Riptide Affair Read online

  “You don't get it!” I scream, slamming a fist against the door. “And the only person who might get it, who might be able to understand how scared and angry and fucking hopeless I feel right now is gone! She's dead and I'm stuck with you!”

  “Stop it, Merrin!”

  “Or what? You'll ground me and make me spend the rest of my life in Hell? Newsflash, Dad, we're already here!”

  “What do you want me to do?” Anger flares in his bright blue eyes. “Send you back to Columbus? Is that what you want?”

  I open my mouth to say that, yes, that's exactly what I want, but when I blink and look out at the road, I see the four-legged animal and my words change. They morph and bend, becoming something else. Something more important than fear. More important than my anger.

  “Dad, look out!”

  Some people say there are moments—mere seconds—that stick with you for a lifetime and define the person you decide to be each and every day you open your eyes and crawl from bed. These moments are born from two things: Pure, light-hearted joy...or the thickest, angriest, deepest fear imaginable.

  And this right here is a snapshot of one of those defining moment. Because there will never come a day when I don't relive this, second by second.

  Dad clomps his heavy boot on the brake.

  The steering wheel wrenches to the side.

  I try to squeeze my eyes shut, but I'm paralyzed.

  A guard rail lights up with sparks, groans in protest, and ultimately gives way.

  The sky above us shifts, and then disappears altogether as the front of the Tahoe does a nose dive.

  Brown water rushes up to meet us, the windshield shatters on impact, and after that, I hear nothing.

  Just silence.

  An unsettling quiet.

  Colder-than-cold water forces its way inside the cab. The light around us grows dim as I claw trembling hands around a seat belt buckle I can't seem to operate. Deeper and deeper we dive, until the nose of the car hits mud and I turn fearful eyes to my left and, for the second time in my life, the entire world shifts.

  Flipped upside down in an alternate reality I no longer want to live in, the blow is everything and nothing at the same time. Immense pain and impossible numbness. Mute tears and piercing screams.

  Nothing else matters.

  Nothing.

  Because he's already gone.

  And I am truly and completely alone in this world.

  Hours later, bathed in blue and red lights, I watch as a wrecker drags my father's Tahoe out of the creek. A dozen sad eyes belonging to unfamiliar first responders watch on as I break apart from the inside out. The pain gripping me in a choke-hold is so immense, so crushing, I can barely breathe as I watch muddy water seep from the busted windows. Somewhere inside that crumpled rig is the body of the only person on earth who has ever loved me unconditionally. The only person who stayed. The only person who fought for me.

  “Ma'am?”

  Somehow, I manage to pry my eyes away from the scene and look up. The stranger momentarily blocks out the lights of the emergency response vehicles and I stare blankly at his faded Blackjack High School t-shirt, worn jeans, and the silver shield clipped to his belt stating that he's part of the Blackjack Volunteer Fire Department. His hair is still damp from dragging me, kicking and screaming my father's name, from the wreckage. I should be grateful he saw the accident from the main road and flew in to assist. I should be grateful he was there to save me when I couldn't save myself. I should be..but I'm not.

  His outstretched hand clutches a blanket, and I let him drape it over my shoulders. Even though it's covered with hay and dried mud, it offers immediate warmth, and only when he tugs it closed around me do I realize I'm shaking.

  “Is there someone I can call for you?”

  I glance back out at the water, which is now eerily still.

  Someone to call...

  Someone to call...

  Wracking my brain, I try to think of a name, a number, a family member, a friend, a friend of a friend...but I come up empty. I only know one person in this godforsaken state, and he's being loaded into the back of the coroner's van.

  “No,” I whisper. “No one.”

  “Okay.” He sighs heavily, slumping down next to me in the back of the ambulance. “They're gonna take you up to General to get checked out, but when the doc gives you the all clear I'll drive you home. How's that sound?”

  His voice, although deep and soothing, makes me want to vomit all over his work boots. He can drive me wherever he wants, but no matter how far we travel, I'll never be able to go home.

