Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (9 page)

When a shadow passed in front of the upstairs window, her gaze darted that way, but no one was there. A light usually burned in that room, too. Someone who hated the darkness as much as she did. It was possible her car had been spotted, parked in the same place on far too many nights to go unnoticed. Her breath stalled in panic, but no one came out to investigate. Lord, wouldn’t that be just her luck. If the family living in her dream home, the Lark Street house, all suffered from insomnia.

Grabbing her bad news blanket from the backseat, she covered her lap with the thin wool, its tasseled ends knotted and frayed from years of machine washing. The pink plaid was faded to a drab salmon color and dotted with permanent stains. Rosa had given her the blanket the day of her mother’s funeral service. Hope had worn her one and only fancy dress, a powder blue crushed velvet with white satin ribbons around the neck. White tights and her dusty patent leather Mary Jane’s, which Rosa had unsuccessfully tried to shine, had offered little protection when the chilly January rain started to fall. Few people bothered to attend the informal graveside ceremony, and that included Marshall. Hope knew because she’d stood on the churned up, muddy grass next to a big silver box and looked at every single face, wondering who was going to take care of her now that her Mommy was in heaven. A frightening proposition, considering every person in attendance was a stranger, with the exception of two people. Rosa, who stood holding her tiny, cold hand, and the boy, now more a man by life experience than years, who stood solemnly several feet behind her, attitude flashing at those who stared at the confused little girl in the blue dress for too long. Asher, her stoic and silent, self-appointed protector, but always from a distance. His normally shaggy hair was recently buzzed, and it wasn’t until years later that she realized it was in preparation for boot camp. And that he’d attended his own mother’s funeral the very next day.

It was just before the long car ride back to the vineyard that Rosa had given her the brand new blanket, child-sized and warm.

“Bad news is a part of life, little one,” she’d said, aggressively wrapping the blanket around Hope’s narrow body, nearly knocking her off her feet. “And when it shows up, you just wrap yourself in something warm, and you breathe. Sooner or later, the bad gets better.”

Even at seven years old, Hope knew it was bullshit. Knew it then, knew it now. And yet, she’d kept the bad news blanket with her all these years, too sentimental to part with it. Breathe, Rosa had said, and sooner or later the bad gets better.

It would, Hope told herself now. It had to.

Soon she wouldn’t have to live like this. Taking a shower at the club everyday. Begging Val to let her stay at his place each night, feeling immense relief when he said yes and bubbling resentment when he said no. Could no one see that she needed a fucking break, here? Bubba seemed to be the only one concerned with her well being and thank God for him, too, because Club Kitten had been a blessing. The income she was making still had the ability to astound her. Another few months and she’d have all the missing money from her precious education fund saved again. And with it, the perilous control that was so out of reach for her would return.

The police investigation had been a complete joke, as had the bank’s informal query into the unauthorized transfer. The transfer in which her money, and her life as she’d known it, had been stolen. The president of the branch had calmly advised her that the entire sum of her savings account had been transferred to a different financial institution altogether, via an online banking request by someone logged in as Hope Coleson. The bank had followed protocol, taking forty-eight hours to complete the transaction due to the large dollar amount, with no red flags or disputes presenting themselves. When she’d asked him—loudly and with some obscenities thrown in—how his almighty bank had followed protocol by letting a dirty thief steal her money, he’d straightened his tie and sharply replied that regardless of who initiated the transaction, they’d used the username and password that she, herself, had set for the online account. Because sixty days had passed since the transfer had taken place, during which Hope had been blissfully unaware of the missing money, they were no longer legally obligated to insure the funds or pursue their own investigation. And with that succinctly spoken disclaimer, an armed guard had escorted her out the front door, as if she were the criminal.

The river of tears flowing down her face should have swayed them, but no. Those people at the bank were stone cold. As was the detective assigned to her case. He’d read the police report she’d painstakingly filled out while slurping from a paper coffee cup before pursing his chapped lips.

“Who knows your passwords?” he’d asked, squinting at her.

“Nobody but me,” she’d replied.

