Year 28

  Year 28

  JL Mac

  JL Mac Books

  Year 28

  By J.L. Mac

  Copyright 2020

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design:

  Robin Harper, Wicked By Design

  http://www.wickedbydesigncovers.com/

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  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Also by J.L. Mac

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Also by J.L. Mac

  Vital Sign

  Wrecked Series

  Wreck Me (Book #1)

  Restore Me (Book #2)

  Accept Me (Book #3)

  Reach Me (companion novel)

  Seven Years of Bad Luck

  Oculus Series

  Oculus (co-written with LG Pace III)

  Social Series

  Social Neighbor

  The Beast of Boston

  Epigraph

  The most beautiful and tragic love stories are usually the true ones.

  “He had been held to her by a beautiful thread which it pained him to spoil by breaking, rather than by a chain he could not break.”

  ― Thomas Hardy, Far From the Madding Crowd

  Prologue

  Raegan Potter

  17 years old

  I came directly home, dropped my backpack in my room, grabbed my robe and made a beeline for the shower. It’s the only thing I want right now. I am filthy, and there is no way I am going to let my momma or daddy see me this way. If they saw the state of me they’d know something was wrong.

  With trembling hands and my mind racing, I turn the shower on and step into the scalding spray. It’s far hotter than I would normally set the temperature to, and it causes my skin to turn bright pink. The mascara on my lashes is clumped together and mist from the spray of water hitting me in the chest gathers on the tips of them. Black globs obscure my vision around the edges. I open my mouth wide and tilt my head back. Hot water fills my mouth and I swish it, then spit it out at my feet. The unwelcome taste of whiskey remains, so I rinse my mouth several more times to no avail. The taste won’t go away.

  My mind is spinning in every direction. What the hell just happened? These things don’t happen to me and they definitely don’t happen in sleepy, southern Palmetto Grove, Louisiana. I hold my hands out in front of me like they will somehow tell the story, recap it for me so I can either wake up from this nightmare, or try to understand it. Steam billows around me and I inhale deeply, closing my eyes and trying to gather my thoughts. After Teddy, when I didn’t want to deal with reality, I followed the grief counselor’s advice and began “listening to my gut, my inner voice, for guidance when feeling overwhelmed” just as he had suggested. Unfortunately for me, my gut is comprised of several versions of myself sitting in a circle, comparing notes and arguing while I look on.

  I cover my eyes as they all file in one by one, taking seats like they’re at an AA meeting. The low hanging pendant fixture casts my circle of inner selves in an umbrella of light while the edges of the room are dark. That’s where I picture myself hiding.

  Does the water get any hotter in this joint? Self-Loathing says, breezing into my thoughts. I imagine her dragging the metal folding chair to the center of the room. The legs screech noisily and she flops down, folding her arms over her chest. I always picture her wearing a gray hoodie ten times too large. She has on excessive, dark makeup and her black hair is shaved on one side while the other side comes to a neat, pointed bob. She immediately begins picking at a scrape on one of her knuckles.

  It wouldn’t matter if she were bathing in lava. There’s no washing this mess away. Negativity tsks on her way to the circle. She’s wearing the black dress and pumps I wore to Teddy’s funeral. She gathers herself neatly in the chair and looks over me from head to toe with obvious judgment.

  You two need to stop. You aren’t helping and if you aren’t part of the solution; you are a part of the problem. Right? So, just… let’s think this through, okay? Practicality breezes in at a brisk pace. She scoops up a chair on her way to the circle, but she doesn’t have a seat. She looks a lot like my normal self. She’s wearing a National Honor Society polo shirt with khaki pants and my favorite Converse. Self-Loathing and Negativity both make mocking noises.

  Honestly, what were you thinking? You knew you had no business going, but you did anyway and got us all into this shit-show. You know this is your fault, right? Regret says so matter of fact, I flinch as she prowls toward the circle, the shadows under her eyes seemingly darker at present.

  I, for one, vote that we go back over there and kill him. We watch enough crime shows and we have a decent IQ. We could get away with it, Blind Rage sneers with her fists balled. She, too, doesn’t take a seat, opting instead to shift her weight from one foot to the other then back again.

  Absolutely not, Practicality nearly chokes.

  You’d never pull it off, Negativity sighs, running her fingertips over the pendant hanging from her neck on a silver chain.

  Theoretically, if we did something like that, I vote we dispose of his body in the swamp, Self-Loathing says sagely while picking at her black fingernail polish.

  You two are not getting us into any further trouble. Where’s Happiness? Practicality whines.

  Leave of absence. Self-Loathing snickers. Negativity joins her and they laugh raucously. Blind Rage is turning red in the face.

