Emily

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The road to hell is paved with good intentions, but the road to Westlake, Michigan is paved with shame. Those of us who tried to get out—and didn’t quite make it—end up on a bumpy two-lane stretch of blacktop in the middle of nowhere, headed for the town they never wanted to see again.

Or maybe that was just me.

I adjusted my aviators under the June sun and tried to act like a woman who was cool with the fact that she was coming back home after eight years. I figured a woman who was cool with it would be relaxed in the driver’s seat of her old—let’s say well-used—Tercel, her hands easy on the wheel, the radio playing as her tires ate up this long, empty mile of road. Even though there was no one else in the car with me, I didn’t act like a woman silently freaking out that after an expensive college education and an attempt at a career, she was a flop at twenty-six. Instead, I acted like a woman who has got this fucking down.

I could fake that. I was good at it. And my life wasn’t really over. As Mom would say: Emily, you’re being dramatic again. I wasn’t dead, or sick, or starving. I was just a college graduate with a load of debt, no job, and no prospects. A girl who was supposed to make good, but instead was coming back to Westlake because her sister needed help—and her parents were offering free room and board.

Even though this was supposed to be a short-term fix, it had been depressingly easy to close up my life in Illinois after my last internship burned out. I didn’t have a husband, kids, a boyfriend, or even a dog to manage. I just had to notify my roommate, pack my things, load my Tercel, and head back to Westlake to help my twin sister, Lauren. She ran a hair salon in Westlake and she claimed she desperately needed a break. Cue Emily. I was surprised at the request and a little confused, since Lauren had always had everything together. But Lauren was also tight-lipped over the phone, so I’d pry more out of her in person.

I’d left the empty farmland and this part of the road was getting thicker with trees, thick scrub, and evergreens. Westlake was on the shore of Lake Michigan, and it liked to call itself a tourist town, though the truth was there were a lot nicer tourist towns on this stretch. So even with summer starting, there wasn’t any traffic on this road. Just trees and blue sky and the occasional deer—I kept to the speed limit and took it slow on the bends, just in case.

And yeah, okay, it was kind of nice. I could admit that. The air smelled good when I cracked my window. Westlake was boring, but it was summer, which meant bonfires and barbecues and windy days on the beach with sand in your hair. At least, it had in my teenage memories. But you never knew. This didn’t have to be all bad. Maybe there would be—

I jumped as something made a loud clang inside my car. Deep inside my car. There had been a sound for the last hundred miles, a sort of whirring, but I’d done the usual: prayed and ignored it. Now the sound got louder and there was a series of skidding thuds that sounded like bad news. Beneath my hands, the wheel did a little shimmy, like it was trying to get away.

“Fuck,” I said aloud to no one. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” My little car was ten years old, and it wasn’t aging very well. I gripped the wheel tighter and eased off the accelerator. My car kept going, but it didn’t have much heart in it. In fact, it sounded like it was thinking about giving up. I had no idea what had gone wrong, but I had about half a mile before I was stranded at the side of the road.

My mind raced. Where was I, exactly? How far from town? I had my cell, but I had no idea if I was close enough to get cell service. I mentally ticked through the landmarks I’d passed, recognizing them without realizing it. The sign pointing to Four Points Cabins was a mile behind me. That meant the town limits were around five miles ahead. There wasn’t much between here and there, except—

Right. Now I remembered. There was a gas station up ahead. At least, there had been eight years ago—I hoped to hell it was still there. It wasn’t much more than a gas bar and a counter displaying some packs of gum and Slim Jims, but it was someplace to pull over, and—please, God—maybe get help. I tapped the accelerator, wincing at the sound my engine made when I tried to goose my car along. Fuck, this was bad. Very, very bad.

And probably expensive. But I couldn’t think about that right now.

I leaned forward, as if I could coax my car along like a limping horse. “Come on,” I urged it. “Come on. I need just a little luck here. Come on…”

I almost made it. Almost.

My car coughed to a stop just as I could see the sign for the gas station up ahead. I coaxed my dead vehicle onto the gravel at the side of the road, then got out. I kicked the tires and shouted Fuck a few more times, because there was no one around to see. I checked my phone and saw that the battery was dead, so I shouted Fuck a few more times for good measure. Then I opened the back of the car and rifled through my luggage, picking out the things I’d need for the walk to the gas station.

Not one car passed me as I made the sweaty trek along the side of the road. Not that I would have taken a ride from a stranger, but still. It was like I had left Illinois and gone to the moon, except I was wearing jeans and ankle boots and a T-shirt with a plaid button-down thrown over it. It had been a good outfit when I’d gotten into my car in the chill of early morning. Now sweat poured down my back and I took off the plaid shirt, tying it around my waist as my boots kicked the gravel. I twisted my blonde hair up off my neck into a sweaty ponytail, yanking my hair as strands blew in my face.

