Try Me

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

This book 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 events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Diane Alberts. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Edited by Adrien-Luc Sanders

Cover design by Adrien-Luc Sanders

ISBN 978-1-62266-928-8

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition May 2012

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Porsche Cayenne, Aquafina, The Hangover, Johnny Walker, Miss Cleo, Taser, 31 Flavors, Backstreet Boys, NSync, Justin Timberlake.

This one goes to the men and women in our armed forces.

Jeremy is modeled, piece by piece, after a good number of you I’ve had the pleasure of knowing in my life. Some of him even comes from my own husband…

Then he’d lost it.

He wished he could blame the alcohol, but he’d been sober at that point. It wasn’t until after the fight, his eye black and his lip swollen, that he’d nursed his wounded pride with a visit from Johnny Walker. His own temper, built up over the months of a high-tension deployment, had gotten him into this mess. The liquor had just made his bruises hurt a little less.

Though he’d sure as hell like to know what happened between the bottom of the bottle and the side of the road.

He fingered the split in his lower lip and let out a bitter laugh. Idiot. At twenty-seven, he should know better than to drink until he dropped. He never lost control like that. Never let himself. Not after what his father had done to his mother. His father had blamed the bottle, too.

Yeah. Right. Even sober, his father was an asshole.

Jeremy wouldn’t let himself follow in his father’s footsteps: a loser behind bars, with no hope for a future and no one who loved him enough to bother visiting. Jeremy was a Marine. He made his own life, did his best to look after people.

And if he roughed up one squid on leave, well…Jeremy hadn’t thrown the first punch. Sure, he’d lost the fight and ended up as desert road kill—but at least he could claim self-defense.

With a snort, he ducked his head against the sunlight and trudged along the road. At least he’d get to work on his tan.

That tan was turning into the beginning of a sunburn before he finally heard a car engine rumbling behind him. It was the first sign of life he’d seen since he stumbled out of the desert. Finally. He’d started to think he’d slept through the end of the world. Zombies optional.

He turned to walk backward, facing the wavering silver gleam that sped toward him. His mouth was too dry to even try shouting, his tongue swollen. He waved his arms over his head like a madman and stepped into the road. The late afternoon sun reflected off the hood, blinding him.

Please don’t run me over.

Not that it wouldn’t be a fitting end to this hellish day.

Brakes screeched. Jeremy stumbled off the road and landed on his ass in the sand. Grit stung his reddened skin. A cactus decided to fuck with him just a little more and poked into his back. Son of a bitch. He rubbed at his eyes; negative-image floaters swam against the insides of his eyelids.

A car door opened with a
k-chnk.
Footsteps pounded the pavement, their noise drawing closer. Jeremy cracked his eyelids open enough to squint at the driver. Short. Female. That was all he could make out.

She dropped to her knees at his side. “Are you all right?”

Her voice was soft. Sweet. Melodious. Familiar. He thought of warm summer nights by the pool, watching the stars.

With his best friend’s sister at his side.

Oh,
hell
.

“…Erica?” Please, God, no. Anyone but Erica. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked at her. Same brown hair. Same brown eyes. Same soft, sweet face. It was Erica, all right.

Shit.

“Do I know you…?” She eyed him warily, her eyes empty of recognition.

Any moment now she’d remember him. Jeremy Addison. The fool who’d confessed his love to her. The idiot who’d driven her away with his stupid mouth. She’d run before he’d even finished the
you
in
I love you
. It had been years, but she’d remember.

And it would all go downhill from there.

And five…four…three…two…

“…Jeremy? Is that you?”

“Yep,” he croaked. The only way this day could get worse was if her brother was in the car. Tommy. His ex-best friend. That would dropkick things from
downhill
to
straight into the shitter
pretty fast.

Jeremy cleared his throat and tried to force something resembling a human voice past his lips. “Uh. How are you?”

“How am I?” Her eyes widened. “How are
you?
What the hell happened? You look like a POW.”

Her soft, cool hands pressed to his shoulders, then slid over him. He knew she was only checking for injuries, but his heart stumbled nonetheless. Maybe if his skin didn’t feel like an overcooked hot dog, he’d actually enjoy her touch.

“I don’t remember,” he mumbled.

What he really meant was
I drank myself into a drunken stupor. And I think now I’ll go do it again, thank you. Go ahead and run away now. This time, I won’t blame you.
And this time, he thought, he’d try tequila. Anything to erase the memory of humiliating himself in front of the girl he’d been in love with since the first grade.

He sighed. “The last I remember, I was hanging around the Bellagio. Hadn’t even cracked my first beer.. Some Navy jackass called me out. Picked a fight with ten of his buddies. Next thing I know, I’m waking up with a mouthful of sand.”