  I think we should probably just go tell Mom, Practicality suggests, nodding her head.

  Hell no! Negativity coughs. She will lose her everlasting mind. She won’t understand how Miss Perfect Daughter got herself into such a pickle. She says pickle like it’s a swear word.

  Obviously, we should just put a lid on this, set it in cement and bury it twelve feet deep. You’d destroy people that love you if they ever found out, Regret says in a tone laced heavily with accusation. It makes me want to mentally crawl away because I know she’s right.

  “Rae? Are you okay in there?” Momma knocks on the bathroom door.

  “Yeah! Yes!” I startle. “Be out in a minute, Momma!” I shout above the noise of the water. I hold my breath until I hear her footsteps trail away, down the hall.

  Anxiety gets up from her seat and paces the room, sha
king her head and muttering to herself while occasionally wiping sweat from her hairline. We’re so fucked. Everyone is going to find out. People will spread rumors about us and then momma and daddy will have to hear all of it. This is bad, bad, bad.

  Would you sit the hell down? You’re making even me nervous and I don’t do nervous, Self-Loathing clips, pressing her lips into a harsh flat line.

  Optimism, do you have any suggestions to add? Practicality asks pleadingly.

  I—I’m sorry. I got nothing. Optimism grimaces, then hangs her head while pretending to pick lint from her bright yellow sundress. All at once they begin shouting over each other, rolling eyes, glaring, displaying wary expressions, and I shrink further back into the shadowy corner, preferring to be anywhere else except my own head right now. It’s a jumbled mess in here.

  This looks like the right place, a version I don’t recognize shouts from the doorway. Everyone goes quiet and sits up straight, eyeing her from head to toe. Her long black hair is pulled back into a slick ponytail. Her black skinny jeans pair nicely with black leather boots and a white tank top. Happiness is going to be away for a while. She sent me, she explains with calm command oozing from her pores.

  And you are? Negativity narrows her eyes.

  Self-Preservation. I’ll take things from here, she says firmly, leaving no room for argument, and for the first time in what feels like a long time, my heart slows its rushing pace and I breathe deeply, prepared to hand the reins over to someone else.

  Don’t fail me now, Self-Preservation.

  Chapter 1

  Sylas Broussard

  Present day

  The water out on Cattail Bay is still and calm this morning. Year Ten cuts through the nearly nonexistent chop on the bay, her three outboard motors barely putting forth any effort at all. She’s the smallest in the fleet, but she’s the vessel I am most partial to. When I came home to Louisiana with nothing to devote myself to, my mind tormented, and my heart aching, Year Ten and the work we accomplish together soothed my wounds—both physical and mental. Buzzsaw Chartered Fishing, my nonprofit organization has kept my mind calm since the maiden voyage.

  I breathe deeply, trying to draw some of the water’s stillness deep inside me. I’m not attending to any guests or doing anything for anyone else this trip. This trip is about me. I’m zeroing in on myself, my thoughts, and seeking an even keel in oncoming turbulent waters.

  The thing about having a past is that it comes back in waves like water against the shore, regardless if it is a good or bad past. Stormy or tranquil, it always rolls right back in to touch the place it doesn’t belong. Unfortunately for me, my waves of good are interspersed with the bad and they all center on one woman—one unforgettable woman who has an uncanny ability to make me feel whole, then obliterate me in the very next breath. Like the damned waves that roll forward touching dry land where they don’t belong, memories of her roll forward kissing my heart where she doesn’t belong—where she shouldn’t belong.

  I could fight back against thoughts of her. God knows I’ve trademarked the craft of suppressing memories pertaining to her, but today I choose to not fight it. I’ll let all memories, confusion, and emotions anchored to her wash over me and I’ll embrace it all. I have to because if I am going to have to face her again, I must have my game face on and be fully acclimated to the feelings she stirs in me. Better to do this in private, in one of my favorite places, on my boat, and on my terms. Facing her again for the first time in years unprepared would be a mistake, and it would only screw up my plans. She made one big promise that I fully intend on making sure she follows through on. At the very least I will confront Miss High And Mighty given the opportunity. I’m not delusional enough to think she’d even consider honoring her promise to me, but she can at least explain herself. She owes me and I’m in the collecting mood. I’ve waited years, and now my waiting is over.

