The Way Home (Chasing #3) (2 page)

Less than a half a mile down the road, traffic had come to a standstill. A roadblock and flashing red and blue lights had been a foreboding sign of what lay ahead. I’d had that feeling; the one where your heart bottoms out; the one where you felt as if you’d lost something vital but didn’t know what.

It was then I had known.

I’d lost her.

A hunk of twisted metal was all that remained. Although it did not look like a car, it was the exact same color as the car Natalie had been driving. My mind refused to accept the nightmare unfolding in front of me. This wasn’t real. EMT’s and firefighter were already on the scene. People blocked my way. There had been so many. They were everywhere. I’d jumped from my truck, shoved my way through the crowd, and ran toward the wreck. The whole time I’d been silently screaming at myself to turn around — just turn the fuck around, but I couldn’t. I had to see her. The sight of Natalie’s lifeless body being cut from that mangled hunk of metal still managed to give me nightmares. There was no escaping my reality, she was gone.

I’d been too late to save her. That day, I’d lost the love of my life, my best friend, and my reason for living. The time we’d had together, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. I’d wanted an eternity with her. The promise of the life we could have had together and our child’s had been gone in the blink of an eye. It was in that moment that I ceased to exist.

Numb, I’d driven aimlessly around and had ended up parked in the driveway in front of my gran’s old house where I’d sat for what felt like an eternity, my head filled with images of Natalie and the accident. I couldn’t live without her. I didn’t want to. That day, I’d hung my head and cried like a baby. There hadn’t been anyone around to witness my pain. What the hell did it matter anyway? My life was fucking over.

Underneath the truck’s bench seat, I’d searched around until my fingers brushed and curled along the butt of the thirty-eight my gran kept hidden. Testing the weight of the gun in my hand, I’d flipped opened the cylinder to find it as empty as I suspected it would be. Gran never kept it loaded, but she did store the ammo in the ashtray. A single bullet was placed into the cylinder. I only needed one. At this range, there was no way I’d miss.

My head had rested on the steering wheel. The gun was gripped tightly in my hands and positioned between my thighs with its barrel staring straight up at me. My chest so tight — it hurt to breathe. My mind spun chaotically. My future as bleak as my thoughts as I sat and contemplated a life without Natalie. There was nothing left for me. I’d stared down at that gun not feeling a thing. I was numb. Tears had leaked from the corners of my eyes and streaked their way down my cheeks. If anyone ever told you real men didn’t cry… well, they were fucking liars. It wasn’t about being weak. It wasn’t about taking the easy way out; it was all about the emptiness that threatened to swallow me whole. My reason for living was gone.

I’d cocked the gun with my finger resting next to the trigger. I’d been staring down into that dark void when a sense of peace unlike any I’d ever known settled over me, even though my hands shook slightly. The shaking was a contradiction to the sudden calmness that had replaced the chaos still raging inside of me. Anyone’s fucking hands would shake if they were face to face with their own death, but I hadn’t been scared. In fact, it was just the opposite. I had been anxious to have it all over with; to see my girl’s face once again. There had been no room for fear in the place where my mind had taken me. Some would call me a coward, but it took a whole hell of a lot of courage and strength to gaze death straight in the eye. It would be the last decision I ever had to make, and for me it was easy.

A sudden knock on the driver’s side window changed the course of my life. I’d glanced up to find my gran standing beside that old pickup truck. Familiar watery green eyes had held mine hostage. Even over the roaring in my ears, I had managed to focus on her, to read her lips, and to hear her voice despite all of the static blaring full blast inside my head. It was my name spilling from her lips. She’d said it over and over, and even after all of the time that had passed, I could still hear her as plain as day.

The tone of her voice had held a desperation I couldn’t explain, but I’d felt it. For some unexplainable reason it had rattled me from the inside out; shaking me to the very marrow of my bones. I hadn’t been able to do it. I’d slid the revolver underneath the seat where I’d found it.