“Well, ma’am, it appears somebody does,” he’d said with an air of puffed up authority, as if he’d just cracked the case wide open, and popped a toothpick into his mouth.

He then proceeded to tell her it was your everyday, run of the mill identity theft, a mostly victimless crime with the odds of finding the culprit slim to none. In fact, less than ten percent of these crimes resulted in an arrest and she might do well to monitor her accounts, and the codes to access them, with better vigilance. A dirty business card, a clammy handshake and his disingenuous wishes for a good day were her only consolation prize.

A victimless crime?

Hope wanted to fly across the metal desk and jam that chewed up toothpick down his throat for saying such an insensitive thing. She was a victim. Her college education shortened by one, extremely vital year was a victim. Her poor, innocent breasts laced high and tight into black leather four nights a week were a pair of victims.

She’d continued to call the precinct every week, asking for a progress report on her case, praying the culprit had been apprehended and was being violently tased as she spoke. But her voice mails went unreturned and when she was able to connect with the reticent detective, he quickly told her there were no new leads.

If it wasn’t for Bubba and Marcia, an oddly compassionate couple who deemed her teeth and tits to be strip club worthy, along with the girls who bared nearly everything but their own private reasons for working there, Hope wasn’t sure where she would’ve ended up. Probably back where she started. At the vineyard. Where her ability to make her own decisions would be severely hampered by Marshall’s vision of how his dutiful daughter should live.

It would begin with him placing her in a mid-level management position. One she was in no way qualified for and therefore, passively subjecting her to the white collar equivalent of school yard bullying by colleagues who’d actually earned their titles. It would end with him handpicking her future husband. Most likely an ass kissing department manager with male pattern baldness and aspirations for advancement, willing to do whatever necessary to climb the corporate ladder and sit in the seat Ash had forfeited long ago—the CEO chair. A passel of bald little Coleson slash something’s would follow shortly thereafter, Marshall needing to further the blood line and preserve the brand.

It was Marshall’s inflexible opinion and heavy handedness that made her reject him. As a father, she knew there were certainly worse ones out there. And there was a time after her mother’s death that she’d clung to him, building a bond that she’d flourished under, along with Rosa’s daily care and watchful eye. Rosa had worked for the Coleson’s for decades, initially as Ash’s nanny when he was young, then as a housekeeper once he no longer needed her care. Hope had been a month shy of her eighth birthday the day her mother died, and Rosa, with her heavy Spanish accent and nurturing ways, had stepped in. More maternal to her and Ash than their own mothers had ever been, Rosa was the one to bathe and feed, to mend cuts and scrapes, to tuck in the covers at night. Hope knew the poor woman had sacrificed having her own children for the hefty salary Marshall paid her, but she selfishly thanked God for it anyway. If it hadn’t been for Rosa, she would’ve grown up to leave that house for good, never knowing the feel of parental acceptance.

Sure, Marshall loved her. Then and now. He just did it conditionally and without those pesky things called emotions.

Which was why Hope had a plan. A detailed strategy to get her life back by the end of the summer, just two and a half short months away. After tedious research done on her days off at the public library, Hope had enrolled in the fall semester at Mountain State College in Denver. Their accredited program in Landscape Architecture might not be as renown as the University of San Diego’s, but it was significantly less money and her completed credits would transfer, making the decision to switch schools a no-brainer. As long as her tuition was paid on the first day of classes, she would have her degree by next spring. That expense, along with the cost of getting to Denver and finding cheap housing, was going to take every dollar she’d already saved and every one she planned to earn over the next few months. Smashed boobs and exposed ass cheeks be damned, Hope was willing to do whatever necessary to make that happen. And that included sleeping in her car.

Anxiety laced fatigue pulled at her from all directions and her eyes grew heavy, closing against her will as she silently counted the numbers she already knew by heart.

Twenty-eight days without a home—because she just couldn’t digest the shameful word
homeless
tonight. Three-thousand, nine-hundred dollars in cash, locked in a safety deposit box. Nine-thousand, one-hundred dollars to go. Four nights a week at roughly three hundred a night in tips. Ten weeks until the Fall Semester started in Denver. Until she had a home again. Until her life, at least one as a person instead of a moral pariah, began again.

