Lost Wishes (2 page)

I close my eyes… Fuck!

Hope…

Chapter Two

Katie

The dim light casts shadows over the black water. The loud crashing sound reflects the waves. The cool night air ripples through my neatly pressed suit as I stand on the dock. I find the light app on my cell phone and search for the boat, Hope Floats. I love that movie. But it’s fitting, no doubt named after Fallon O’Conner’s dead wife.

I start to scan the ass end of the boats.

When Chase Lennox, my boss, said he needed someone to reach out to Fallon O’Conner, and after I heard Fallon’s story, I knew that I’d be the best gal for the job. I lack empathy for people who blame themselves for the loss of another. My father beat that ability out of me for the first eighteen years of my life.

Spotting the boat, I head toward it. It’s quiet; all except for the waves that continue to sing through the darkness. That, and the click-clack of my heels as they strike the wood planks. I scope out the boat. But I don’t see anything, including Fallon O’Conner.

Mr. Lennox said to do whatever it takes to get the job done, and I plan to do just that.

And this job could turn out to be easier than I thought. If I can get on that boat and locate the deed Fallon is supposed to have, then I won’t have to deal with the lost and hopeless Fallon O’Conner.

Sad stories—we all have them. And from what I understand, it’s been three years since he’s distanced himself from life and family. I’d say it’s about time to move on.

I grab the edge of the boat and haul myself into it. Glancing around, the thing looks well kept. I take a few steps to peer out at the bow. Not about to scale the narrow edge, I tip up on my toes to check the captain’s chair but no Fallon there, either. I shift to the left and bite my bottom lip when I see an opening to the lower deck. It’s late. He could be sleeping.

My phone vibrates in my hand. I look at it. Dammit. Brandon. I click on the text.

Hey, Kitty-Kat, it’s been a while. Want some company tonight?

No, I don’t. Doesn’t he get the hint? It’s been a while for a reason.

I type,
Can’t. Working. Will call you tomorrow,
and hit send.

Granted, it’s a relationship solely based on sex, but I’m getting tired of it.

Using the light on my phone, I head to the stairs. With soft feet, I start down them. The only thing I hear is my thundering heartbeat. There’s a small area with a table and long sofa wrapped halfway around it, a fridge, and a sink. I hold the light up and spot the even smaller cabin consisting of a bed in the back but still no Fallon O’Conner. Shining the light around, I notice a cabinet. I walk over and try to pull it open, but it’s locked. The deed could be in there, so I pull a safety pin from my purse and start working on the lock. It gives and I take out the pile of papers and folders from inside. Setting them on the sparse counter space, I sift through the documents.

A loud thud vibrates from the floor above. It shoots straight to my ears and then slams deep into my chest. I freeze, holding my breath. Then I hear heavy footsteps echo through the small cabin. I scramble to get the papers back in order and bend down to put them in the cabinet. I hear the rev of the boat’s motor. Shit! Just as I shut the cabinet, there’s a powerful jolt. Unable to catch myself, I fall back and hit my head. Before my body makes it to the floor, everything fades to black.

* * *

I place a hand over my rolling stomach. I feel sick. Like I’m twelve again, lying on Sarah Mahoney’s waterbed.  I always hated that bed, but she thought it was cool. My head is pounding, as it had when I drank a few too many margaritas on my last date. God, was that a year ago? Jacob Thele. All he talked about was himself, and he was boring as hell.

The softness beneath my body leads me to believe that I’m on a bed. The muffled splashing of water feels close, inches from my head. The sound prompts me to remember where I am. I open my eyes to a freakishly small window; there’s a faint stream of moonlight flowing in from outside.

I get a strong whiff of whiskey. My heart palpitates, palms sweat, and breaths quicken.  I follow the beam of light, and hidden in the shadows, I can barely make out his face. The moonlight obscures everything but a set of piercing hazel eyes. Caught in them, I fall into their darkness. I descend further into the portal of their emptiness. My resistance to empathy dithers for as I gaze into those dead pools, I feel his despair within every crevasse of my body.

Lifting the bottle of Jack Daniels from between his thighs, eyes locked with mine, he takes a long swig. The action breaks me from his cold glare, drawing me to his lips wrapped around the tip of that bottle. My gaze drops further to naked broad shoulders, a muscular chest, and rigid abdomen. In only jeans, he’s lounged back in the chair. I follow the ripples of his perfect, stacked body back up to those illicit eyes.

