Detour: A Creekwood Novel (Creekwood Series Book 1) Read online

  My tiny studio doesn’t have a closet so I use an industrial-style clothing rack off to the side of my bed to hold the little bit of clothes I do have. It also adds a pop of color to the monochromatic scheme I’ve got going in the rest of the apartment.

  Never wanting to wear my poorness on my threadbare sleeve, I hid it away beneath secondhand athletic clothes. People expect workout clothes to be worn, frayed, beat to shit. Yoga pants look like yoga pants, no matter how much money you spend on them. I think that’s why moms always wear them. They give the illusion you’ve got your shit together when really, it’s anybody’s guess what someone’s actually going through. Clothes should highlight a person’s interests, not define where they came from or where they’re trying to go.

  Dressed for work in capris and a logo tee, with two French braids framing the sides of my head, I stroll downstairs, casually checking the boys’ balcony. Unsurprisingly, Coty’s still standing there like some kind of loyal watchdog. His arms rest against the railing and he’s still very much shirtless. And hot. Honestly, he’s just too tempting which most, if not all, females would agree on should I care to ask. A guy like Coty could, and probably does, get any girl he wants, yet he’s been pestering me since we met. Okay, I wouldn’t exactly call it pestering, but he’s working hard for the non-details I’ve been giving him. Indifference has been my approach but maybe that’s his thing. Maybe he likes the chase. The challenge.

  The headfuck route is my mom’s game though, not mine. That’s how she managed to land four husbands and countless boyfriends before she’d let the façade slip away revealing who she really is—a cold, cruel woman looking to fill an insatiable hole ripped open when she was just a teenager. She’s never recovered from that first love with my sister’s dad and I doubt she ever will. She tried anything to get him, then everything to keep him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough and he left her anyway. She gave up the perfect mom act but not the perfect wife role. It became her addiction, to hook a man, then reel him in, only to end up being the one to eventually be released all over again. The vicious cycle is bad enough to put yourself through, but Rianne added a child to the process, one that got a front row seat to watch it play out like a bad movie repeatedly throughout a childhood that should’ve had stability and protection, rather than turmoil and neglect.

  I may not fuck with guys’ heads but I’m not completely inexperienced in the dating realm. I’ve hooked up with a couple boys over the last year but none with anything extra attached. No stupid games, no irrelevant labels, no unnecessary expectations, no lovesick declarations, and certainly no introductions to family. Boys make better distant friends than girls. They don’t judge, they don’t pry, they don’t read between the lines, they don’t look below the surface if you don’t let them. It’s just…easier.

  I’ve never wanted to keep anyone, friends or otherwise, around long enough to witness the shit show that is my life.

  No, that was my life.

  I’m not a part of that anymore.

  I’ll never be a part of that.

  I can’t.

  I honk the horn twice at Coty, reversing from the curb and catch a glimpse of him just before speeding away. That sinful smirk plastered to his face should be illegal especially as he’s technically only a short distance from my bed. That image has me pressing on the gas a little harder than appropriate driving through a parking lot.

  Once I’m settled back into my Jeep after picking up an iced tea from a nearby café, my phone rings. However, seeing the caller I.D. read UNKNOWN, I let it go to voice mail and mentally scroll through the people it could be. There’s only one real possibility. Only one person that would go through the trouble of blocking their number. My heart starts racing, so I gulp down as much tea as I can without causing a brain freeze. A couple squeezes of the steering wheel later, I’m as cooled down as I’m going to get.

  Maybe it was a wrong number. Maybe she’s moved on with her life. Maybe she’s forgotten all about me already.

  Maybe I’m lying through my cold-sensitive teeth.

  CHAPTER 9

  Angela

  I jerk an apprehensive nod at Amity, a girl who usually only works weekday mornings, as I pass through to the office. Amity used to be a cheerleader and it shows. Her practiced movements, her overenthusiastic smile, her never-ending pep, all of it practically oozes from her nearly perfect pores. She’s everything I’m not—blonde, bubbly, and beautiful. We rarely work together so I’m confused to see her here on a Sunday. A Sunday I was supposed to open.