  Home is dead.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Merrin

  Thirteen Years Later—Present Day

  Help us revolutionize female sexuality!

  This groundbreaking, placebo-controlled study for Lunessi's new libido enhancing drug, Sedrophyoxaline, begins soon!

  Click below to apply.

  Lodged between survey offers and promotional coupons, the email never should have seen the light of day. But the dollar signs—all four of them, crammed into the subject line—caught my eye and demanded I click. So, I did. And now, here I am, twenty-seven days and six instructional emails later, waiting on my shift to end so I can drive my car—which is currently being held together by duct tape, zip ties, and prayers—to downtown Blackjack where I'll get paid to ingest a tiny purple pill that will ramp my libido up to Hugh Hefner levels.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  “Incoming!”

  Kate rushes toward me balancing a tray of precariously stacked dishes in one hand and I scurry out of my manager's way, clutching the sink ledge at my back. Brown wisps of hair stick to her sweat-slick forehead and her cheeks are flushed from exertion, yet she looks like she belongs in an active wear ad somewhere around page sixteen in an old issue of Cosmopolitan.

  She's that girl. The stupidly gorgeous one. I'd resent her for that—seeing as how my white polo is doing absolutely nothing to conceal the boob sweat I'm currently drowning in and I didn't even try brushing my hair before throwing it in a messy bun this morning—but I've been making a conscious effort lately to stop comparing myself to other women, especially women I consider friends. And even though Kate is my manager, the woman who trained me, and the person who delivers my checks every Friday, she's still one of my best friends.

  “Dishwasher's backed up again,” I yell over the cacophony of gurgling oil and whirring mixers. “Just leave your tray, I'll take care of it.”

  Glasses clink together as she drops it to the conveyor belt and a stray french fry comes unstuck from the end of her braid. Her features may be runway worthy, but nothing about this job is glamorous.

  “Why the hell are you still here?” She glances up at the grease-speckled clock. “You need to leave, like, five minutes ago.”

  “Yes, Mother, I'm well aware.”

  “You make enough for gas?” Her eyes soften as she props a fist on her hip. “I can spot you a twenty if you need it.”

  My heart swells, but I shake my head. “Nah, I got it.”

  Kate doesn't push, because when I say I have something, I have it. Times are tough for everyone and there's no way I'd take something from Kate not knowing when or if I'd be able to pay her back. Working at Woody's—the only restaurant/bar/bus station in our single-stop-sign town—doesn't promise a comfortable life, which is why most of the girls have side gigs. But even those are hard to come by. Hence, my current situation: Burdened with a car that creeps down the highway like a three-legged horse needing to be put out of it's misery, a month behind on my utility bill, resorting to dog walking, plasma selling, house cleaning, and now, clinical drug trials, in order to make ends meet. At this point in my life, I don't care if the pill makes me grow a second vagina. I'm desperate.

  Some may say the desperation of a thirty-one-year-old waitress is a direct result of shitty decision making throughout my formative years but, the truth of the matter is, I'm just not a dreamer. T
hat part of me died a little with my parents. It died a little more after spending two months in foster care. And it turned to ash and floated away on a breeze as I walked back to my father's house—my would-be home—on my eighteenth birthday wearing mismatched shoes and a hole in my heart that could swallow the solar system. Being alone in the house I inherited was hell on earth but, eventually, pain gave way to numbness, and that I could work with. I did work with it. I had to. Because debt collectors don't give a good goddamn who dies.

  For months, each of them hid in the shadows, popping up at the most inopportune time, demanding their pound of flesh. But you can't squeeze blood from a rock. So they had to wait.

  College was out of the question, obviously. I didn't need to add student loan officers to my ever-growing list of enemies. So, really, when I walked past Woody's on my way to the post office on a blustery Tuesday morning and saw the HELP WANTED sign, it was a blessing in disguise. Has been ever since. And it works for me. I enjoy the monotony, the predictability, and if I'm here right up until the day of my funeral, so be it.