  Chapter 2

  Raegan

  “So is this considered fraternizing with the enemy?” Preston’s lips move against my skin as he murmurs, his mouth coaxing against my bare shoulder blade. “Because if it is then consider me a bona fide traitor. Heavens, you’re amazin’,” he praises. I’m lying beside him, wrapped only in luxuriously soft sheets and the afterglow of mutually fulfilling sex. His fingertips run feather soft up and down my spine, winning a sigh of satiation. Apparently it sounds all too sexual because Preston growls playfully and nips at my earlobe, making me instinctively jerk away. It disrupts my reprieve. With my head turned away from him, fine sheets cocooning my body, the effect of endorphins coursing through me, I was peaceful enough to not worry or think about… anything.

  Not work. Not the Senator’s campaign. Not the travel schedule. Not the wedding I’m expected to attend. Not my hometown. Not the deal I had made. Not him.

  “I need to get going,” I say, feeling suddenly suffocated. I take a deep breath and begin peeling myself out of Preston’s bed when his hands reach for me, tugging me back down. He rolls on top of me, his chest presses heavily against mine. I clench my jaw and stare unflinching into his dark blue eyes. “Off.” My demand is damn concise, but my knee to his ball will be more so if he doesn’t get his ass off me. He hesitates with a pouty look that only further extinguishes the afterglow I had been enjoying. He releases me and I stand, taking his sheet with me as I zigzag through his space, collecting my discarded clothing like little prizes.

  “Why don’t you just stay the night, darlin?” His eyes hold a glimmer of playfulness that radiates the implied promise of multiple romps through the night. For a moment I am tempted, because Preston is a good lay, and given that he’s twelve years older than me, not entirely surprising. Most men in their twenties are still discovering how to pick a woman’s lock, so to speak, and I have zero interest in being their practice dummy and even less time. But his grabby hands coupled with the use of the word darlin’ is ice water on my desire to dwell here a moment longer than it will take to slip back into my designer pencil skirt, silk blouse, and Louboutin heels.

  “Another time,” I say coyly, allowing my façade to take over.

  Never again.

  “All right then, but I am going to hold you to it, darlin’,” he drawls.

  Yuck.

  His Tennessee accent drips heavily from every syllable when he’s attempting to flirt, which I suppose is a tact meant to make women swoon and throb for the next orgasm. Me? Not so much. His sugary, drawled words make my anxiety ratchet up and my walls draw closer, tighter. I can’t handle this. “Oh, and—uh—this,” he says motioning one pointed finger between us, “… is between us, right darlin’?”

  That’s not insulting at all, is it?

  I cock my head at him with a genuine smile, drawing my lips back to reveal my straight, TV-ready, white teeth. “Preston, if I wanted your dirty little secrets or even Senator Holiday’s, I would already have them. Perhaps I already do,” I purr with a wink as I slip my foot down into one heel, then the other with a muted foomp! “And this,” I mimic his motion, waving my pointed finger between the two of us, “… is just sex. Simple as that. Not all women in this town fuck men to gain a thing beyond an orgasm, and even that’s iffy.” I faux-grimace and wiggle my flattened hand side to side like a plane caught in turbulence. “Last I checked, I’m the highest-paid campaign manager out there right now and I did it without fucking anyone for gain.” To his credit, Preston gets up on his elbows and narrows his eyes at me. The campaign manager in him is now officially on the scene. Gone is the heavy accent and flirtatious crap, replaced by shrewdly assessing eyes. I can practically see the cogs in his brain grinding on, considering if he should prepare to run damage control. I know the drill. I smile at the sight of his narrowed eyes and flattened lips.

  That’s much better.

  Politics seemed to be my predetermined destiny, having been born to an American politics and history junkie like my mother. She named all three of her children—myself included after American political history icons. The Cen
trist she is, she hand chose the names of the icons she revered most not caring much for party lines. It’s one of the several reasons I admire her. I have disregarded party lines, too, by screwing around with Preston. Not the savviest move, but I have it all in hand.

  We’ve only slept together twice, and he has turned all syrupy-sweet while attempting to make this a thing between us so I don’t anticipate seeing him again, anyway. I much prefer enemy version of Preston than the southern drawl, sugar-coated compliment machine version of him. This city is dog-eat-dog. This industry rewards ruthless manipulation for personal and professional gain. The news cycles are twenty-four hours a day and the material never changes. It’s always political stunts and sensational headlines because that’s what sells. These people are about trading and bargaining for dirt. They cut deals with demons and devils in suits with a little American Flag pinned to their lapel and faux-patriotism oozing from the speeches they didn’t bother to write themselves. These things all fall under my job hazard column. Most don’t have the stomach for this, but I do. In fact, this is perfect for me. My job requires me to be the way I am. All of this I can handle. This is what I do. This is my safe place. These are familiar, predictable monsters. This is Washington, D.C. These monsters are my pets, and this is my playground.