The Love Sucks Club

SUMMARY

Tragedy and
heartbreak drive Dana
McComb
to a Caribbean island
where she sets about to becoming a hermit. Settling into numbness seems to be
the only way to suppress the psychic visions that once showed her the death of
her soul mate. A failed rebound relationship leaves her even more intent on
losing herself in the loneliness of her isolated house on the hill.
 
With her middle-aged, beef jerky obsessed Tom
cat, Dana vows to live a life devoid of ups and downs. Making fun of her own
state of mind, she and her best buddy start “The Love Sucks Club” which is
really just a euphemism for sitting around bitching about their own bitterness
about love.
Trying to stay wrapped in her own misery starts to fail when Dana's pesky
younger sister and a host of other island misfits insist on poking into her
best laid plans for comfort. When a new woman shows up on island, bringing back
Dana's visions, she is suddenly besieged by night terrors, vivid
hallucinations, and panic attacks. Half-convinced she's going
crazy,
Dana tries to shut out her past with increasing
difficulty. Aware that it may be the only way to put her dead lover to rest,
Dana begins a journey that could either shatter her life or save it.

the love sucks club

the love sucks club

beth burnett

Sapphire Books

Salinas, california

The Love Sucks Club

Copyright
© 2014 by
Beth Burnett

All
rights reserved.

ISBN EPUB
978-1-939062-51-2

This is a work of fiction - names, characters, places,
and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may
be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means,
including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods,
without written permission of the publisher.

Cover Design by Christine
Svendsen

Editor - Lee Fitzsimmons

Book Designer - LJ Reynolds

Sapphire Books

Salinas,
CA 93912

www.sapphirebooks.com

Printed
in the United States of America

First
edition – April 2014

This and other Sapphire Books titles can be found at

www.sapphirebooks.com

Dedication

Dedicated with great love to everyone who walks their own path no
matter how twisted the road gets.

Acknowledgements

I have been absolutely
blessed to have the love and support of so many people in the writing of this
novel.

First, I want to thank
the amazing Erin
Saluta
, my beta reader. She did an
incredible job of whipping this manuscript into shape. My editor Lee
Fitzsimmons was the next piece of the puzzle, and again, I thank her for her
attention to detail and her always kind, yet accurate feedback.

Thank you to
Aschlie
Lake and Donna McArthur who read and critiqued my
feeble attempt at writing a stunning back blurb.

Thank you to my Tally
Hoes, Renee, Chris, Jen, Kathy, and LK, for so much love and bliss and energy
and joy. It is not even close to possible to express my love for you.

Thanks to Dad and
Robbie who helped me out of a tight spot.

Thanks to my mom who
constantly buys me things that she thinks look “
authoreseque
.”

Thanks to the adorable
butch who gave me a place to live, among other things, while writing this book.

Thanks to my friend and
current roomie, Sandy
Balzer
, who is letting
Brutie
and I stay in her spare room.

Thank you Sapphire
Books, Isabella and
Schileen
, who run this whole
crazy ship and do it with aplomb.

Thank you to my BFF Kim
for being awesome in every way.

Thank you to the whole
online
lesfic
community, some of whom I have met and
adored in real life.

Lastly, I want to thank
all of my fest sisters.
Nisey
, Barb H, Jenny, Yvonne,
and so many more, who keep me entertained, make me think, make me laugh, and
remind me above all else, to nourish my spirit.

Chapter One

A storm is rocking my windows as I claw my way out of sleep. An
invisible hand wraps around me, squeezing all of the air out of my body.
Clutching the side of the bed, I pull as much air into my lungs as I can. It’s
not enough. Heart pounding, I drag myself to a sitting position, arching my
back to make more room in my chest. With one hand pressed against my heart, I
force another deep breath. The pain in my jaw moves down the left side of my
neck and into my left arm. Concentrating, I focus on making myself breathe
steadily. The shadow voice from the dark place in my mind is convinced that I’m
having a heart attack. My rational voice diagnoses a panic attack. It’s been
years since I’ve had one. Even when I was trying to extricate myself from my
last shitty relationship, I was able to keep the anxiety at bay for the most
part. Now suddenly, out of nowhere, I’m either having a panic attack or a heart
attack and I’m torn about whether to call 911 or just try to breathe through
it.

Several minutes of deep breathing dulls the panic enough to let me
stand up. Stumbling into the kitchen, I stick my head under the faucet and let
the cold water run over my head. The coolness brings me back to the real world
and my heart slows down. Afternoon naps always seem like a good idea when I
think of them, but sleeping in the heat always seems to give me nightmares. It
isn’t even storming. The sun is shining, as usual, and the day looks balmy. It
seemed so real, but a glance out the window assures me that the ground is
completely dry. It must have been part of my dreams.
        

