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  **Kindle edition**

  Crazy Love

  Copyright © 2014 Michelle Pace

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Robin Harper, Wicked by Design-cover artist

  Carmen Comeaux-editor

  Self Publishing Editing Service-formatting

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For two of my dearest friends-

  Heather Halloran and Jay McAtee,

  Founding members of The Little Black Hearts Club…

  <3

  xoxo

  -M

  “Annie, I’m hungry.” Becca whined, twirling her wispy hair around one chubby little finger. My little sister tugged absently on my t-shirt, something which normally would have infuriated me, but then she stuffed her thumb into her mouth. She hadn’t done that in over a year. She was terrified. So was I.

  I stroked her honey hair. “Me too, Becca. Go on and play, and I’ll see what I can find.”

  As she retreated down the stairs dragging her doll behind her by one arm, I cracked my knuckles anxiously. I already knew the cupboard was pretty damn bare. Mom went out on Friday night and hadn’t come home. Not last Friday, but the Friday before that. Eleven days ago to be precise.

  I staunchly ignored the unopened mail piling up on the dining room table as I wandered into the kitchen. She’d left us alone several times in the past year after breaking up with “The Monster,” but never for this long. Anxiety began to peck at me, and I considered calling my grandparents. I knew Mom would kill me if I did. Even though her disappearance wasn’t uncommon, I was beginning to question how long she had to be gone before it would be acceptable to worry. I wondered if she was dead in a dumpster somewhere. Maybe she’d had a one-nighter with the wrong dude or something.

  She probably borrowed money from the wrong people.

  Maybe we’d be better off if she never came back.

  I pulled a chair up to the highest cupboards to see what was buried in the back. We’d already cleared out what little was in the freezer and had eaten every last Cheerio in the pantry. Condiments were all that remained in the fridge. Butter, ketchup, mustard, and some ancient olives. The mayo was gone; I’d used it, along with the last of the bread the night before making BLT’s (minus the B and the L) with tomatoes stolen from the Johnson’s garden across the street.

  My cupboard search revealed a half empty container of flour, a bag of sugar, a partial bag of brown sugar and some baking powder. As I continued to dig, I found a package of food coloring that I’d bought for my brother’s birthday six months earlier. Not an incredibly useful or tasty discovery. I was about to close the cupboard, when I spotted the corner of some kind of package. I climbed up onto the counter and reached back as far as my hand could reach. When I pulled it back out, I had not one but two forgotten packets of Ramen noodles.

  Jackpot.

  A heavy weight lifted from me. I had something to give the kids for dinner. And it was something they actually liked to eat.

  We’d be alright for a little while longer.

  As I boiled water, I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflective surface of the microwave. I squinted at the pale blonde roots peeking out from my jet black hair. I really needed to dye it again. Mom promised to pay me for babysitting when she got back from the riverboats. That seemed fair considering it was Dylan’s and my child support she was using for her casino fund. I frowned, knowing if she hadn’t come home yet, she’d probably blown it all and I’d have to steal some hair color from the pharmacy near the school. I really wasn’t a delinquent by nature, but it seemed like nurture had something more to say about the matter. I sighed wearily and flipped open the cookbook to figure out what I could make the next day with the rest of the pathetic rations.

  The phone rang, and I rushed to see who it was. Maybe it was Mom or possibly my boyfriend, Nick, calling to ask what I was wearing in that deep sexy voice of his. When I saw my friend Ashley’s number on the display, I rolled my eyes and let it go to voicemail. Knowing Ashley, she just wanted to bitch some more about how she and Robin were going to be stuck in the balcony at the Blink 182 concert.

  I scoffed to myself as I added salt to the warm water. That should be me. Those two hadn’t even known who Blink 182 was until I forced them on their Kelly Clarkson-listening asses. I shook my head. I really hated feeling angry and bitter all the time. At 15 years old, my biggest concern should have been having crappy seats to see my favorite band. But I was from a way different world than my friends. A trashy third world, where scrambling to keep my little brother and sister from starving to death was business as usual. There I was on a Thursday night, trying to figure out which one of my neighbors had a fruit tree in their back yard and didn't have a big barking dog.

  I hate you right now, Mom. I just really fucking hate you. Where the hell are you?

  I heard the low rumbling of a truck coming down our street and felt the hair on the back of my neck leap to attention. After Mom finally left him, “The Monster” got an apartment down the street to be near “his kid.” Every time I heard him drive by on his way to and from work, I could practically feel his sweaty hand slipping underneath my nightgown. The distinct sound of his truck sometimes woke me from a sound sleep, and I’d lay awake until the sun came up. Even in broad daylight, that obnoxious sound made me want to push my dresser in front of my bedroom door.

  That particular night, I could feel the distinct reverberation of his truck’s dual exhaust in the floorboards beneath my feet. Wow, that sounded close. Too close. As in right in our driveway.