“How long have you been out here?” She felt his forehead. He could’ve told her without checking; he was running somewhere between fricasseed and hot as hell, Fahrenheit.

He gritted his teeth. “No clue.”

“Come on.” She slung an arm under his and gave him her shoulder. “In the car. You’re probably dehydrated. I have some bottled water.”

He’d have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much. Jeremy had a good foot or more on Erica. She’d hit five foot one when they were eleven, and hadn’t grown an inch since. He still remembered her marking off her height on the doorframe of her family’s antique frame house, and finally giving up after it didn’t change for six straight months. Sad that he still remembered that—her pretty, slim fingers curled around the marker, the way she pouted.

But he always remembered things like that. Story of his life.

It was more stubbornness than strength that got him back on his feet. She wrapped her arm around his hips, as if she had even half a chance of supporting him. His heart gave a painful lurch, and his gut tightened. He ignored it. His body and heart never could be objective where Erica was concerned.

She was only helping him, he told himself. Taking pity on him after finding him in a pathetic heap on the side of the road. She didn’t care about him. She hadn’t then. She didn’t now. She was just a good person…and to her, he was practically a stranger. Too many years had passed, and too much had changed.

Including Jeremy.

One grueling step at a time, they dragged back to her silver Porsche Cayenne. Of course she had a classy car. She’d always had the best taste in…well, everything. Probably why she’d never dated him, even after his confession. She’d never stoop so low as the son of a lowlife, no-account, good-for-nothing criminal. He couldn’t blame her. She deserved a prince, not a knuckleheaded piece of shit Marine.

He still remembered the look on her face when he’d told her. She’d turned ghostly white, and her pretty little mouth had tightened. Then she’d run away. Just like that—run away from him as if he were diseased. He’d never been able to face her, after that. Her or her brother, after things had turned sour between them. Maybe it was better that way, but his self-esteem sure as hell didn’t agree.

And his self-esteem wasn’t too happy about seeing her now. He looked like a damned bum, and he was getting sand all over her elegant business suit.

Brilliant, Jeremy. Absolutely brilliant. Next you can puke on her shoes.

Come to think of it, he might have done something like that last night, somewhere between the fight and the second bottle of hooch. That might account for two or three of the fresher bruises throbbing on his chest.

Erica helped him wedge into the passenger’s-side seat, strapped him in, then slipped in on the driver’s side and passed him a large water bottle. The condensation on the sides almost froze his palms, and he had to stop himself from rubbing the damned thing all over his body. He was tempted, but her pretty brown eyes stopped him, concern written all over her face.

“God, Jeremy, you look like shit.”

“I know.” He groaned, twisted the cap off the bottle, and took a deep draught. The dry stinging in his throat eased, and he let out a heavy sigh. “Thanks.”

She started the car and cranked up the air conditioning. Cold air blasted him in the face, and he closed his eyes and sank against the seat. Thank God. The last time he’d been this hot, he’d been stationed in Afghanistan, camped out in the hellish desert and dodging a hell of a lot of unfriendly fire.

Still more comfortable than sitting here with Erica, sweating all over the plush upholstery of her car.

“Are you on leave?” she asked.

He watched her from the corner of his eye. How did she know he was in the Marines? He’d kept up with her life now and then, but had she cared enough to follow his?

Her eyes dropped to the dog tags currently burning into his chest like branding irons, and his face heated. No. Of course not. He needed to get his wayward emotions under control.

He shrugged and took another sip of water. “Yeah. Took a month. Though I could use some R&R.”

“Relax?” She raised a brow. “This is what you call relaxing?”

He stiffened. Of course she’d look at him like that. Like the loser he was. He wanted to tell her she had no right to judge him—that she’d given up what power she held over him long ago—but he’d be lying. One look and he still felt that same desperate, agonizing emptiness; the hollow knowledge that he loved her, and she’d never love him. Never even consider it. She was a different Erica now, grown up after seven years.

But he was still unworthy of her, and no amount of commendations or medals would change that.

Jeremy’s hand tightened against the bottle, until he forced himself to let go. “It was plenty relaxing, until a fist got up close and personal with my face.”

She snorted. “Sounds like you got what you deserved.”

Erica strapped in, shifted into gear, and pulled onto the road. Uncomfortable silence descended. Jeremy relaxed against the seat and tried to focus on the cool air and refreshing water—not the woman at his side. He might as well try to forget his own name. He was grateful when she slid on her sunglasses; they hid her dark, unreadable eyes behind an equally impenetrable barrier.