Liv gets up and puts the chair back how she found it, shooting me a wink before swaying her hips provocatively where she’s supposed to start the scene by the counter. I roll my eyes at her as I settle on the chair as cued, resting one arm on the edge of the table while watching her closely. My legs are spread, my teeth are digging into my bottom lip, and I study her like I studied Kinley Thomas before I fucked everything up.
“And, action!”
Olivia grabs a wine glass and glances over at me. Her eyes are lust-filled as they scan down my body, landing on the slight bulge beneath my zipper.
“I have a feeling you’re going to be a bad influence,” she says, delivering her line as she begins filling her glass with Pinot Noir.
Swiping my bottom lip with my thumb, I shift in the seat and stare at her exposed ass. “I don’t think you have a problem with that.”
She fights off a grin. “There’s a special place in hell for people like us, you know.”
“People in love?”
She lifts the glass to her lips. “Cheaters.”
Chapter Two
Kinley / Present
The blended mixture of red and yellow across the California skyline is dulled by the glow of skyscrapers lining the distance. Heart racing as I take another step further onto the tenth-story balcony attached to my hotel room, I absorb the noise of a nightlife I’m foreign to. For the first time in years, I think about how much I miss the middle of nowhere I grew up in.
Closing the outer door, I back into the main room of the prestigious suite that Tyler Buchannan set me up with. Everything is white, modern, and sleek—far from the odd mixture of farmhouse-meets-contemporary that litters my three-bedroom townhome in Upstate New York.
When the opportunity came, I couldn’t distance myself from the place I called home for twenty years. How many times had I told everyone I’d get out of Lincoln? Move? Go somewhere farm animals didn’t outnumber humans? Yet, the house I purchased almost four years ago is mere hours away from the family I thought I’d long since said goodbye to.
A soft knock at the door has my brows pinching, especially when my name is called following room service that I never ordered. Though I considered taking advantage of the free food Buchannan offered me on the movie’s expense, my stomach has been too full of eerily familiar flutters since seeing Corbin Callum parading around set like he owned it.
The annoying thing is, he did.
He is the epitome of Ryker Evans.
Sex appeal.
Confident.
A vulnerability so few people see.
Tugging on the hem of the AC/DC sweatshirt that I slipped on over my pajama pants, I look through the peephole at the pepper-haired man in hotel uniform. My outfit isn’t very public friendly, not that I necessarily care about what strangers think of me. But the sweatshirt is a well-worn keepsake that I hate myself for wearing. I don’t remember packing it, but the second my eyes landed on the holey fabric and faded letters, the anxiety I felt since landing in California eased.
The hotel worker greets me again as I open the door, gesturing toward the tray on the cart between us. Whatever rests under the serving tray smells delicious, but it doesn’t lessen my confusion.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” I offer, giving him a grateful smile. “It smells amazing, but I didn’t order anything.”
The man shakes his head. “No mistake, ma’am. It was called in for you to be delivered straight to your room.”
I blink. “By…?”
He just smiles. “I’m only the delivery man, ma’am. Somebody will come by to collect the tray outside your room when you’re finished. Enjoy your dinner.”
Dismissed, I accept the tray and close the door behind me with a murmured thank you. The faint smell of salt and something familiar wafts into the air, leaving my curiosity piquing. Setting the silver on the table closest to me, I take off the lid and stare at what lays underneath.
When I notice the note sitting beside the burger and fries, I pluck it off and open it. I don’t expect to see what’s scrawled in decent handwriting across the hotel stationary. My eyes travel to the smaller tray off to the side, still covered with something peeking out of the corner. My fingers hesitantly lift the lid, freezing when the packaged plastic of Twizzlers appears.
Leaning my hip against the table, my fingers smooth over the inked letters.
We’ll keep making the same mistakes because we never want to learn.
-Ryker
I remember reading those very words a thousand times after I received the script from the screenwriter. They were straight from my book—a sentence I’d debated on deleting countless times because they’d been a truth I hadn’t wanted to accept.
Corbin Callum is a mistake I’ll keep making because I’m not ready to learn from him yet. All of the pain that comes from old memories should turn me away for good, but something holds me back from cutting the string that ties me to those silver eyes I looked directly into when I said I loved him back then.
The sad part is, I’d tell him again if I thought it’d make a difference.
Chapter Three
Kinley / 16
From the corner of my eye, I notice a boy with messy brown hair drop into a seat outside of the principal’s office. As if he can feel me staring, he turns and locks eyes with me through the glass that separates us. He’s got one earbud in his ear, the other dangling freely against his shoulder, and his legs spread like he’s prepared to stay a while.
I don’t recognize him, and I would. Not just because Lincoln is a small town with an even smaller school district, but because he’s got that look I read about in books. The carefree boyish one that screams charm and trouble. Quirked lips and a challenging gaze—he’s daring me to look away.
Adjusting my backpack on my shoulder, I walk into the main office and smile at the secretary. She’s typing something a mile a minute with her acrylic nails tapping in a blur of dark red. It seems fitting for the start of fall that’s bound to hit central New York in the coming weeks. The leaves haven’t started changing, but the temperature has dropped.
Mrs. Lewis, the white-haired secretary, tells me she’ll be just a second. Knowing her, she’s got something due in a matter of minutes. She loves playing Bejeweled Blitz on her phone all day until deadlines near. Then she’ll ignore everybody until her work is done.
It gives me time to study the new kid. I try doing it subtly because his eyes are still pointed in my direction. My fingers dig through the candy bowl, searching absently for something to nibble on despite it being eight in the morning. Through my lashes, I peek at the boy whose lips are twitching upward at me.
Shifting from one foot to the other, I glance down at my dirtied combat boots. I found them at a thrift store in town, practically new. One of the laces is coming undone, so I drop down and redo them. The new kid is wearing a pair of black ones like mine that look shiny and new. They match his black ensemble—black jeans and black shirt with white words faded across his chest like he’s owned it a while. His leg is bouncing, and I wonder if it’s to the music he’s listening to or impatience.