The Fractured Heart, page 1
Begin Reading
Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
To You—The Bloggers and Readers who supported the launch of the Second Circle Tattoos series so fiercely.
I love you all!
Author’s Note
Writing the second book in the Second Circle series has been a great learning curve, and so many people have helped me whip this story into shape.
As always, I start with my fabulous team of ladies. A huge thank-you to Lizzie Poteet at St. Martin’s Press who encouraged me to be bold with edits—the story is much stronger as a result. Equally huge thanks are due to Beth Phelan at The Bent Agency who continues to be the best agent a girl could wish for. Erin Cox and Amy Goppert round out my amazing St. Martin’s team.
The lovely peeps at Heroes & Heartbreakers and @SMPRomance deserve special thanks for all the tweets of support—you rock.
To the bloggers and readers who took the time to cheer and shout for this series, I can’t thank you enough. Especially Pat Egan Fordyce—for the review that kept on giving. And Aestas at Aestas Book Blog—your review sent me soaring up the Amazon rankings, making you a huge part of this journey. Thank you so much, ladies.
Hugs to Violetta Rand, my awesome writing partner. A thousand thank-yous for loving my stories and pointing out all my awkward sentences.
Thank you to all those who took the time to read and critique the story—Sidney Halston, Laura Steven, Whitney Rakich, and Alison McCarthy.
Without experts, writing this story would have been impossible, so huge thanks to Dr. Vanessa Clay (Medical Oncology Specialist Registrar) and Gail Halliwell (Advanced Scrub Practitioner) for all medical advice, and Jennifer Shearn (Senior Environmental Specialist) who helped me understand the environmental testing of fracking sites.
A special mention goes out to Liz MacArthur and Mike Rinaldi, two of the nicest people I know. When I told you I was ditching my previous life to write a romance novel, you cheered. So I created the character Mike MacArthur who … well, you’ll have to read it and see. You know how much you guys mean to me!!
To Manchester Central Library—thank you for continuing to invest in a place where writers can write!
To Amanda, Michelle, and Gina—thank you for keeping me sane and plied with the muse!
To my friends and family who continue to surprise me with their enthusiastic support.
To Kathleen and David (my mom and dad), and to Alison and Tony (my sister and brother-in-law), for taking my children during holidays so I can continue with putting words on paper.
Dear Tim—in your words, it’s the last two miles. Thank you for helping me over the finishing line. I hope 2016 is our best year yet.
Dear Fin & Lola, or Lola & Fin (see how you both went first)—thank you for being so patient with me when I am on deadlines. Your morning cuddles, evening hugs, and cups of tea make all the difference. I love you!
CHAPTER ONE
What the hell was that noise?
It sounded like the porch planter tumbling down the steps.
In total darkness, Drea Caron patted her rickety cane bedside table until she felt the smooth surface of her phone. Forcing one eye open, she turned it on and checked the clock. Four in the morning. Whoever had caused the awful noise, severing her tenuous connection to sleep, was going to die. Slowly, in a vat of hot tar.
Unless it was someone trying to break in, in which case the smart move was to dial 911 before barricading herself in the bathroom.
Muted curses and Miami’s muggy attempt at fall weather drifted in through the open bedroom window. Both equally suffocating.
The initial panic receded with recognition of the speaker’s angry tone.
Drea rubbed her hand across her forehead, blinking repeatedly, and pushed back the sheets. She slipped her feet into a pair of flip-flops and shuffled down the stairs, avoiding the loose threads of the worn carpet.
The living room, which housed a bed and an array of medical equipment, was empty. The oxygen pump hissed unpredictably. Short static bursts followed by long drawn-out gasps of oxygen so unlike the precise rhythm it usually maintained. The mask had been cast aside, the cables a mess on the floor.
Damn. Getting it repaired or replaced was more money than they could afford.
Drea yawned. The front door was ajar. Wisps of swirling white smoke drifted past the opening.
“Mom,” she cried, hurrying outside, “what are you doing?” Drea scrunched her nose, the smell of acrid smoke burning the back of her throat.
Rosa Caron waved her hand furiously in the air, a feeble attempt to hide the evidence.
“Mom, I see the smoke. You know what the doctors said. Where did you get the cigarettes from?”
“It’s none of your business.” Rosa took a long draw on the cigarette. “And I needed one.”
“No, you don’t.” Drea leaned over and grabbed the cigarette. She flung it to the floor, extinguishing it on the industrial gray concrete. “Your lungs can’t handle it, Mom. You paid the kids down the street again.” Drea shook her head. “Where did you get the money?”
“I gave them your mima’s locket.”
“Por qué, Mamá?” Drea paused, struggling to keep her voice even. “How could you?” It would do no good to yell at her mother—she’d learned that long ago—but the locket was the only thing she had left of the wonderful woman who had died when Drea was nine.