  “How’s it going?” I ask, swirling my thumb across the top of my to-go cup.

  “Great!” She follows me inside after sending the soaked Ram down the conveyor. “It’s been surprisingly steady all morning. Lots of Ultimates today.”

  Amity’s effervescent attitude helps push customers toward the more expensive package options. People are so caught up in her animation, they don’t even realize, or care, they’re being suckered into spending more money. She works exclusively in the back at the register because of this and she rocks it.

  “Did you open today?”

  Almost absently, she says, “Joe begged me last night to help out.”

  My eyebrows snap together before I can school my features. Looking over, she notices and rushes to add, “He wanted to make sure he was covered.” Her near violet eyes—those can’t be real, right?—shift past my shoulder. “I mean the wash, he wanted to make sure the wash was covered.” A chipper smile stretches her mouth as she regards me fully again. “In case it got busy.”

  A mini-van filled with a rambunctious family approaches, stealing Amity’s focus. She leaves me to my thoughts to tend to the anxious parents, no doubt turning up the charm.

  Why would Joe tell me to come in later when the opening shift wasn’t even covered yet? And why call in Amity of all people who never even works on the weekends? I was available and willing, so it makes no sense.

  Behind me a throat clears making my shoulders jump to my ears. Spinning around, I find Joe leaning against the wall. His gaze penetrates mine until I mutter a quick greeting and clock in.

  “You didn’t try calling me, did you?”

  He shakes his head. “Must’ve been some other guy.”

  I hum lightly, murmuring, “Not likely.”

  Feet planted in front of him, I wait for Joe to move so I can put my things in my locker. After an uncomfortable amount of time, he finally stands to his full height to let me pass. He still manages to brush against my arm even as I twist away from his bulky form, almost flattening myself against the opposite wall.

  Every employee gets an assigned locker to store their stuff but they’re all missing doors, making them more cubbies than anything. I never carry anything worth stealing so it’s never bothered me before. Seeing Amity’s boho chic purse stuffed in the space above mine, I notice her lip gloss on the verge of falling off the edge. I grab the tube and tuck it down into her purse with just the lid sticking out, then roll my eyes. Lip gloss. Our differences continue.

  An hour later the sun breaks from the morning haze, so I run back to my locker to grab my visor but as my hand grasps the strap, I see a folded up ten-dollar bill that wasn’t there before jammed next to Amity’s lip gloss. The dryers come on upfront and pushing it from my mind, I hustle back outside to dry the next car.

  By midafternoon the steady flow finally dies down to a trickle of sporadic customers. Joe finds me folding towels to tell me I can take off and I don’t argue. The library closes early on Sundays so I’m relieved to get out of work early. This time.

  Back at the lockers, there’s a handful of various bills stashed on top of Amity’s purse covering her lip gloss completely. We haven’t split the tips from our shared shift yet and something feels off about the loose cash’s sudden appearance.

  Suspicion sitting heavy in my stomach, I round the corner only to stop short at witnessing Joe’s hand on Amity’s ass. She’s busy running a card at the register but there’s no way
she doesn’t feel it. It’s not an accidental graze, or an oversight, or a misunderstanding. It’s a familiar caress on a body that Joe knows—well.

  What in the actual fuck?

  My keys fall to the floor giving me away but instead of Joe retracting his hand, he gives her cheek a squeeze before directing a raised eyebrow at me. His eyes are ablaze in something that looks like lust which I can only hope is aimed at Amity and Amity alone. Even with the rumors about Joe running rampant, I’m still shocked seeing it in person. It’s one thing to hear some gossip, it’s another to watch it happen in disgusting detail.

  I still need to get my cut of the tips so, bile lodged in my throat, I scoop up my keys and amble over to the desk indicating to what should be a full bucket.

  “Want me to grab this car while you divvy up the tips?” Anything to get out of this office right now.

