Take You Away: A Novella

Title Page

Copyright

WARD

LILY

Coming Soon

Books By Ember Casey

About the Author

Take You Away

Two Wicked Shorts

By Ember Casey

Copyright ©2014 Ember Casey

All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover Image © RomanceNovelCovers.com, used under license.

You can contact Ember at [email protected].

WARD

I never thought I’d be so happy to see a fucking gas station.

At first I think my brain’s just screwing with me. After all, we’ve been in the car for fifteen hours straight and I’ve downed so many energy drinks that I'm shocked I haven’t started hallucinating yet. We’ve seen nothing but empty highway for almost sixty miles. And my gas gauge has been on empty for the last fifteen. We passed a single rest stop a while back, but that's it. I was beginning to think we’d be stranded out here until that neon light lit up the sky, like a damned angel with diesel prices dangling out of her ass.

Ol’ Stella just barely makes it up the off ramp. There are funny noises coming from beneath her hood as I roll into the station, and she’s sputtering by the time we’re at the pump.

"There, girl," I say quietly, patting the dashboard and yanking out my keys. "You did it."

I glance over at the passenger’s seat. Addison—
Louisa
—is curled up, her head resting against the window. She’s completely oblivious to the fact that we almost had to get out and walk those last few miles, but that’s fine with me. I’m supposed to be her knight in shining armor, not the idiot who wasn’t paying attention to the fuel levels.

She’s been asleep for the past hour. Maybe more. She’s drawn her knees up to her chest, and she looks so small, so vulnerable, curled up like that. Almost like a child.

I can’t help myself. I reach over to her. Her hair has fallen across her face, and it’s curlier than I’ve ever seen it. She must have been pretty vigilant about straightening it back at Huntington Manor. Now that it’s her natural texture—even though it’s still not her natural color—I feel like a complete idiot for not recognizing her.

Louisa Cunningham.
I’m still trying to process the fact that this tiny, confusing, intoxicating girl is the daughter of the late Wentworth Cunningham. How did I end up like this with her?

I push her hair behind her ear. She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake up. Even in sleep, she looks so sad. So lost. And fuck, if I don’t want to help her. How does she do this to me? Part of me feels completely helpless, looking at her. And the other part would fight my way to Hell and back just to help her escape those shadows I’ve seen in her eyes.

She shifts again and murmurs something in her sleep. I pull back my hand. I don’t want to wake her. Maybe she’s finding some peace in her dreams.

Quietly, I climb out of the car and push the door to behind me. At this hour, we’re the only ones filling up.

Or maybe everyone else just knows better than to stop at this shithole.

The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, and there’s graffiti everywhere—and not the kind people generally consider "art." I glance over at the little convenience store, and the attendant’s watching me through the cloudy window. Probably making sure I’m not going to add to the vandalism. Or, more likely, making sure I don't pump and run. I bet he gets a lot of those out here. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has his hand on a shotgun beneath the counter.

Instinctively, I glance down at Louisa through the car window. She hasn’t moved. Good. I don’t want her to wake up and freak out. She doesn’t belong in a place like this. A place with profanity spray painted on every surface and condom wrappers blowing across the cracked concrete. Hell,
I
don’t even want to be here, and I grew up surrounded by this sort of shit.

I sigh and swipe my debit card at the pump. It’s declined, even though I’m sure
I still have about five hundred dollars in my account. I try three times, just to be sure, before I'm forced to stumble inside.

The bell on the door gives a depressing
clunk clunk
as I step inside. The convenience store reeks of cigarette smoke. I try not to breathe in.

"Thirty dollars on Pump Three," I say.

The man looks me up and down. One of his eyes is bigger than the other, and there’s a nasty sore on his lip. He looks pissed, like he’s just waiting for me to give him an excuse to pull out that shotgun.

Try it, buddy
, I think.
Just give me a fucking reason.
My hand curls into a fist below the counter. I’ve still got the aches and bruises from my last fight, but I'm not against throwing a swing at this guy. A couple of punches would feel really good right now. Work off some of this damned energy.

Finally, the man grunts and closes his grubby fingers around my card. My eyes move past him to the rows of cigarettes behind his head. My hand uncurls. A punch would feel good. A cigarette would feel even better.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting that stale cigarette smell fill my lungs. Fuck, what I wouldn’t do for a smoke right now. I could go through a whole pack in a night.

It’s been two years, nine months, and seventeen days since my last one. I promised my mom. Promised her I’d do everything in my power to keep the cancer from getting me, too. Those first few months after I quit were hell. I thought it'd get easier, but times like this…

I shake my head and curl my fist again. I’m not going to break the streak now. Instead, I grab some snacks from a nearby shelf and toss them on the counter. Drinks, too. The attendant looks pissed that he has to ring up another charge, but he doesn’t say a word. Just glares at me. As soon as he’s done, I grab the bag and walk back outside before I have the chance to do something I’ll regret.

It’s new for me, doing the responsible thing. Though I guess some people might not consider my current situation "responsible" at all.

