Chapter One

Booker

Of all the places I’ve been, this is the last place I want to be. But, here I am. Back at my childhood home. Back to sell this place. To move on and forget it.

It feels as though a million years have passed since I was last here. And maybe in some weird way it has. A million years worth of memories are suppressed neatly in the dark hollows of my mind.

A tall overgrowth of grass brushes across the lawn, the blades nicking my calves. As I trudge through, I can't keep my eyes off the paint-peeled, red door. Majestic and unyielding, larger than any other in this quiet neighborhood, it keeps the world out and its secrets tucked safely inside.

Thump. Thump. My heart pounds.

Welcome back the lock creaks out when I turn the key. Stale air suffocates me when I step inside. The large space seems coffin sized.

“This place is a dump,” I mumble into the stillness.

The house has barely been touched since I left it as a kid.

First order of business, getting the power on. No way will I spend my time fixing up this hell hole without electricity.

As soon as I push the faded curtains aside in the main room, I see it, the ticket seller to this forgotten home—the Pacific Ocean with its dark blue water crashing over sleek, black rocks in the distance.

Life pumps and breathes outside this paned glass.

This view will be the reason buyers flock, hopefully offering more than my asking price.

Anxiety leaves an icy sheen of sweat on my forehead as I walk through the cavernous rooms, assessing. Floors groan under my footsteps. Dust skitters in the air. The marks notched in the doorframe of my old room wink at me as I pass.

Before I head out to the hardware store, I take inventory of the things I’ll need: paint, drywall, tile, grout, a bed to sleep in. A handle of bourbon. It’s going to be one hell of a fixup.

Lucky for me, I have all the time in the world.

The now outdated kitchen, once the artery of this house, needs the most work. I push the back slider open and step out onto the drab patio. The backyard isn’t much to look at, a nine by nine concrete slab surrounded by encroaching weeds. This area needs to be the focal point at showings. People like the illusion of happy—pretty flowers and landscaping. Maybe I’ll hire a gardener. Maybe even plant a bush here or there myself.

The wind tugs at my cargo shorts and black shirt, and I wander to the edge of the property.

Like it always does, the ocean beckons.

The Pacific wants a word with me. I oblige, following the dirt trail down to the shore. The problems with the house can wait. I need some alone time. Just me and my thoughts.

Not even bothering to remove my shoes, I step onto the sand. The sun hangs low in the sky. Soon it will be a myriad of blood oranges and ghostly greys.

I spot the smooth rocks where I used to play as a kid and drift down to the edge of the ocean, smelling the crisp salty air of the surf.

The black rocks off to my right call to me. I take a seat, tilt my face to the sun, and close my eyes. Once upon a time I took long walks with her here. Laughed with childhood friends as we collected seashells.

“Excuse me, Sir. Can you move?” a lilting, annoyed voice calls out.

I open my eyes and focus on the dream before me. Long brown hair, flying in the wind. Sweet, rosy lips. Eyes as blue as the ocean. Pink Wonder Woman t-shirt hugging a set of pretty wonderful tits. A body composed of tight curves with long legs flowing out from a jean mini skirt.

Her eyes narrow on me. “Well?” She gives me a little move along head gesture.

“I’m sorry?” I ask.

There’s not a soul in sight, so I’m not sure why she needs me to move. Or where she even came from for that matter.

“Can you please move?” she repeats.

“No, I can’t.” Fuck this. Public beach. Public property.

“I asked nicely.”

“Noted.” I close my eyes, breathing in the saline air once again, trying my best to tune her out.

“I need that rock between your legs,” she continues, apparently oblivious to my zen seeking state.

Now she's got my attention. I open my eyes. “Well, I’ve never been propositioned like that before. Let me get this straight, you need the ‘hard rock’ between my legs?” I crack a smile. “Wow, and I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Cat, and that rock is perfect,” she says, not catching my meaning.

“I’ve been told that. A perfect, hard rock between my legs.” I wink, grabbing my crotch with one hand. “I’m blessed in that department.”

She blushes. “Not that.” She shakes her head. “I mean the rock at your feet. I need it.”

She needs a rock? I glance around at about five hundred other black rocks littering the beach.

“Right,” I draw out. “So, Hell Cat, you need a hard rock? Please, tell me more.”

“You don’t understand. That one is perfect for what I’m doing.” She brandishes me with a pleading stare.

“What could you possibly need a rock for?”

“A waterfall.”

Her eyes sparkle when she smiles. I want to keep looking at her, but I don’t.

“Well, I’m sure the other rocks will work just fine. A rock is a rock.”

“You’re not very nice.”

I laugh as her cheeks redden with anger. “I know. Some say it’s my best quality.”

“Well, that’s just sad.” She sighs. “Let's start over. My name’s Cat. I run a little business called Cat’s Landscaping Creations. I’m working on a waterfall, and that rock right there,” she points to one flat, black rock at my feet, “would be perfect for it. I was just coming back for it after I dropped a few off at my truck.”

“Well, I’m relaxing.”

Sure, I could move out of her way, but where's the fun in that? I wouldn't get to see her riled up. Watch the expressions on her face change from anger to astonishment. Isn't that what life's about? Acting and reacting?

Her blue eyes hold my brown in a stare off. I pull the rock closer with my foot. A little gasp escapes her before she turns away.

Nimble and agile, like her namesake, she climbs a few more rocks, grabbing a couple and chucking them into a pile. These aren’t little rocks she's collecting, so I’m impressed at her dedication.

“Hope you can relax when I come for that rock,” she threatens, stalking closer to me.

“What the fuck?” I ask as she marches even closer, bending at her knees to grab the rock at my feet. She tugs a little, but doesn’t give up.

“If you’d just move this leg.” She bumps my leg with her shoulder, and I can’t help but laugh a little.

“Need help?” I glare down at her.

“Yes, would you mind?”

Her deep-aqua eyes catch mine, and she really is something else. Unlike the women back in LA with plastic faces and too much makeup, her face is fresh and bare—almost innocent. We hold each other’s stare, each of us silent. It would be so easy to lift this rock out of its spot and hand it to her, hell, even take it to her car. Ask for her number. Maybe even offer to buy her a drink. Something. But, I’m paralyzed.

My lips lift into a quick smile. Raising a brow, I say, “I don't mind at all. Would you like me to unzip my shorts?”

She stands in a rush, abandoning the perfect rock. “You’re an asshole.”

Maybe I am. Truth is, she’s irritating me. I came here for peace and quiet, and all I get is this chick talking about waterfalls and rocks.

I pick up the rock, it’s kind of heavy, but nothing I can’t handle with one hand, and she smiles holding out both hands as if I'm going to give it over.

Something snaps within me, and I chuck it right into the ocean.

“There ya go. Now can I get back to relaxing?”

“What did you do that for?” she almost yells at me. Her indignant eyes are wide. “You’re… I can’t… Ugh.” She storms off, abandoning the little pile she created.

If I were in a different frame of mind, I’d chase after her. Apologize. But, I can’t be bothered with some beauty I met for five minutes on the beach. Hopefully, I’ll never see her again.

Hours pass. The tide creeps closer to me. Beautiful and deadly. When I can no longer take the jarring thoughts in my brain, I walk once more to the edge of the frothy water, spotting the rock I threw a few feet away. The perfect rock. Nothing’s perfect.

I pick it up, brushing off a few grains of clinging sand, and carry it home.

Home. As if this place could ever be fucking home. I grab a bottle of Jim, pour a glass, yes, a glass, and settle in for a night with no power. And no sleep.