  Amity speaks up, completely unfazed, “I’ll get it. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  She disappears into the bay finishing up with the customer while I’m left staring after her. Her words were spoken with her usual chipper tone but the way she delivered them was like she’s the one giving me the okay to leave. Like she’s in charge. I swing my gaze back to Joe realizing he’s keenly watching the interaction.

  Despite Amity being absent from the room there’s still very much a third presence otherwise known as the rising bulge in Joe’s jeans. I avert my eyes as quickly as possible, but the damage is done. I’m forced to swallow the chunks down repeatedly as this morning’s eggs try their hardest to make a grand reappearance.

  Just a little longer.

  Moisture builds in the corners of my eyes while Joe leisurely dumps the pile of tips onto the desk like I’ve seen him do a hundred times. This time though he looks up at me, scoffing. “Losing your touch?”

  Confused, I look down to find a lot less cash than I put in there. What I know I put in there.

  “I could’ve sworn there was more…” The mysterious bills in Amity’s purse come to mind. “Did you already split them earlier?” Sometimes, if someone needs money for lunch, Joe will divvy up the tips before a shift change, making sure everyone gets their cut at that time, it wouldn’t be fair otherwise, but I haven’t received shit today so something isn’t adding up.

  Swaying in his beat-up office chair, Joe’s knee bumps my leg as he says, “No reason to. Guess you’re just slacking on your skills.”

  Bullshit.

  Bullshit on this pathetic pile of tips being my fault. Bullshit on any part of his body touching mine for any reason other than a professional handshake at best. I have yet to see an ounce of professionalism from either him or this dive of a wash so that idea is scratched off entirely leaving zero acceptable reasons for his person to come into contact with mine. Fuck. That.

  I pocket my half and turn to leave, stopping when Joe says, “You need to update your address on the payroll before you go.”

  “It’s on there. Besides I get direct deposit.”

  I’m almost out the door when he insists, “You put down the apartment’s name but not the number. Boss is cracking down since you don’t live with a responsible adult anymore.” I mash my lips together, halting in the doorway. “Right? You live alone now, don’t you?”

  A whoosh of air leaves my lungs as I spin to write out my address on the form. Without another word, I practically sprint from the office. Joe calls out to my back but in my haste, I can’t make out his words. It’s only when I’m safely in my Jeep that I realize what he said. “See you later, Angela.”

  * * *

  The library is closed. It’s the middle of the afternoon on a weekend and it’s closed. Because what else could go wrong today?

  A sign on the door says it’s closed for a private event so cupping my hands around my face, I peer through the window to see what kind of occasion requires a library as its venue. All I see are books on books on books.

  Then I see her. A bride swathed in a white form-fitting dress makes her way down the aisle between rows of overflowing bookshelves. A thin veil covers her face but does nothing to conceal how happy she is. She’s glowing.

  Guests are interspersed amid stacks of books as if the fictional characters within the pages are witnesses themselves. Strands of white twinkling lights hang overhead as well as glowing paper lanterns. An old oak card catalog sits off to the side with greenery spilling out of open drawers. Flickering fake candles dot the top along with handmade signs displaying names written in calligraphy.

  Slowly making her way to the groom, the bride passes flower arrangements made of pages that look like perfectly shaped literary blooms. Her petite train floats over what appears to be different colored date-stamped heart cut-outs dusting the aisle. There are so many small details highlighting the true beauty of books, I realize I’ve spent years overlooking just how magical libraries are. A place I’ve always taken for granted, this couple is making the focal point on one of the most important days of their lives. I make a vow of my own to come back another time when I don’t have an assignment due. A day to explore what this literary haven holds.

  Having been in a few weddings myself, I can honestly say I’ve never seen such pure adoration as I do now when the couple faces each other at the altar. An energy that I swear I can feel from outside sizzles between them, one that was absent from all of my mom’s weddings. The groom wipes errant tears on his cheeks as discreetly as possible but I see it, as does his soon-to-be wife. She breaks into watery laughter herself reaching to dab them away with her sleeve pulled over her palm. The sweet gesture leaves me breathless. She adores him. It’s clear in the way she looks at him. Like he’s the one that taught her how to love to begin with. But he fucking worships her. Every move she makes, he counters it with one that puts him directly in her path. There’s nowhere she’ll go in this life without his full support.