  My mouth went dry, and my pulse revved full throttle. I flipped off the overhead lights so he couldn’t see me inside. Rushing down the stairs of our split foyer rental, I made sure the door was locked. Peering through the gap in the curtain, I could see that he was already on his way up the walk. No time to warn the kids to act like we weren’t home. I slid the chain across the door with a trembling hand and took a huge breath, trying to move air past the super-sized lump in my throat.

  When the doorbell rang, I jumped, stifling a shriek. I found myself unable to move as I stared wide-eyed at the curtain. Somehow I knew he wouldn’t go away, so answerin
g it was inevitable. Still, I was frozen in place, my brain reeling with my potential futures if I opened the door.

  “I know you’re home, Mutt. I saw you when I pulled up. Open the damn door.”

  Shit.

  My cheeks burned, and I clenched my teeth with such force that my jaw ached. He always called me “Ugly Mutt.” Up until a year ago, Becca called me “Ugwy Mutt” as well. It wasn’t her fault; when she was learning to talk, he would punish her any time she tried to call me by my real name. And all the while, my mom ignored it, something which made me loathe her.

  I saw my hand reach out toward the knob and felt like I was outside of myself, watching a slasher film and shouting “no” at the screen with paralyzed vocal chords. With a slight tug, I cracked the door. The flimsy chain seemed to cut The Monster’s face in half, but I could still see his muddy eyes peering through the crack. A small voice in my head whispered that if he really wanted in, he could easily kick the door and break the cheaply made chain. My stomach clenched at the thought. He wasn’t really that big of a man, but he was mean. And I knew all too well he was far stronger than he looked.

  In order to rally an ounce of bravery, I immediately focused my gaze on his chin.

  “What do you want?” My voice sounded cold and much stronger than I felt.

  He paused, and I felt his eyes on me like spiders skittering across a tiled floor. “I know your mom’s not here. Where is she?”

  I honestly had no idea where she was. I’d been wracking my brain for days trying to remember what she’d blathered on about before leaving. She’d told me she had a new man. He lived in Illinois, and his name was John. She didn’t tell me his last name, and I figured she wouldn’t be with him long enough to bother asking for it. I’d never met him and didn’t have a phone number or even know what city he lived in. I assumed she was with him, but even that was a dangerous assumption.

  He sighed at my continued silence. “How long has she been gone?”

  “A couple of days. No big deal.” I lied.

  “Bullshit.”

  “We’re fine, Travis.”

  “I know you are. I’m concerned about Becca.” I couldn’t blame him for that. She was only four, just starting pre-K, and she actually was his biological daughter. If I were totally honest with myself, I was pretty concerned about her too. “Do you have enough to eat?”

  I said nothing. This man had been my own personal Satan for years. But it had been days since we’d had meat or peanut butter, and the kids needed food.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him nod, as if my lack of response told the story. He had lived with my mom for three years, so I guess it probably did. “I’m calling the police.”

  “No, don’t!” I blurted. I didn’t want the kids to end up in foster care. My grandparents would probably feel obligated to take us in, and I sure as hell didn’t want to change schools. I couldn’t lose Nick. He was my everything, and I couldn’t imagine being an hour away from him. “We’re out of food.”

  “That’s all you had to say, Mutt. If she isn’t back in 48 hours, you call me – you hear?” As quickly as he appeared, he was gone. I shut the door and flipped the deadbolt so hard that my thumb felt sprained for the rest of the night.

  A hissing sound alerted me that water was boiling over on the stovetop. I dashed up the stairs and slid the water off the crackling electric burner and added the noodles. My lip quivered and I shook my head, forcefully digging my fingernails into my palms.

  “No. I’m not gonna cry.” I rapidly blinked my stinging eyes. Travis could go straight to hell. If Mom wasn’t back the day after next when we got off the bus, I’d take the kids to my friend Robin’s house. She had the whole basement to herself. Her parents never came down there, so they’d never know we were squatting there.

  Thirty minutes later, while the kids slurped the last of their noodles, I heard his truck pull up again. He revved that obnoxious engine of his twice and blared on the horn, holding it down just long enough to piss off the neighbors. I trudged down the stairs and cautiously watched through the curtain as he pulled away a second time. Releasing a long shaky exhale, I opened the door; and when I saw two bags of groceries sitting on the stoop, my legs gave out, and I fell to my knees.

  That’s when I actually did break down. I choked out sobs in the entryway until my brother Dylan crept down to ask me what was wrong. I couldn’t answer him; I wouldn’t have known where to begin. I wasn’t crying because I was grateful for the food, though I obviously was. I wept because I despised myself for being grateful.

  To a fucking monster.

  But a monster that—for one night at least – was a much better parent than either of my own.