This morning, I had a job. It wasn’t exactly a perfect situation, but at least I knew where my next meal was coming from. And I was working for my biological father, though I’m not sure whether that’s a point for or against it.

At the pump, I grab the nozzle for Unleaded and shove the end into Ol’ Stella’s tank.
What the hell am I doing here?

My eyes drift back down to the car. Down to Louisa. She’s shifted slightly, and her cheek is smashed against the window, her breath forming a small circle of fog on the glass. Something tightens inside of me.

Three weeks ago, I didn’t even know this girl. I’m not even sure I know her now. But when she told me she was running, I knew I couldn’t let her go alone.

I’ve never been this confused over a chick before. The first time we met, she threw herself at me. Grabbed me and kissed me in a way that even now makes my cock twitch in my jeans. She didn’t know my name. Didn’t know anything about me.

She was just a sweet, warm, desperate mouth. A pair of eager hands. She would’ve let me have her right then, if I’d wanted to. I
had
wanted to. It took all of my strength not to pick her up, throw her down on the bed, and take her right there without a second thought. Without ever learning her name.

But thankfully there’s a shred of decency in me somewhere.

I knew from the way she touched me that it wasn’t just a game for her. That she’d regret it after. She looked so scared. So vulnerable. And that night, my conscience beat out the demands of my cock.

But she’d hooked me that day. I couldn’t get her out of my head. Not her body or her lips or that sad, sad look in her eyes.

And now I understand that sadness. Well, more or less. Now I know who she really is. I don’t understand why the hell she thought it was a good idea to take a job at Huntington Manor, but grief does crazy things to you. I should know.

When the tank is full, I slide back into the car. Louisa stirs at the sound of my door closing. Her eyes drift open, and she sits up, pushing the hair out of her face. When her gaze falls on me, her eyes widen slightly, as if she forgot all of this while she slept. She glances away, but not fast enough for me to miss the shame in her expression.

I know that look. She’s beating herself up again. I’ve never met anyone who carries as much guilt as Louisa seems to. And for what? Shit, she’s an angel compared to me.

"I got some snacks," I say. I hand over my bag of purchases. She takes it without looking me in the eye.

But I watch her as she sifts through the bag, and then there it is—the lift of her eyebrows, the sudden smile. She glances up at me.

"Pork rinds and beef jerky?" she says, laughing. "You sure know how to treat a lady, don’t you?"

Jesus, it’s amazing what her laughter can do to me. The need for a smoke, the urge to knock out that guy in the convenience store, my own guilt at bringing her to a place like this—all fade at that beautiful sound.

"There’s some chocolate in there, too," I tell her.

"Oh, and root beer." She flashes a grin that makes my chest tighten all over again.

That’s right. This is why I’m doing this.
To see that smile. Jesus, I’m fucking whipped.

For the moment, at least, she’s managed to forget about all the crap she’s running from. All the crap
we’re
running from. Because try as I might, I can’t ignore the fact that I’m running from something, too. If I ever see my biological father again, it’ll be too soon. That bastard can kiss my ass.

"Do you want the chocolate or the pork rinds?" Louisa says, holding them both up. "Or should we go really crazy and mix them?"

And there it is—that little spark of mischief in her eyes that always seems to wake something inside of me. The spark a good girl gets when she’s drinking a bottle of expensive stolen wine. Or as she’s drawing dicks on a picture of Edward Carolson. The spark that shows me, just for a second, the real her. The girl not weighed down by guilt and shadows.

I lean forward and take her face in my hands.

"I think we should go crazy," I say. And then I kiss her.

Her mouth is like warm caramel. Sweet and soft. But her kiss is like a shot of nicotine straight into my bloodstream. It’s addictive.

She makes a sound like a sigh against my mouth. Her hands move to my neck and she tugs me closer. She’s never been shy about what she wants. I don’t know any man who can resist that sort of unapologetic hunger.

I yank her against me. Her body molds to mine, ready and eager, and my blood burns. My cock strains against my jeans, already ready to go. Her fingers slip beneath my shirt. She’s like a siren, wrapping her magic slowly around me. Dragging me under. Making me forget everything else.

Her hands slide up my back, and they leave twin trails of heat. I could take her right now. In the front seat of this car. I want to. I want to tear off her clothes and sink into her and take both of us far away. To that place where there’s only need and pleasure and those intoxicating sounds she makes when I’m deep inside of her. Fuck, I want her.

Until I remember the guy in the convenience store.

I’d have sex in front of an audience any day, but there’s no way I’m letting that old creep see Louisa. Protectiveness flares up in me, and that's enough to make me pull back.

"Not here," I say. My eyes flick over to the attendant. Her gaze follows. She sits back, though I can tell she’s as disappointed as I am at having to stop. Her cheeks are flushed as she tugs her shirt back down.

"Is there a motel nearby?" she asks. "It’s late and you've been driving all day." When her eyes slide back to me, they still have that glimmer of mischief in them. When she looks at me like that, I’d do anything for her.