“You didn’t need it. Anyway, you’d be happy if I died sooner,” she wheezed, “not so much of a burden.” Rosa turned the wheelchair around and went back into the house.
Drea reached for the spot where the necklace usually lay against her skin. It was cruel, and yet so very much like Rosa she should have anticipated it. Memories of her mima fiddling with it while she read Drea stories choked her. The loss of the closest thing to a family heirloom left her bereft. She fisted the hand by her side. It was done, and while her heart wept for the loss, Drea knew she had no choice but to move on.
Large shards of the terracotta planter that used to sit by the front door were strewn down the steps. Her mom must have knocked it over with her wheelchair. The plant was a dried-out clump on the cracked concrete driveway below, and Drea made a mental note to remember to water the small garden border when she had time. Time. A bitter laugh escaped and she closed her eyes, letting the warm breeze caress her. Time was one thing she didn’t have. She’d been in bed for the sum total of four hours and was now wide awake.
She walked down the porch stairs to grab the broken pieces, avoiding the cracked, broken third step. The planter clattered noisily into the garbage can.
The newly cut layers of her hair fluttered around her face, tickling her nose. Sitting in the chair of a student at the beauty school instead of her favorite salon had been a new low, but the haircut was free. The highlights hadn’t been part of the plan, a caramel-toned reminder to read the fine print when she signed up for something. But once she’d gotten over the shock of no longer being a straight-up brunette, she’d actually liked it.
Drea walked back inside, the cool air hitting her immediately. She prayed for the day she could tuck the energy-guzzling window air conditioner back into the garage. One less thing to pay for.
She helped her mom from the wheelchair to the bed, her mom’s labored breathing a reflection of her latest BODE score. That was her world, Drea thought as she shut down the oxygen pump, reduced to a series of four-letter acronyms. COPD: chronic obstructive pulmonary disorder. Four fancy words meaning fucked-up lungs. BODE: the depressing letters that assessed her mom’s survival rate over the next four years to be zero percent. The gasping her mom was doing right now, proof. Every doctor she had spoken to told her the same thing. It was only a matter of time.
One of the tubes gave slightly, sliding fully onto its connector, and Drea turned the machine back on. The reassuring wheeze and hiss returned to the room, a metronome for the severely ill.
“Nobody cares for me. I’m such a burden to everyone.” Rosa stopped Drea as she attempted to put the mask back on. “Celine told me she is taking me to the doctor’s today. Why can’t you? I want to go with you.”
“Because, Mom,” she said, used to the manipulative strategies, “I’ll be working extra hours at the café. José has an emergency dental appointment. He needs me to cover the end of his shift and we need the money. Aunt Celine is more than happy to take you, please be nice to her when she gets here.”
Rosa rolled her eyes and looked out the window. “Well, if you worked a double more often, I wouldn’t have to put up with this piece of crap.” Rosa waved her hand weakly toward the pump.
Drea rushed the mask over her mom’s head to avoid any further insults. She’d looked after the two of them financially, and every other way, since she was seventeen. A whole decade had gone by. But over the last year things had gotten tough. Any financial cushion had long since disappeared, taking her hopes of going to college right along with it.
There’d be no going back to bed now. The kitchen clock said it was nearly five. Might as well get a jump-start on the day. Coming up, an exhausting double shift, starting at ten and finishing late. But before then she had a meeting, with a man. One she was dreading. On a brighter note, she had plenty of time to utilize every piece of ammunition in her girlie arsenal.
He had no idea what was coming.
* * *
Working the Miami flight. Tonight a good night for a layover? Becca xoxo
Brody “Cujo” Matthews smiled as he got out of his pride and joy—his F-150—and juggled his phone, artwork for a new client, and a half-eaten scrambled egg burrito with black bean salsa. Gripping his phone between his teeth, he opened the back door to Second Circle Tattoos, run by his best friend, Trent Andrews. In truth, it was half his, but by agreement, they kept that quiet.
He dropped all of his belongings on a cupboard containing supplies and walked to the front of the shop to turn off the alarm. As he keyed in the number, he looked at the picture on the wall next to the keypad—the day they’d opened the studio. He still had long hair. A week after the photograph was taken, he’d cut it all off. He ran his fingers over his short hair. He’d shaved his head bald in the years since then, but some little half-pint whirling dervish had recently told him he looked like a bully, and for reasons he didn’t care to explore, it had bothered him. So here he was, in the shitty growing-your-hair-out phase, and he hated it.
The studio looked peaceful. White walls and dark-wood flooring were a perfect contrast to all the colorful art they’d hung. The four tattoo chairs sat neatly by tidy stations. No inkpots, spills, gloves, plastic, or cloths distracted the view. He didn’t like it like this. It felt foreign. He liked it jammed to the rafters with people trusting them to push tattooing to new levels.