I sighed hard. This sucked, but I had to remember what was important. My mom was getting an Award of Merit from the Westlake police force—she was Westlake’s only female police officer, then police sergeant, in history. There was going to be a big ceremony and everything, and I needed to be there.

And even more importantly, Lauren needed me. We weren’t identical twins—we were fraternal—but we were twins nonetheless. She was the together one, the one who had married her high school boyfriend and bought a little bungalow and started a business. I was the one who stayed single, didn’t even have a boyfriend to bring home, and had gone off to college to find a bigger life. It went against nature that Lauren was the one who needed help and I was the one to help her, but I would do it for her. For a little while.

A little while. Right.

I had no idea how long I would be in Westlake. Maybe a few weeks; maybe months. It was weird, not knowing what my future would be. It was sort of freeing, but it also felt a lot like giving up.

Or at least it would. If I ever got back to town at all.

“Yeah, no,” the guy behind the counter at the gas station said. “I don’t think we can do that.”

I stared at him. He was about my age, and vaguely familiar—we’d probably gone to high school together. He had longish, tousled brown hair and the bloodshot eyes that were the sure sign he’d smoked at least one joint out back today. “You won’t let me plug in my phone so I can make a call?” I asked. I’d grabbed my phone charger from the car before I’d started the long hike, half an hour ago.

He shrugged. “I’m not the boss,” he said. “The only outlet is in the back, and I’m not allowed to have customers back there.”

I tried not to grit my teeth. “Is there a phone here I can use, then?”

“No,” he said. “We got rid of the pay phone a long time ago. Land line, too. The only phone we have here is mine.”

God, this was painful. I looked him in his bloodshot eyes. “Please,” I said clearly, politely. “Can I use your phone?”

But he just frowned at me, distracted. “I know you from somewhere, right?” he said. “You’re from around here.” His softened memory dredged it up from the depths. “You’re one of the Parker sisters. The blonde one. Emily. Emily Parker.”

I winced. I’d always been known as the blonde one, though I had to give him a little credit for remembering my name while baked eight years later. “Yeah, that’s me,” I said.

“I’m Ed MacGregor,” the guy said. “I was a year behind you. I had a crush on both you and your sister.” He smiled.

I smiled back politely, but only politely. I could tell by his expression what was coming next, and I was going to have to shut it down. Not because I was such hot shit, or because Ed MacGregor, stoned or not, was so awful. But because I’d sworn off men and dating seven months ago, and honestly, it had been the best seven months of my life.

I’d originally done it out of frustration after yet another go-nowhere short-term relationship—No more, forget it, I’m never doing this again. It was a fit of drama, but it only took a few weeks for me to realize how freeing it was. I no longer had to care what guys would think of what I wore, how I wore my hair, how I acted. I didn’t have to go to bars anymore. I deleted the profiles I’d made on dating sites and didn’t think about them again. I didn’t worry about whether I was in a bad mood, or swearing too much, or puffy with PMS. And I didn’t beat myself up for being single at twenty-six, because I liked being single. I did what I wanted, ate what I wanted, watched what I wanted. And no one had a say.

And when the odd guy showed interest and asked me out, all I had to say was No thanks. I didn’t owe anyone an explanation. I was free.

Behind me, the digital bell beeped as the gas station door opened and another customer came in. Great, someone else got to witness this awkward moment. Maybe this person would let me borrow their phone.

“Hey Emily,” Ed said, as if he was just coming up with the idea, instead of telegraphing it from a mile away. “If you’re in town, we should get together sometime. Have a drink or something.”

The trick, I’d learned, was to do it fast and firm. “Thanks, but no.”

Behind me, the other customer opened the door of the cooler along the back wall, picking out a drink.

“It’ll be fun,” Ed said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “We could go to the Fire Pit, like everyone did in high school. We could hang out.”

The Fire Pit was a diner-sandwich place-non-alcoholic hangout used by every high schooler in Westlake. I’d lived half of high school there, but the idea of going there at twenty-six seemed creepy. I tried putting the words in a different order for Ed MacGregor. “No thanks. I’d really just like to call a tow truck for my car.”

“It will be fun,” Ed insisted as the cooler door banged shut behind me. “You look exactly the same. I mean good, of course. You look good.” He smiled again.

The other customer approached the counter behind me, and for some reason the back of my neck prickled, but I didn’t turn my head. “Ed,” I said, giving it to him straight. “I’m not going out with you. I’m only here to make a call about my car.”

Now Ed frowned. “I’m just being nice. You should be flattered.”

Why did guys always say that when you turned them down? “Yeah, well, it isn’t you. I’ve sworn off men.” I didn’t know why the words came out of me, and immediately I wanted to kick myself. Don’t explain, Emily. No is the only thing you have to say.

“Wow,” Ed said. “Does that mean you’re into women?”

