking adorable.

“Because,” she says, the word shaking slightly on her lips.  She grimaces, no doubt she heard it, too, and clears her throat.  “I do.”

Wes takes a sip of his beer, considering her for a moment, and then lifts a shoulder in a half shrug.  “I’m Wesley Gates.”