The Long Road Home [The Final McCassey Brothers Book]
Read The Long Road Home [The Final McCassey Brothers Book] Online
Authors: Lauren N. Sharman
Whiskey Creek Press
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Copyright ©2008 by WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
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Lauren N. Sharman
Printed in the United States of America
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
"Her Shadow” (A short story in the
HATE Anthology
)
Dalton pulls Scarlet from a burning house just in time, but is too late to stop whoever attacked the family—murdering her parents and scaring her into silence. When Scarlet finally tells her horrifying story, Dalton is shocked when he learns her trauma is the result of his own mistake.
No Worries (The McCassey Brother's Trilogy: Book 1)
Trying to outrun her past, Gypsy's unconditional trust in reformed blue collar bad boy, Rebel McCassey, touched his hardened heart. When the demons chasing Gypsy are caught lurking in the shadows, Rebel vows to keep her safe; even if it means slipping back into his old ways...
The Devil's Candy
(The McCassey Brother's Trilogy: Book 2)
Blackie, ‘The Devil’ McCassey sacrifices his freedom by getting married to repay an old debt, and finds himself in the unfamiliar position of keeping someone
else
out of trouble ... his wife, Angel. To save her in the aftermath of a murder, Blackie's forced to face his violent past one last time.
Dusty Rose
(The McCassey Brother's Trilogy: Book 3)
Judd McCassey knows they're headed for trouble when Dusty rides back into his life on a stolen outlaw biker's motorcycle. Her excuse for hiding dangerous secrets is that she's trying to keep him safe. When she vanishes, the truth is revealed, and Judd must find her before its too late.
~~For those with the courage to battle their addictions, and the loved ones who stand by them.~~
Special thanks to my cousin, Shawn, for sharing his experience ... and to Cathi, for shedding light on what it's like to be on the outside looking in.
Ronnie, Sarah, Shannon, and Teresa—thank you for your quick responses, comments and suggestions. It seems like the phrase, ‘asap', is always attached to my requests for a critique, doesn't it?
Shannon, you held my hand from the beginning of
The Long Road Home
until the last word had been typed. If not for you, Georgia's story would never have turned out as good as it did. Sometimes, I thought you knew her better than I did.
And just so you know, I, too, have recently discovered what it's like to argue with myself...
The first week of December, 1988
It was just as she pictured it.
The small, quiet, western Maryland town of Hagerstown was exactly the way nineteen-year-old Georgia had always imagined it would be.
For as long as she could remember, she'd heard stories about Hagerstown and its residents from her so-called father. He'd never had one kind word to say about anything or anyone that had to do with the town, which was how she knew it'd be a wonderful place.
Just from what she'd seen out the window of the Greyhound bus she'd arrived on, Georgia knew that if the circumstances were different, if she was clean and respectable and capable of living among decent folks, this would be the place she'd choose to live.
But she couldn't stay.
Her father had grown up here; certainly there were a lot of people in town who knew him—knew what kind of man he was. If anyone found out about the kind of life she'd been leading and the things she'd done, they'd do everything in their power to distance themselves from her. She didn't want that; didn't want others to see her the way she saw herself every time she looked in the mirror.
No, there was no place for her here.
It was probably for the best, though; Hagerstown was a dangerous place for Georgia. She knew that if her presence was discovered, she'd have a lot of explaining to do, explaining that would be a waste of time because no one would believe her anyway.
Remaining onboard the bus during its six hour layover and then traveling straight through to California would've been much safer than venturing into town. But Georgia was leaving the east coast for good, and the pull of this town—a town that had always felt like home even though she'd never been here—was just too strong to ignore. She had to check out at least some of the place where she had family—three people in particular—although she had no intention of talking to them.
She just wanted to see them.
Find out what they looked like.
Burn their faces into her memory so that whenever she felt alone, she could put faces with the names of the ones who, without knowing it, had comforted her and kept her company.
She'd been nervous about venturing away from the safety of the bus station, afraid she may get lost, or worse, be spotted by those who were never meant to know of her existence. But it had taken her well over a month to muster the courage to leave the life she'd been leading in southern Virginia, part of her decision being made for her when the landlord threw her out. She wasn't about to waste this one and only opportunity to satisfy her curiosity.
Wanting to take in as much as she could in the short amount of time she had, Georgia had positioned herself in a vacant lot across the street from a red brick building with a large sign out front that read: McCASSEY'S GARAGE.
Wearing only her brand new flannel coat, she'd been there for hours, shivering in the freezing, late-fall temperatures, huddled beside a dumpster, watching.
During that time, seven mechanics and a tow truck driver had worked steadily. Although she couldn't see much with two of the three bay doors closed, Georgia was still able to get an occasional glimpse of the men inside.
Sometime just before dusk, they'd all ventured out into the empty part of the parking lot, each one wearing nothing more than a pair of navy blue coveralls, and played a three-on-five pickup game of touch football. Georgia was too far away to be able to make out anything they were saying, but she couldn't help wondering if the three men who'd taken on the other five were the men she'd heard so much about, the ones she'd been longing to see.
When the game ended, five of the players got into various pickup trucks and left, leaving just the three men who'd been on the same team standing alone in the lot.
As she wondered if they were Blackie, Judd, and Rebel, Georgia yawned, wiped her watery eyes, and closed them, trying hard to concentrate and recall every detail she'd heard about the brothers.
She knew Blackie was the oldest and that Judd and Rebel were only ten months apart. Blackie, who she'd heard was a former outlaw biker known as ‘The Devil', had been in and out of prison since he was eighteen years old. If Georgia had done her math correctly, she figured he was now somewhere around forty. Four years younger than Blackie, Judd was the middle brother; a follower, her father had called him. And Rebel, the youngest, was supposedly some kind of great leader. During one of his frequent rants about the boys, her father had actually seemed jealous when he mentioned that people apparently looked up to Rebel. All three men were married and had children.
Squinting in the near-darkness, Georgia came to the conclusion that the largest of the men, the menacing looking one who wore a Fu Manchu mustache and had long, dark brown hair halfway down his back, had to be Blackie. The question was ... which one was Judd and which one was Rebel?
Georgia sighed when she glanced at her watch and noted the time. Her bus was due to pull out in an hour. Needing a fix, she kept wishing the men would hurry up and leave so she could do what she needed to do and still have time to walk over for a closer look at the garage.
Finally, after another ten minutes of standing around and talking, they got into three separate pickup trucks and pulled out of the parking lot, all driving in the same direction.
Georgia allowed another few minutes to pass before venturing out of her hiding place. She stood slowly and raised her arms above her head to stretch, then knelt and unzipped her small duffle bag. Searching inside for her stash, she breathed a sigh of relief when her hand came into contact with the shoebox she'd carefully packed at the bottom.
After a short walk to the other side of the parking lot, she sat on the ground under a streetlight, removed her coat, and pulled her left arm out of her shirtsleeve. She tied the rubber tourniquet just below her bicep, using her teeth to help pull it tight, and tapped her fingers against her upper forearm looking for a good vein—a feat that had become increasingly difficult lately. Finally finding one, she picked up the needle she'd prepared and inserted it into her arm, emptying the syringe.
Georgia closed her eyes as the familiar sense of euphoria washed over her, glad to feel numb again, happy that at least for the next few hours, she could forget about who and what she really was.
Tossing the needle to the ground, Georgia untied the tourniquet and shoved it into the box, which she then put back in her bag. She glanced at her watch again, knowing she didn't have much time. A quick look at the garage was all she'd have time for.