Staring at the wall, I cast my mind back, searching for the memory
of the nightmare. I’m not sure what I was dreaming, but I think Annabelle might
have been part of it. I think I’ve survived as long as I have by avoiding
thoughts of Annabelle. I lean back against the counter, opening a bottle of
water. A few sips
brings
my head back to normal. I
glance at my computer, debating whether to try to get some work done. Fuck it.
I can’t stay here all afternoon; I’ll go crazy. Dropping a quick text to my
buddy, Sam, I head down the hill to mingle with the general population at The
Grill.

We have a small population and after a while, everyone starts to
look and act exactly the same. There are really only three kinds of ex-patriots
on this island. There are the drinkers; the ones who consider themselves on
permanent vacation. My ex-lover falls into that category. I met her right after
I moved to the island. Despite having come here to be alone, I was miserable
and lonely. I had bought and moved into my awesome house, but I felt so alone
there. My ex was a bright light. She seemed fun and full of life, but without
the deeply imbedded craziness that came from Fran. For a time, our relationship
was actually kind of blissful. I was new to the island and living it up. After
all, the weather is amazing and the Caribbean water is clear and warm. My ex
was fun while we were dating, but she moved in with me way too quickly. Once we
were living together, the partying got to be too much. I mean, she fell into
drinking her first beer at breakfast and doing shots at lunch, and I found
myself in the ridiculous role of the harpy. I mean, I was constantly counting
how many shots she drank and anticipating when she would either fall into
alcohol-induced hypoglycemic tremors or pass out. My best friend Sam and I
would sit together, watching her get drunk. Eventually, she would launch into a
slurred argument with someone at the bar about how much more she knew about
whatever the subject was than the other person did and it was time to herd her
out to the car and get her home.

The drinkers on this island are a pretty tight group, as long as
they are drinking together. My ex has plenty of people she calls friends. That
is, she has a lot of people who will sit at the bar and get drunk with her or
come over to her apartment and get drunk with her, but no one who will just
pick her up and take her to K-mart or go for a picnic on the beach. The
drinkers are on permanent vacation. They work as many hours as they have to in
order to keep themselves in booze, which is, fortunately for them, extremely
cheap on this island. They meet up in the various bars along the beach and they
spent long hours drinking and laughing and clinking glasses together and buying
shots and talking shit about whoever passes out first.

The other group on this island is the water people. They’re
generally athletic. They came for the diving and the snorkeling and the beach
time. They tend to be younger than I am and extremely fit. They may also
overlap into the drinker’s group from time to time, but they spend the bulk of
the time on the water, so drinking is a secondary activity for them.
 

The third group is the outcasts. They may all be here for
different reasons, but the basic feeling is the same. They lost someone, or
they’re hiding from something, or they somehow fucked up their real lives so
badly that moving to a barely populated island in the middle of the Caribbean
somehow seemed like the only option left. Some of them have money and some of
them are flat broke. They can be young or old. Most of them are white and male.
Really the only common denominator is a pervading sense of gloom underlying the
forced hilarity that comes when an unhappy person moves to an extremely
beautiful place.

Sam and I didn’t really fit into any of these groups, which is
probably why we found each other. We became friends the moment we met. I’m
pretty sure we were sisters in a past life. Honestly, I can’t explain it any
other way. We had that kind of “eyes met across the crowded room” kind of
moments, but there was never any sexual chemistry. We simply knew, instantly
and with utter surety, that we were destined to be friends.

Sam is perpetually single. She’s been in love with some bitch back
in the States for years, but the woman is supposedly straight. Every once in a
while, she drunk dials Sam and promises her that underneath it all, she’s truly
in love with Sam. They talk sexy to each other for a while and Sam hangs up the
phone believing that it is only a matter of time before Josie leaves whatever
guy she’s doing at the time.

Sliding into a chair at my favorite table, I glance around the
restaurant. Every place around here is part restaurant, part bar, but this
place seems to attract people who are more interested in having a meal and
watching the waves than those who want to slam booze until they projectile
vomit. Sam and I hang here for the excellent food and the view of the water.
Our island doesn’t get a lot of tourists, and the ones that do come are more
hippie than
hottie
. Every once in a while, a hot
chick in a bikini saunters past our regular perches, but for the most part, the
denizens of this beach are families with children or young men throwing tennis
balls for dogs. Sam has just wandered across the beach from the water and
plopped onto the chair next to me.

“The sea is like bath water today,” she says, shaking her head
like a dog.

Wiping off the stray drops that land on me, I look out at the
water. “Well, it is almost ninety degrees.”
    
      

“The locals say that when the sea water is this warm in June, it
means a bad hurricane season.”
    

“The locals say everything means a bad hurricane season.”

Sam grins and sips her beer. “There’s a new woman on the island,”
she says.

“I heard.”

“Heard she’s pretty cute.”

“Is she a dyke?”

“Who knows?” Sam shrugs, grinning. “If she’s straight, I might
have a chance with her.”

Laughing, I toast her with my iced tea. “Straight women and gay
men,” I chuckle. “They just can’t resist your charm.”

“It must be my gregarious personality.”

“Or something.”