  Damn, this place is hot as hell. It was only 80 degrees, but humidity hovered like an ex-lover trying to get a glimpse at the new lady in your life. Though it was officially the first day of autumn, the sweltering weather wore me down as I slogged along as if wearing ankle chains. On mornings such as this, a Savannahian could step outside into the sultry air and feel like he’d just taken a second shower. There was nothing for it; waiting for some sort of improvement before my daily stroll would have kept me at home, and I couldn’t imagine a more dreadful fate.

  I wiped the sweat from my brow as I crossed Victory Drive, happily leaving Ardsley Park behind me. Weeks had slipped by since I’d returned home after dropping out of law school. I’d spent the last year north of the Mason Dixon line and needed to re-acclimatize to the sub tropic heat of my hometown. I chose to forgo driving my father’s Mercedes (since there’s no better way to adapt than immersion), proceeding on foot toward the river. Watching the water helped me to think, and having scrapped my plans to practice law, some inner reflection seemed in order.

  Squatting in the carriage house of Mama’s mansion was distressingly Beaumont of me. Since I no longer took pride in the Beaumont legacy, self-loathing won out over my typical apathy. While I coasted through the last of my pre-inheritance purgatory, I felt it best to be back in Savannah. Unfortunately, serving my sentence in the family home had ignited my legendary negativity. My mother seemed to pick up on this when she rang to wake me earlier that morning.

  “Samson.” That’s Mama. No ‘hello,’ no ‘good morning.’ “Come have Eggs Florentine with me.”

  “Sam, Mama. I’ve asked you to call me Sam.”

  “I don’t like it. I think it sounds vulgar.”

  No, Mama. Naming me Samson was vulgar.

  I chewed bitterly on her refusal to respect my wishes as I descended the stairs into the stifling heat. Crossing the courtyard to “the big house,” I reminded myself that Mama’s twisted logic never made much sense to us commoners. She never referred to my older brother, Trip, by his given name. In her defense, Reginald Jefferson Beaumont III was a mouthful, and few had ever lived up to a nickname like Trip had.

  I made my way through the house, intentionally taking the long, scenic route to avoid my father’s study. Pausing in the foyer, I cocked an eyebrow at the conspicuous new wall furnishings. Gone were the two antique portraits that had hung there since my grandfather was a boy, and in their place were two darkly disturbing paintings I assumed were my brother’s handiwork. No doubt Mama gushed with motherly pride as she paraded her bridge club past them. I wondered if her friends harbored the same suspicions as I did.

  Money troubles.

  Eventually I entered the sunroom where she always took her morning meal. Struck blind by the easterly sunlight, I blinked rapidly to combat the assault on my eyes. When my vision returned, I spotted my mother enthroned at the head of the table. With her silver reading glasses perched near the tip of her nose, she haughtily skimmed The New York Times. My brother Trip and I had nicknamed her “Cosmo” when we were kids, but never dared to call her that to her face. My mother was pretention incarnate. Though she simply considered herself “worldly,” she talked down to anyone unconcerned with the outside world, smug in their Savannah insularity. Since this included the majority of
Savannah, I failed to understand her popularity. Knowing the societal folks she rubbed elbows with, I think it had to be fear-based. This morning Mama appeared particularly cosmopolitan, her butterscotch hair styled to perfection.

  “There you are, Dahlin’.” She barely lifted her gaze from the paper as I obediently pecked her leathery cheek. “Are you going to the gallery today?”

  One of Mama’s pet projects is a gallery on River Street. She’d named it Imogene’s, after herself. Two nights before, she had announced that she’d arranged for me to work there while I decided what I want to be when I grow up. Or more likely while I continued to decide what I don’t want to be.

  “Yes, Ma’am.” I planned to do nothing of the sort, and she probably suspected as much. And so we continued our age-old dance. She and I were bizarre tango partners, but we were well rehearsed. “I’ll hit the gym after.”

  “You really need to go and visit your brother. He must think you’re avoiding him.” She sipped her chicory-laden coffee and fixed her steely eyes on mine. I’m not sure what she was looking for as she searched me for a reaction, but I’d be damned if I were going to flash any tells.

  I am avoiding him. I want to see him about as much as I want to scratch my back with a cheese grater.

  “Fine. I’ll go see him. Is he still living down the street from Vi?” Trip’s wife, Violet, had kicked him out about two years ago. I had to give her credit; she’d stayed with him a hell of a lot longer than I’d wagered she would. To Vi’s misfortune they had a child, so the divorce wasn’t exactly a clean break. Stalking her was one of Trip’s favorite pastimes. It was bizarre how committed he could be when he made up his mind to persevere. Too bad he couldn’t just make up his mind to stay sane and sober.

  “No. That landlord had unreasonable expectations.” Mama drawled. “He’s living in the Victorian District. I’ll text you the address.”

  As she picked up her cell phone, her peach painted lips twisted as if she’d just sucked on a lemon. Undoubtedly, the former landlord’s “expectations” included tenants who were neither drunk nor disorderly. These were terribly unrealistic expectations where Trip was concerned.