  I no longer aspire to be something more than what I am—the unimpressive, orphaned daughter of high school sweethearts who left me drenched in stagnant creek water, alone, afraid, and penniless in a town filled with people who wanted nothing to do with me.

  “The rush will be over soon, Mer. Just go.” Kate gestures to the door using a crumpled pile of ones from her apron.

  “Can't,” I shrug. “I still have a four-top.”

  Speaking of...

  I peek out the swinging kitchen doors and, sure enough, my last table is still irritatingly occupied. All three of the Barella sisters are taking their sweet time, sipping the soup of the day—tomato—like they've got all the time in the world.

  “Think they'd get the message if I gave them straws?”

  Kate huffs out a laugh. “Something that subtle? Not likely.”

  I try to convey a message—Just drink it!!—via telepathy, but it doesn't work. In fact, they put their spoons down and start inspecting the faded centerpieces, telling me I still don't possess the X-Men powers I've been hoping for.

  Laura and Harper, our two other waitresses on shift, push through the door as I'm glaring daggers at my last table, and I step aside to let them through. Both girls purse their lips and shuffle by quickly when they see me, making a beeline for the rolling station, taking great care to look anywhere but my face. An act that matches neither of their characters. We're always joking about something—in this line of work, you often have to laugh to keep from crying—but the mischievous gleam in my co-workers' eyes is doubly bright today.

  “Something on your mind, ladies?”

  Laura twirls a butter knife in her hands, looking every bit the girl next door with her long blonde curls and wide blue eyes, but she's fooling no one. Sweet and innocent are foreign concepts to her. She may look like an angel, but she's one-hundred percent Tasmanian devil. “Nothing much. Just wondering if we should pool our resources and buy you a little friend. You know, to keep you company after your appointment.”

  Harper snorts out a laugh and my hackles rise in annoyance as I realize...I've been outed.

  Slowly, I pivot around and level Kate with a glare boasting all the heat of an exploding star, along with an accusatory finger aimed directly at her big, blabbing mouth.

  “You.”

  “Sorry.” The little shrew grabs two handfuls of rolled silverware and holds them between us, as if that's enough to protect her from my wrath. I may love her—dammit, I love her—but right now all I want to do is give her a lobotomy with the salad fork currently peeking out of its linen napkin home.

  “What the hell, Kate?” I hiss, pulling her in by the arm. “Who else did you tell? The cooks? The delivery guy? Did you call your mom and fill her in?”

  “Of course not. It just slipped out! Besides, you know I suck at keeping secrets. You took a risk telling me. I mean, if you really think about it, this is your fault.”

  Dropping my hold on her, I scrub a tired hand over my face and stare daggers at a person I'd take a bullet for, only to realize I want to strangle her with my apron strings. It's really a shame I have neither the time nor the energy to properly throttle her today.

  “I hate you so hard right now,” I manage to push out through clenched teeth.

  Laura swivels in her chair, grabbing a new crate of spoons. “You know, I'm a little hurt you didn't say anything. I mean, our cycles are synced. You're not allowed to keep secrets from a cycle sister.”

  Kate sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “For the millionth time, that is not a thing.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No, it's not.”

  “Personally, I think it's great,” Harper chimes in. With her dark purple lipstick and black pigtails, she looks like Goth Barbie and has the attitude to match. “As women living in the age of steroids and radiation and genetically modified foods, we should all take a bigger interest in our bodies and how they pertain to reproductive science. Good for you, Mer.”

  Laura scrunches her nose. “Reproductive science? That sounds sticky.”

  They dissolve into a fit of giggles, and I'm not surprised one bit. They're all borderline insane.

  “Guys, I don't really have time for this.”

  “Okay, okay, we're sorry,” Harper says, settling back in her chair.

  Laura, on the other hand, shakes her head. “No we're not.”

  “Yes we are. We'll stop,” Kate says. “But while we're on the subject, why are you doing this? I mean, I know it's none of my business, but doesn't this seem, I don't know, a little extreme?”