Deep in my gut, I know that I’ve done something wrong here. I’ve messed up royally and I’m going to dread the consequence of my mistake. I shouldn’t be here. The man before me portrays death, forbids life. And me, I’m alive and breathing. In fact, I’m panting.

Primitive without excuse, he’s where he belongs, alone and discarded. Not meant for the world, for common society, for someone to notice or to love.

In the deafening silence, I worry that the hard beating of my heart and my shallow breaths are making their way to his ears in the small cabin. I need to do something. I have to get out of this bed. I want to run.

And ready to move through the ominous moment, I say, “I take it you’re Fallon.”

Setting the bottle on the floor, he peers up at me from hooded eyes. “So, stowaway, you know who I am,” he says, voice profound, low, and just as corrupt as the rest of him. “Now, why don’t you tell me what the fuck you’re doing on my boat?”

“I’m Katie—”

“Katie Rustle,” he finishes for me. Placing his elbows on his knees, he clasps strong looking hands together between his open thighs. He sways closer. I forget how he might know my name as his face comes out from the shadows. By no means is he attractive. No. The man is jaw-dropping, panty wetting gorgeous. “Now,” those stone eyes set hard on me, “tell me what the fuck you’re doing on my boat.”

I clear my throat and try to erase the entrancing sight of him from my mind. “Your family sent me. I…I work for Chase Lennox, Jessina’s husband. Shelby, your cousin, needs the deed to Lulu’s house.”

He scrutinizes me for a few long and suffering seconds, and again, I’m lost in that captivating face. What a waste.

“Why’d they send you?” His ominous voice breaks the silence.

“Shelby’s been held up in court for your aunt’s estate, and Jessina—” I take a deep breath, not really in the mood to explain it all. I just want to get away from him and all of his desolation. “Ya know,” I sit up on the bed, “I don’t know why. Probably because no one wants to deal with you and your wallowing in self-pity shit. So, do you have the deed or not?”

I think, if not just a little, the corner of his mouth tilts up. But I can’t tell for sure, it’s so damn dark and with every slight movement, the shadows shift over his face.

“Yes. I have the deed.”

“Can I have it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Besides the fact that it’s not here, I’m not giving you a damn thing, stowaway.”

I may not be able to see his entire face, but I can hear the conviction in his voice.

“Whatever. I tried!” I throw my hands up in the air. And I think he’s grinning at me. Damn shadows. I scoot down to the end of the bed, trying to make a dramatic exit, but fail. My shoes hit the floor and between the rocking of the boat and my pounding head, I reach for the wall to steady myself. He’s watching me the entire time, just freaking watching me struggle to get out of the small cabin.

I find my purse on the table and storm up the stairs, slamming my three-inch heels on each step. I’m so out of here. Fuck him and his dark sexiness, those piercing hazel eyes, and rampant body. Screw him. He’s doomed, fated for a shitty lonely life trapped in his past. Well, I got out of mine; I had no problem leaving it all behind me. I moved on.

My head clears the boat floor, and the night stars capture me. It’s quiet and peaceful, so beautiful, unlike the embodied darkness below. Taking the last step, I lower my head and my heart drops down into my belly. Nothing. There’s nothing but water surrounding the boat.

“Great!” I raise my arms out. “This is just great!” I slap my thighs. I’m out in the middle of God knows where, stranded with a man who doesn’t seem to care if he lives or dies. Shit!

 I count down from ten, taking deep calming breaths in an attempt to cool off before I go back down those stairs to confront the unfeeling beast.

Once I make my way back to the cabin, he’s gone from the chair. I look up and the son of a bitch is in the bed. I slowly walk over, set my hands on my hips, and glare down at his fat-free, muscle bound body. Eyes closed with one arm behind his head, I’m not sure if the sexy bastard has passed out or if he’s ignoring me.

“Ahh, Mr. O’Conner—”

“Fallon,” he says, lids still lowered.

“Fallon, where are we?”

“In my boat,” he slurs, rubbing his flat stomach with the palm of his hand in a yawn.

“Yes. I know that.” I pause, watching his hand run over his taut muscles. Something stirs between my thighs, and I squeeze them shut. “How long was I passed out for?”