  A secret smile passes between them. An inside joke maybe. A silent promise perhaps. Either way, it’s private, too private for an interloper, and makes me drop my gaze. I’m filled with a jealousy so suppressing I almost drop to my knees.

  The relationships I’ve watched over the years never held that. That deep understanding of one another. The kind where words aren’t even needed. The type of connection that splits one being in half right down the middle, allowing two separate individuals to take on life as partners in every sense of the word.

  Glancing back up, they’re now hand-in-hand, clutching each other’s fingers like the last few minutes apart were torturous on them both. My face splits into a smile despite my melancholic state. Love is infectious. That love is transcendent. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever be fortunate enough to find someone like that. If I were to believe what my mother told me my entire life, then I’d say no.

  Good thing I don’t listen to her anymore.

  CHAPTER 10

  Angela

  Just knock.

  All I have to do is knock. That’s it. Two little taps on a door that if I squint real hard, I can pretend is mine. But really, it’s less about the knock and more about what comes after the knock that has my hand limp at my side, refusing to participate in such a barbaric ritual like knocking on someone else’s door. It’s so aggressive when you think about it. Why don’t our apartments have doorbells anyway? Someone should complain. Like right now. I shouldn’t be here waffling in the hallway like a moron. I should be out fighting for doorbell equality. Those annoying chimes deserve a chance-

  “Library closed?”

  Coty holds his door open with one hand while the other rests against the doorjamb, a self-satisfied smile lining his face. He’s as flawless as he was this morning but he’s shed the hesitancy and in its place is triumph.

  Hands twisting behind my back, I say, “Actually I was hoping I could get that cup of sugar from you now.”

  I smother a laugh as his face falls.

  “I don’t know if we even have any sugar. Shit.” He looks over his shoulder, debating, then back to me. “I’ll go get s
ome.”

  He reaches for a set of keys from their bar and I can’t hold back anymore. Laughter spills from my lips.

  “I’m kidding.” His eyes snap to mine, confused. “If I needed sugar, I’d get it myself.” I watch amused as his face relaxes. “You were right though, the library’s closed today. Do you think I could, um,” the foreign words clog my throat. “I was wondering if-” I drop my eyes to my toes, watching them squirm in a similar rhythm as my insides.

  “Come on in.” Coty widens the door with a knowing smile. “You can use my laptop. It’s charging right now so you’ll just have to sit at my desk, if that’s okay. Don’t worry, my room is clean for once. One of the benefits of having the place to myself for the day.” He winks as I duck past, careful not to touch him. Unfortunately, this causes me to slam my shoulder into the doorjamb on my way through giving me a massive Charlie horse. Hand clamped to the soon-to-be bruise, I turn to watch him close the door and head toward a hallway. He gestures for me to follow, which I do at a much slower pace while taking in the living room along the way. Coty continues talking while I look around the warm space. Warm as in homey. The whole apartment is actually freezing. I bring my other arm up to hug the one already wrapped across my chest trying to trap some body heat before it all leaks out. Holy shit. They must keep their air conditioning cranked around the clock. “I bet I can find one around here somewhere if you’d prefer the bed.”

  Halting, I pin Coty with a glare, my arms falling stiffly to my sides. Coty, at his bedroom threshold, notices I’m not following and turns to face me. Realization dawns, making him double back. For every step he takes forward though, I take two back until he finally stops, sensing my retreat.

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I swear. I just want you to be comfortable.” His eyes land on the kitchen and he points a finger at a drawer that doesn’t quite close all the way. “See? I’m almost positive there’s one in here.”

  While he searches what must be their junk drawer, I slowly tread closer to the front door, palms sweaty despite the cold.