The subtle smell of the jacaranda tree, the sight of the light inside the Lark Street house, and the fragile uncertainty of her future, lulled her into a deep, but fitful sleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The car shook with each fist pound, three in a rapid row, waking her abruptly and nearly sending her into cardiac arrest.

“What the...?” Her gritty eyes opened to the sight of a broad chest covered in black cotton filling the driver’s side window. “Jesus, what the hell?” she repeated, sitting up in the seat and pushing her messy hair out of her face, her heart slamming against her rib cage.

A meaty fist pounded the glass again and Hope flinched, waiting for it to shatter.

“Stop,” she complained, risking further wrath with her demand. If the man meant to kill her, surely he would’ve done it by now. “Just... stop hitting my car for second, will you?”

Blinking the sleep away, she squinted through the gray haze of dawn, dew covering the window and partially obscuring her view through the glass. The fist rattled the window again, with more intentional force than before, she was sure, and motioned impatiently for her to roll it down. The gesture might have been silent but the message wasn’t, and a vision of him tilting the car and violently shaking her out like a demented carnival act went through her fuzzy mind.

Beads of moisture dripped down the inside of the window as she reluctantly opened it, rifling through the contents of her purse for the can of mace she carried. In case he still felt like murdering her.

The chest was replaced by wide shoulders and a scowling face, her rude awakening leaning down to stare through the open window. “There a reason you’re parked here? Again?”

Holy shit.

It was the voice.

The one that could make her do anything.

Mace forgotten, she slowly turned her head and got a good look. Yep. That was him alright. Mr. Man Candy, standing right in front of her, in the flesh. And looking none too happy about it.

This was bad. So. Effing. Bad.

Green eyes flashed with stunned recognition. Epic irritation followed. Hope wore a similar expression as she surveyed the familiar man taking up residence at her drivers side door.

Dark stubble covering a distinctly handsome face, intimidating scowl notwithstanding? Check. Broad, muscular shoulders capable of carrying the weight of the world? Double check. Washboard abs tapering down to an impressive, denim covered package? Triple X check. Steaming mug of richly aromatic coffee palmed in his non-fisted hand? Odd, yes, but a definite turn on.

Swallowing, she finally found her voice. “Umm... hello?”

Tilting his head impatiently, his jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Okay, so that was a no go on the standard greeting. Glancing up and down the deserted street, Hope noticed nothing out of the ordinary and she wondered where the hell he’d come from. And how he’d gotten here. Jesus, she hoped it wasn’t via skateboard.

“So, uh...” She looked around with a half smile. “What are you doing here?”

He took a step back, crossing his arms. “I think that’s my line. Now answer the question.”

What was his question again? She’d answer if she could remember. Instead she nodded toward the mug, stalling. “Is that coffee?”

“How’d you find me?” His eyes narrowed, suspiciously.

“How did...? What?” She needed caffeine pronto because apparently she’d woken up in The Twilight Zone. “I wasn’t looking for you.”

A dark, perfectly arched brow shot up.
Yeah, right
. “Then what are you doing here?”

She made an impatient sound. “Sleeping, if you want to know the truth. And minding my own business, but the way, until you rudely interrupted me, pounding on my window and waking up the neighborhood, too. If you dented my car, I’ll need your insurance information.”

“Your snoring woke them up, not me. And the idiotic color of this car.”

She gasped, ridiculously offended. “I do not snore!” And the dealer called it spicy tomato.

“Like a bulldog with a sinus infection—” The swoosh of a garage door opening interrupted him and they both looked toward the house across the street. He groaned, dropping his chin to his chest. “Great. Unfuckingbelievable.”

An attractive woman trotted out of the garage, black spandex shorts and a lime green sports bra leaving little to the imagination, ear buds dangling around her neck. A toothy grin split her face when she saw the man standing at Hope’s car, clear interest in her body language as she bounced to the end of the driveway, blonde ponytail swinging like a pendulum.