The memory of unlocking that truck door would forever stand out in my mind; the squeak of the rusty hinges hanging in the silence between us, and the look of utter relief on my gran’s face. Before I’d been able to even fully open the door, she was beside me. Her arms had squeezed me tight… so tight that it was as if she’d been trying to purge what I’d almost done from my soul. She loved me. She’d said those words over and over until I’d finally replied in turn repeating them back to her. She was the only one besides Natalie who ever had.

The sound of an approaching vehicle interrupted my dark thoughts. A late model black Cadillac pulled in and parked beside my Harley and pick-up. Last week, I’d had the truck shipped up from Kentucky where it’d been kept in storage… a badass sixty-seven custom kickass Ford. I had this thing for older model vehicles. They just didn’t make them like they used to; all those sleek lines, the power, and chrome.

Since I was constantly traveling, there’d been no need to rent a place of my own. Mostly everything I’d accumulated over the years wound up in storage. The rest was carried around in a couple of old army green duffel bags and a ratty back pack. I didn’t own a lot anyway, and never stayed rooted in one spot for too long, since that restlessness that lived inside of me was as much a part of me as breathing. It was always there, a constant reminder urging me on. I had to keep moving; never allowing the dust to settle. At one time, that wanderlust had kept me from going insane.

Standing, I gazed out across the yard studying the car and dusted my hands along the legs of my jeans. I jumped down from the porch and made my way to the graveled driveway to meet the gray haired woman climbing out of the caddy. This must be the famous or the
infamous
Mavis Davies, the former owner of Eight Balls, which she had renamed The Eight Ball six years ago when it came to be in her possession. When I’d asked her about the name change, she’d claimed that was one too many balls for one old woman to pack around. She was a regular firecracker who had insisted on stopping by to drop off the bill of sale instead of using the postal service like a normal, sane person would have. I’d been expecting her, even though her request had seemed a little strange.

From what I could gather, she was a nosey busybody who’d inherited the pool hall from an ex-boyfriend. I’d been stunned as hell when she’d explained during one of our previous phone conversations how she’d actually managed to acquire the property. She and the ex had parted as friends, and the son of a bitch had kept her in his will. People never ceased to amaze me. After purchasing the house back from The Logan’s, I’d found myself scouring the internet and had come across the listing for the pool hall, which led me to stumble upon Mavis Davies. The rest was history.

“Good afternoon, handsome,” Mavis said with a flirtatious smile; her face lined, but friendly and open. A faded red smock covered her hot pink shirt. The color was so bright, it hurt my eyes to look at her. She wore jeans with high heels. The top of her head met my shoulder. I took her extended hand in mine studying her. She seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t pin down or place where I knew her, which was slightly odd since I prided myself on recalling faces and names. It was a must in my line of work.

“Good afternoon, Mavis.” I addressed her by her first name as she’d previously insisted. I didn’t need another lecture about how “old” Miss Davies made her feel.
What was the deal with women and age anyway? It was only a damn number.
Thick rimmed glasses dwarfed her somewhat petite features and sat high on a broad nose. Curious, keen eyes observed me. This had the feel of an interrogation. Cherry red lips suddenly curved into a warm and welcoming grin, drawing my attention to the sudden appearance of the dimple flashing back at me in her left cheek. Chin length black and silver hair was held in place by a bright red garish headband. After a moment under the scrutiny of her gaze, she released her death grip on my hand.

“Here are those papers, honey. Finally,” she said with a smile, handing me a white envelope along with a set of keys. Her voice was raspy, and, through the short distance that separated us, I could smell the lingering tobacco on her breath. She was a smoker and an incorrigible flirt to boot, who at this very moment was busy batting her eyelashes at me.
The woman was old enough to be my damn mother!

“Thanks for bringing these by.”

I intended to turn to leave when a hand landed firmly on my arm, stopping me dead in my tracks. I peered down at the bright red nails and slim fingers that held me in their grasp. I didn’t like to be touched. Except for Natalie, I had always been the type who shied away from affection. That shit, well, it was useless now unless I was satisfying a need. That’s all it was anymore… just a need; an itch to scratch where the gratification always managed to outweigh the discomfort.

