Shake The Frost
A Crystal Lake Novel
Juliana Stone
Chapter One
Ethan Caldwell had been drunk for twenty-four hours, but he wasn’t so far gone he didn’t know it was time to stop. Damn, he thought, blinking slowly as he stared up at the ceiling. It had been a night. Bleary-eyed, he rolled off the beat-up, ratty sofa in his shop and groaned as sunlight filtered through the dirty, smudged windows to hit him square in the face.
He ran a hand over three days’ worth of hair on his chin as he sat back on his haunches and looked around. Several empty bottles of tequila stared back at him from where they lay scattered around the room, and the one on the workbench was half gone.
“Jesus,” he muttered. No wonder he felt like shit.
With some effort, he pulled his ass up off the floor and took a moment to roll his neck and stretch out his arms and legs. He was stiff from the sofa, which was nothing more than threadbare moth-eaten material pulled over old, pointy springs, and felt at least ten years older than the thirty-three that he was. The antique clock on the wall told him he was already two steps behind on his day, and he gave himself one last mental shake in an effort to clear the cobwebs.
Coffee, he thought. That would do the trick. He yanked open the door of his shop and was immediately hit with a blast of cold wind off the lake. It was late October, and he smelled winter in the air. A half smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he headed down the path through the pine, oak, and birch trees that surrounded his house. He didn’t care about much, and winter brought with it long days of silence, and, more importantly, long stretches with no visitors. When the heavy snows came to this part of Michigan, it generally meant the trip from town out to his corner of the lake was too much for most sane folks. And that meant Ethan could work on his bikes in peace and not worry about offending anyone with his dark, twisted, pissed-off attitude. Given the crap state of his life, that wasn’t changing anytime soon.
In the last few years, he’d managed to alienate himself from most everyone except the diehards. His mother and father, his sister Georgie, and, he scowled and shook his head, Emily Davenport. Though truthfully, after the last time Emily had stopped by, he was pretty sure she’d finally written him off for good. He’d said some mean and nasty things to her, and she’d fired some of the same right back at him. The difference being that Ethan deserved every bad word she tossed his way.
That had been one hot summer night in August when he’d run into her at the Coach House, and he hadn’t seen or talked to her since.
He supposed that was a good thing because, bastard that he was, he couldn’t seem to help himself where she was concerned. She brought out the worst in him. Had him digging into things he wanted to forget. Feelings he didn’t want to explore. He knew she was better off without him in her life because as long as he drew air in his lungs, he’d never be able to go back to the way things were between them. Back before Rick’s accident. Back before that night almost three months ago when his betrayal of Rick stung hard and punched him in the gut with such force, he still felt the pain burn under his skin. A night when up was down, black was white, and wrong was so damn right.
And yesterday had been Rick’s birthday.
Ethan paused for a moment. He closed his eyes and let his head roll back. The heat of the sun cut through the brisk air and warmed his face, though it wasn’t strong enough to penetrate skin and bone. No way could it reach his black heart. Inside, he was still as cold as the arctic, and with a curse, he yanked open the door to his house and headed for kitchen. He needed to get his shit together because he had a custom order to finish up, and then maybe he’d empty that last bottle of tequila.
He put on a fresh pot of coffee and stripped off his clothes, tossing them onto his bed before heading into the shower while it brewed. He had no idea how long he stood under the hot spray, but it was long enough for the water to run cold and make his teeth chatter. Eventually, he stepped out and secured a towel around his waist before brushing his teeth to wash away the taste of tequila.
His head still pounded, so he popped a couple of pain pills and downed two big glasses of water before he headed to the kitchen. The coffee would help. At least he hoped as much. He’d just poured himself a generous mug of hot black liquid when his cell pinged. He scooped it off the counter and leaned his hip there as he glanced down at the device.
It was his mother. Fuck. Me.
With a sigh, he tried his best to sound as normal as possible and picked up. He owed her that much, because without a doubt, he was in trouble for something.
“Hey, Mom,” he managed to say, the greeting sliding past the grit that sat like stones at the back of his throat.
“You missed dinner last night.”
Ethan grimaced and had to think hard on what the actual fuck day it was. He glanced at the calendar on his phone. Monday. Shit. Sunday was family day, something his mother took seriously.
“I made roast beef with brown sugar carrots and mashed potatoes and Yorkshire pudding. All your favorites.” A pause. “You promised you’d come, Ethan. We all knew this would be a hard weekend for you, and I wanted you home with us, and you…” Her voice broke, and if the floor could have opened up and taken him down, Ethan would have gladly welcomed that. “You promised,” she said.
“Mom,” he began, but his mother caught some wind and plowed over him like a damn freight train, so he gave up. Besides, he deserved whatever the hell she was sending his way.
“Don’t Mom me. Your father and your sister and I waited for nearly two hours. I called you at least four times, and we almost drove out to the lake because we were so damn worried about you. But then I realized something, Ethan.”
There was silence. Ethan wasn’t sure if he should respond. He cleared his throat to get rid of all that grit and was about to apologize, something he’d done so much, he should be better at it, when she spoke, her voice tremulous and thick.
“I realized that I can’t do it anymore. I can’t sit and wait and hope and pray for my son to come back to me.”
“Mom,” he said as gently as he could, pushing the words past that damn lump. “Come on. I missed a family dinner.”
“You’ve missed more than one.”
“I’ve been busy is all.” It was lam,e and he grimaced as soon as the words fell from his lips.
“You’ve been busy disappearing from life, and I’m done watching it happen. I can’t do it anymore. I want you to pay close attention to what I’m about to say, Ethan Robert Caldwell. Are you listening?”
He felt like he was five again. “Yeah,” he replied roughly.
“Rick Davenport was injured in that awful accident all those years ago. Not you.” Her voice grew stronger, even as Ethan shrank inside. “Rick Davenport lay in that hospital bed for years, existing in some in-between world, which is sad and tragic, but it wasn’t you. It was Rick Davenport who died nearly six months ago. Not you. So that stunt you pulled a few weeks back that landed you in the hospital makes no sense. Are you trying to kill yourself?”
It should have been me. He mouthed the words, a mantra, really, but didn’t say them out loud.