I flag down our waitress and order a veggie pizza. Sam asks for
another beer. She’s not a drinker the way the drinkers are, but she does enjoy
a good buzz now and then. I, of course, don’t drink at all. That figures,
doesn’t it? I lived with an alcoholic for ten years and I don’t touch the
stuff. I suppose if I had ever been tempted to become a drinker, living with my
ex would have cured me of that idea. Sam waves over Karen, a friend of hers
from work. I don’t really know what to think of her yet. I’d like to say that
if Sam thinks she’s cool, she must be cool, but I have to admit that sometimes,
Sam is friends with the most useless women in the world. Karen is kind of sexy,
in a culottes and polo shirt sort of way, so I’ve mostly written off their
friendship to the possibility that Sam wants to sleep with her.

I give Karen a smile and a quick hello before turning my attention
back to my notebook. I’m a writer. I always fancied myself as a cross between
Robert Heinlein, without the nipple fixation, and Kurt Vonnegut, without the
politics. Sam says I’m more like Danielle Steel for dykes. She’s a bitch, but
dammit, she’s probably right. I’ve actually written several
romancey
type novels under my own name and they’ve done pretty well for dyke drama. The
only book I’ve written that I considered serious was published under an assumed
name and did shit for sales.

“Hey, Dana.”
Karen pokes me in the arm.
“Check out the new woman.”

I hear the guys at the other end of the bar muttering to
themselves, but I don’t pay much attention. As I said, a new woman on the
island is worthy of a press release. If she’s cute, every single lesbian and
most males on the island perk up. If she’s not that cute, we still check her
out. You know, there’s not that much excitement here and we have to entertain
ourselves somehow. I shake myself out of my writing and look across the
restaurant.

A tall, skinny woman is shaking water off herself at the top of
the stairs from the beach. I don’t know if I’d call her beautiful, but she is
cute. There’s something about her that I find appealing. Watching her throw a
cover up over her bathing suit and lope over to the bar to place an order, I’m
entranced. Her legs are long and on the verge of too skinny. Her elbows seem to
poke out at ridiculous angles and as I look at her, one of them knocks into a
bottle of ketchup and sends it flying across the bar. Sam is chuckling softly
under her breath. We meet eyes and grin. The woman has short hair that falls
over her face in the front and sticks up in little chunky spikes in the back.

“She looks like a teenage boy,” Sam whispers.

Watching her move, I shake my head. No, she doesn’t look like a
boy. She’s slim and gangly, but there is something beautifully female about the
curve of her jaw, the shape of her small ears, and the length of her neck. She
turns from the bar with a bottle of water and for a second, our eyes meet. Hers
are a rich hazel and I swear they have flecks of gold. Her lips curve into a
warm smile, but I keep my face impassive and lower my eyes back to my notebook.

Karen doesn’t miss a beat. “Why don’t you go talk to her?”

“I’m happy here.”

“You never talk to anyone,” she answers.

“That’s not true.” Rushing to defend myself, I hold up my hand,
marking off a list on my fingers. “I talk to my sister. I talk to Sammie. I
talk to people. I buy groceries, I order stuff. Sometimes I even have to go to
the office supply store and buy, you know, office supplies. That involves a lot
of conversation because they never have exactly what I need.”

Sam and Karen are laughing. “Forgive me,” Karen mocks. “I had no
idea you had such a rich, full life!”

Chuckling, Sam takes another sip of her beer. “Such an exciting
life,” she intones.
“Going to the grocery store.
Buying kitty litter.
Someday, when you go on the Oprah show,
you’ll regale them all with the fascinating tales of your life in the
Caribbean.”
          

“Fuck off.” I’m laughing, but a little irritated. I’ve only been
single for nine months, after all.

“Oh come on, Dana.” Sam’s laughing, too, though she can tell she’s
hit a nerve. “You know I’m just messing with you. It took me six years to tell
Josie that I’m in love with her.”

“And look how well that turned out,” Karen said, dryly.

I’m saved from answering by the approach of the new woman to our
table. Sam smiles and Karen says hello, but her eyes are on me. I was right;
her eyes are hazel and flecked with gold and lit with amusement and vitality.
Her mouth is full and smiling. I keep my face impassive. There’s no point in
encouraging anyone into thinking I’m a nice person.

“I’m
Esmé
,” she says, holding out a
hand. I shake it briefly and nod. She shakes hands with both Sam and Karen
before turning back to me.

“The men at the bar told me not to talk to you,” she grins.

“They’re probably right,” I return. Holding my pen, I look
pointedly down at my notebook before looking back at her. She doesn’t take the
hint.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Sam moves over and pulls up another chair. “Please, sit down,” she
says.
Traitor.
It’s
bad
enough I have to deal with Karen at my table. Now I have to make small talk
with a stranger. I glare at my best buddy for a moment before begrudgingly
inching my chair over to allow
Esmé
space at the
small table. Now we’re crammed in and I have to move my notebook to my lap to
keep it out of the small puddle of condensation from Sam’s beer and Karen’s
vodka and whatever.