“No,” came a voice beside my shoulder as the other customer leaned forward. “I don’t think it does.”

Every nerve in my body went on high alert. I felt myself tense. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. No way.

But Ed looked past my shoulder at the man standing behind me—moving beside me—and now he looked annoyed. “Aw, fuck,” he said. “Luke Riggs.”

So yeah, it was. And that was the story of my life right there: Aw, fuck. Luke Riggs.

“Remember me?” the voice said, and I almost turned and shouted at him, offended. But he wasn’t talking to me; he was talking to Ed.

Ed’s cheekbones went red, and he was glaring at Luke as hard as he could through his weed haze. “Sixth grade,” he said. “You gave me a bloody nose and I had to spend an hour in the nurse’s office. I was grounded for a week.”

“So fucking easy,” Luke said in that lazy drawl of his, like he had no rush to get the words out. His low voice hummed through my body, from my nipples straight down between my legs. “You practically walked into my fist. Like shooting fish in a barrel. I can do it again if you want.”

Ed was silent, staring at him. Unbothered by the hostility, Luke reached past me and put a bottle of iced tea on the counter. I watched his arm—I knew that fucking arm, the ink, the magic tendons in his forearms, the flex of his biceps in a dark gray T-shirt—and I knew that hand. Oh yes, I knew it. Just the sight of it, the wide palm and the capable thumb and fingers, made me suppress a shiver. Even with one hand, Luke Riggs had always been able to get me off.

Over. And over. And over.

The hand disappeared, reappeared with some money in it. Dropped the money on the counter. And then Luke said, “Emily.”

The breath left my throat. I turned my head and looked at him.

Oh, fuck. Luke Riggs.

Tall. Lean. Muscled. That familiar line of his jaw, shadowed dark with the beginning of a beard. Those cheekbones. That magic mouth, which had basically been my very favorite thing back in the day. Well, that and another part of Luke, not currently on display. I felt another shiver between my legs at the thought.

He was wearing a dark baseball cap, the brim pulled low over his eyes, but I could see his eyes in the shadows. I knew them, too. They were dark, they were quietly intense, and right now they were fixed on me.

It took a long second, caught by those eyes, before my brain stuttered back into some kind of action. We were standing in a gas station. Ed MacGregor was watching us, and the silence—and the stare—had gone on too long.

Oh yeah, and no one in town ever knew about Luke Riggs and me. Not ever.

I made myself clear my throat. “Luke,” I said, my shitty impression of a casual greeting. “How are things?”

He didn’t bother answering, just reached past me again—oh God, I could smell him, that familiar Luke Riggs smell, like citrus and hot, sweaty sex—and picked up his bottle of iced tea. “That your car on the side of the road back there?” he asked.

I had to pretend this was a normal conversation. That at eighteen I hadn’t pressed my face in a pillow to muffle my screams of Luke Riggs’ name before I woke up the neighborhood. “Car trouble,” I croaked.

“Yeah,” Luke said, “and no way to phone for help.” His gaze flickered past me to Ed, and a smile touched his mouth. I knew that smile—it was Luke’s I win smile. Everyone saw it when guys scrambled out of his way in the halls of Westlake High. Guys saw it when their girlfriends forgot their name when Luke was around. It was a smile that had started a lot of fights, all of which Luke won. “Looks like my lucky day,” Luke said to Ed, “because you won’t let a stranded woman make a phone call.”

“What?” Ed said, startled. “Wait.”

But Luke ignored him and looked at me. “I have a phone,” he said, “and my car is out front. Which one do you want?”

“I, um.” I couldn’t speak, because in that second I was eighteen again, and we’d left Patty Dinsmore’s house party and were making out in the trees behind her garage, and Luke’s hand was between my legs, and his voice was low in my ear. My cock or my tongue, Emily. Which one do you want?

Luke’s eyes on me were dark, and his smile was knowing. Because he was remembering exactly the same thing.

“Wait a minute,” Ed MacGregor said. “She can use my phone. Emily, you can use my phone.”

“She’s not going to use your phone,” Luke said.

I narrowed my eyes and thought about telling him off, because it was my decision. But then I remembered: I could either use Ed’s phone and sit here for an hour, waiting for a tow truck and fending off Ed’s clumsy advances, or I could walk out the door, get into Luke Riggs’ car, and go.

It was no decision at all, really.

Shit.

“Fine.” I snatched my purse up from the counter where I’d put it down and stared Luke right in the eye. “I need a ride, Luke. You think you can give me one?”

“Yeah,” he said back. “I do.”

I snorted. “We’ll see.” I wasn’t going to give him that chance, dirty—very dirty—past or not. I wasn’t eighteen anymore, and I’d sworn off men. Luke was a man. Ergo, there would be no riding. Whatsoever. “Let’s go, then,” I said, walking to the door. “Hurry up.”

It was pretty good, as exits go.

I just hoped he’d follow me.