“I left the marina a couple hours ago,” he says, a little less coherent than the last.

Shit! Shit! Shit! “Could you please take me back to the marina?” It’s quiet, and he offers no response. “Now.
Please
?”

“Too fucked up, stowaway. I gotta be somewhere tomorrow by noon. I need sleep.”

“I can’t stay on this damn boat while you…” I drop my shoulders. Shit! Breathe deep breaths. “You need to take me back.”

“No. I need sleep, and if I’m not awake in four hours, feel free to get me up.” Eyes still closed, he readjusts the arm behind his head.

“But—” I start to argue. His eyes slit open just enough for me to catch a glint of their hazel shine.

“Did I ask you here,” he quietly asks.

“No,” I grit out between clenched teeth.

“No, I didn’t. I don’t give a shit what you want. Go sit your ass down and shut up.” His lids lower again, and his bitter tone informs me that he’s not going to budge on the matter.

To be fair, I did sneak onto his boat. I’m an unwanted guest, as he keeps calling me, a damn stowaway. He’s drunk; maybe after a few hours of sleep, he won’t be such an asshole and he’ll see to reason. Alcohol tends to bring the ugly out in people. It always did with my father.

I turn and head for the chair, knocking over the empty Jack Daniels bottle. I glance over my shoulder, but the half-naked drunk is out cold. I pick up the bottle and set it in the sink, unbutton my suit jacket, and hunker down on the hard sofa.

I cross my arms on the table and lay my head on them. It serves me right for offering to go after the notorious Fallon O’Conner.  When I overheard Jessina and Mr. Lennox talking about it, I should have just minded my own business and gone along with my work like the good little machine that I am. But no, I held up my hand and said I’d do it. Really, I’d do anything for Mr. Lennox because he saved my life. He took a chance on me right after I graduated from college when no one else would. And sure, I run for his coffee, but I also run corporate meetings in his absence, too.

I’m used to doing the shit jobs, though. Growing up under my father’s roof, I had to learn to be a good little machine and keep everything in order. The difference now is that I get a please and thank you for it, which is a lot better than cruel words.

The day after I graduated high school, I packed up my shitty Impala and left Utah. I got a shitty apartment in Nevada and put myself through college working endless hours as a waitress. Landing a job at Lennox Corporation changed my life. I now own an apartment in downtown Las Vegas and I drive an Acura.

My love life—well, now that’s always been shitty. But that’s my fault. Spending so many years with a man like my father will do that to any girl. But observing Mr. Lennox with his wife gives me new hope. Perhaps, not all men sum up to a total piece of shit.

I lift my head and rest my chin on my forearm. I gaze at the man sleeping in the bed. I know his wife died in some kind of accident three years ago. According to Jessina, Fallon set off on his boat the day after the funeral, and they’ve only seen him once since then—a few months before their Aunt Lulu died.

I guess he blames himself for his wife’s death. And, sure, I saw that guilt in his eyes. What I don’t understand is why he blames himself. No one told me about that.

Chapter Three

FALLON

“Fuck!” I press the pad of my palm against my head. Fuck, it hurts. And blinking doesn’t help. The brief doses of morning sunlight only serve to agitate the throb in my head. I try to sit up, but the cabin spins and my stomach rolls. “Shit!” I think I’m gonna puke. Getting to the end of the bed doesn’t come easy, either. I take a few deep breaths, hoping that’ll push the bile back down into my gut. ‘Cause that shit wants to come up.

Damn.
I lower my head in my hands with a groan. I know better than to drink whiskey. Lucky, now he can hold his liquor. Me. Never. But my twin’s right, if only for a few hours it helps rid the demons. Our father, that fucker had many demons. Daily, he hit the bottle hard when he was alive.

But for me last night there were demons galore. It was a horror fest down fucking memory lane. I had to stop it, and Mr. Jack Daniels helped me along.

Halfway through the bottle, shit started to blur. I even started to imagine things, seeing angels and shit. I must have been real fucked up. Her soft, silky skin felt so real in my hands. I lifted her in my arms, like I had with Hope in her last days, and I carried the angel to my bed. I touched her soft face, and for the first time in years, I almost felt something. I’ve been so numb since Hope. Fuck. I rub my temples.
Let it go.