Mavis Davies was either a brave soul or a fool. She didn’t know me from Adam. Hell, I stood at least a foot taller than her, and there was no one around for miles. She should be more cautious. “Reva would have been pleased to know that you made your way back home,” she murmured. I nodded my head absently and wondered how she’d known of my grandmother.
Hell, everyone in this town had probably heard of Reva Lucas since she’d lived here for eighty-nine years. It should come as no surprise that Mavis had known her.

“I just wanted to find out when you planned on stopping by the pool hall. The staff is a little anxious to meet the new owner.”

Fuck!
I’d been putting it off ever since my arrival in Crawley a week and a half ago, and had finally managed to forget until she’d mentioned it just now. I tried to avoid town like the plague. The Eight Ball was only a few miles from where I lived atop of Hawk Mountain. I liked the solitude. I was the only one here, well… except for Hank.

He was a rail thin stray I’d found living in the shack out back behind the main house. After a few cans of Alpo, he’d taken to me like stink on shit. I didn’t want a damn dog. I didn’t have the time, nor did I want the responsibility of another living thing depending on me, but Hank… he was inevitable. Whether I wanted to admit it not, I was stuck with him. No matter how many times I’d tried to run him off, he just wouldn’t leave. In some ways, Hank and I had a lot in common if I allowed myself the luxury of wallowing in self-pity; the outcast whose mother and father had abandoned him, who had never wanted a son, but there was no time for that fucking shit.

Not that I’d been looking for sympathy from anyone anyway, but I’d found more kindness in the faces of strangers than here at home in Crawley, especially after Natalie’s accident, and thanks to the vindictive venom spewed by that twisted bitch, Myra Hayes. In her fucked up mind, she’d blamed me for Natalie’s death, but she didn’t have to place blame. Hell, I placed enough on myself.

Upon my arrival, the house’s electricity had already been restored and the place stocked to the nines, thanks to the little extra green I’d wirelessly provided to the talented and efficient Mavis Davies. She’d thought of everything. I’d even discovered a box of condoms in the bathroom. The thought alone made me chuckle.

I’d stayed on the mountain not bothering with venturing far. If I went into town, there was always the chance of running into Addie, or even worse, her mother, Myra Hayes. That bitch had almost destroyed my life, and I’d let her. I didn’t think I could fucking take it if I heard, ‘‘
it was all your fault”
fall from her lips again. For the last eight years, I’d lived with the guilt of that day, and after all of this time, I didn’t need her pointing her finger at me and blasting me with accusations.

“Tomorrow,” I finally muttered giving in.
I would meet the staff tomorrow.
The time had finally arrived, and I couldn’t put it off any longer. With a polite nod directed at Mavis, I headed for the house. There wasn’t the time for idle chitchat. Shit needed to get done, and I’d wasted enough time shooting the breeze with her. Her visit had left me in a sour mood.

“I’ll let everyone know,” she yelled after me. “They’re real anxious to meet you!”

Well, I sure as hell wasn’t anxious to meet them
.

Relief coursed through my body when I heard her Caddy start. I stepped up onto a couple of the old concrete blocks that were currently being used as temporary steps and climbed onto the front porch, dodging a pile of discarded rotten wood. When I opened the sagging screen door, I could hear Hank’s nails scratching against the front door. Earlier, I’d let him inside to take a nap since it had been as muggy as hell outside, and the AC had been cranked on high since I’d left the house this morning.

While pushing open the door, I shooed Hank aside and stepped on into the house. The cool air from the AC washed over me. It felt like fricking heaven. “Hey, you big goober.”

I bent down and scratched Hank behind one of his crooked ears. His long tail wagged with affection. A wet tongue snaked out and swiped my forearm. Regardless of what others thought about me, Hank was always happy to see me. While my tolerance for mankind was pretty damn low, I’d always had a soft spot for animals and, well now, for Hank. I could tolerate him even though he was a huge pain in my ass.

His fur was brown streaked with black, almost a brindle in color. He appeared to be a cross between a Lab and German Shepherd, but I had no real clue as to what in the hell he was, nothing more than a glorified Heinz 57, a mix of this and a little of that. He seemed all right for a dog, and he had been my constant companion. Truth be told, he’d been much more than that.