  It does...because it is.

  There are a million-and-one excuses I could use to explain why I'm doing this today, but in the end, there's only the truth, no matter how embarrassing that may be.

  “Extreme or not, I need the money.”

  No one shoots me a look of pity—they just shrug and nod—and even though I'm not surprised, I am grateful. We're all waitresses stuck in the same run-down town, and as such, none of us are rolling in the dough. I'm sure, over the years, everyone else in this kitchen has done something equally stupid to make ends meet when times got tough.

  “Is it a big payout?” Harper asks. “Because I might be up for it if the money's right.”

  “Well, it's still in phase one of testing, so the payout's good enough I'm sacrificing my dignity and my pride.”

  Harper leans in close. “I'm intrigued. How good we talkin'?”

  I smirk. “Two grand good.”

  Laura's eyes go wide as she whistles, low and slow. “Damn girl, where do I sign up?”

  “Oh, please,” Harper laughs. “You don't need your libido jacked up any higher than it already is.”

  “Ain't that the damn truth!” Jeb—our elderly dishwasher and the biggest eavesdropper on the planet—chimes in. He may annoy the piss out of us most days and offer up heaps of unsolicited advice, but he's not wrong.

  Laura's one of the most sexual people I know. Not only is she drop dead gorgeous in a Taylor-Swift-Meets-Angelena-Jolie kind of way, but she's also the most audacious person I've ever met. Just for shits and giggles, she loiters in the sex shop two towns over when they get a new shipment in. She grocery shops in shorty-shorts with cartoon sperm on the butt. I've walked in on her mentoring one of the geriatric cooks on how to pleasure his wife using lube and manual stimulation. The woman has no shame, and the last thing she needs is help with her libido.

  Laura opens her mouth to no doubt begin a verbal sparring match with Jeb, who's smiling at us over his Hunters and Trappers magazine, but Kate smacks a hand over her mouth, effectively silencing her. “Not to be a jerk, Mer, but you don't seem like the key consumer for this kind of thing. I mean, unless...you know...unless you're having problems.”

  All three sets of eyes, along with a few extras from around the kitchen, hone in on my face, awaiting some kind of scandalous answer that will never come. I'm not exciting enough
to have problems.

  “Not that it's any of your business, hags, but it's nothing like that.” I grab a fry out of a nearby basket and pop it in my mouth. They've driven me to stress eat. “I meet the criteria, I need the money, so I'm doing it. That's all. End of story.”

  There's no need to include the one tiny, insignificant, almost microscopic fact that I'm flat out lying to the pharmaceutical company, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  I'm not a big fan of lying, especially to government-funded agencies, but when I came across the words 'Are you currently sexually active?' on the form, I only hesitated for half-a-second before giving them the answer they wanted, which just so happened to be a little white lie, but I need this, and no way in hell would a company researching a libido-enhancing drug spare a single second on the pleas coming from the mouth of a thirty-one-year old virgin.

  It's pathetic, I know, and I can't even think about that V-word without visions of cats and hand-knit sweaters and a lifetime of playing internet poker in a floral muumuu flashing before my eyes, but that's the road I'm on.

  “Are there any side effects?” Harper asks, her voice shifting from humored to concerned. “I mean, are you gonna end up with a rash on your hoohah or something?”

  Laura reaches across the table to pat Harper's hand. “Two grand can buy an awful lot of itch cream. Her snatch will survive. Besides, it's a pill. It's not like she's, yanno, sticking anything up there.” Her eyes cut to me, suddenly serious. “You're not, right?

  This is one of those laugh-to-keep-from-crying moments we so often have when faced with something that should be taken seriously, so I do what's expected of me. I laugh. Because the truth is, I tossed and turned all night, running through the list of possible side effects which ranged from fever to hives, headache to swelling, vomiting to anaphylaxis, and if I don't laugh at this stupidity right now, then I'll break down and cry and chicken out, and I can't afford to do any of those things.