He set a pot of drip coffee to brew and picked up his phone.
LAYover or LAYunder. All sounds good to me. What time?
9pm—last time. Handed in my notice xoxo
Then we better make it good ;-)
Can’t wait xoxo
Flight attendants, best hook-ups ever. She might work for Virgin, but she definitely wasn’t one.
A knock at the locked studio door distracted him. The bell above the door jingled as he opened it to talk to the two men standing outside.
“We’re not open for another hour and a half,” he said.
“We don’t need an appointment,” the older one said, using a cheap-looking gold belt buckle to pull up his gray polyester pants. “We’re from Public Health.”
Damn. He’d planned to use the time to prep for the hectic day ahead. Patriot Day was one of the two days in the year the studio offered free tattoos. Free to first responders on September 11th and to the military on Veterans Day. Their own way of giving back. Walk-ins with a maximum of two hours meant they’d see a lot of traffic. With Trent away on vacation with his girlfriend, Harper, it would be even busier.
Cujo invited them in, and after basic introductions watched as they looked around. He wondered if they saw the brilliance of the artwork created by his coworkers adorning the walls. Lia’s vibrant mixed-media pieces or the crazy explosion of color in Trent’s paintings. Or were they simply looking for all possible violations to Florida statute chapter three eight one: Public Health General Provisions.
“We have received a complaint you tattooed a minor. The child’s mother filed the report, Mr. Matthews. She gave us your name and a copy of this photo a friend posted on a social media site of her getting it done.”
The men had introduced themselves, but their names escaped him, replaced with a burning desire to call them Thing One and Thing Two. Maybe reading Dr. Seuss over and over at five a.m. to his three-year-old niece after her epic pukefest was to blame.
“There must be some mistake.” He rubbed his hand back and forth over his head. Thing One slid a piece of paper toward him—he recognized her. He’d done a fucking killer job of the white king chess piece knocked down in front of the black queen.
Thankfully, Pixie, their studio manager, was a record-keeping stickler.
“Do you have the date and name?” Cujo asked, walking toward the filing cabinets behind the counter, unlocking them with the key on his chain.
“Hilary Franklin, last Friday,” Thing One said.
Cujo flipped through the file folders until he found what he needed. “I’m pretty certain section 3b of the statute says we aren’t at fault if the minor falsely represents herself and presents a fake identification. Hilary Franklin, Tampa. Gave me an ID saying she was twenty.”
Thing One looked at the document closely before passing it on to Thing Two.
“Can we get a copy, Mr. Matthews, please?” Thing One asked. He imagined what the guy would look like with the Dr. Seuss character’s crazy red hair and bit back a smile.
“Given it was in the last week, I could likely get you video footage of her giving the license to me.” He pointed up to the black bubble in the ceiling. The CCTV in the shop was new, put in after Trent’s girlfriend, Harper, was kidnapped by her crazy ex. In truth, they should have installed it the day they opened.
“That would be helpful, Mr. Matthews.”
One more thing for him to do. He looked quickly at the clock and silently cursed Trent for leaving him alone to manage the shop while Trent took Harper to Tahiti to scuba fuck or something.
He provided them with copies of the CCTV footage and the identification on file, then sent them on their way.
Cujo walked into the kitchen and poured a large, steaming mug of the coffee he’d brewed. He sent a text to his sister-in-law, Elisa, to see how Zeph was doing. Her exhausted call at four thirty that morning had him pulling on his clothes and jogging the four blocks to their house. He’d never seen so much vomit come out of one little person. Of all the nights for his brother to be out of town.
If Elisa hadn’t handed him the burrito on his way to the truck, he’d be starved as well as sleep deprived.
A banging on the door of the studio startled him. He returned to the front of the shop, which was supposed to be closed for another hour.
Drea. Shit.
Taking a sip of his coffee, he flicked the latch and let in the walking flash fire. They’d agreed to meet to plan Trent and Harper’s engagement party. Damn it.
“Good morning, Starshine,” he said as she marched past him. Christ, the woman was always on a mission. Yet smelled decidedly like a warm Cinnabon. And didn’t that make his stomach grumble?
“Hi,” Drea responded, barely making eye contact as she rifled through an oversized purse to retrieve a binder and pen. “Off to a slow start today, are we?” she said, looking at the paperwork on the desk.
Another reason why he hadn’t wanted to plan Trent and Harper’s engagement party with Harper’s best friend and coworker.
He bit the side of his tongue and checked the need to respond. “Want some coffee?”
“No thanks, I was up early enough for breakfast. Can we get started? I have to get to work soon. I have a list,” she said, tapping the perfectly buffed nail of her index finger on the binder.
The thought of her anywhere near a projectile-vomiting three-year-old made him smile. She was perfectly put together.
That damn hair of hers framed her face perfectly and bounced around like a shampoo commercial. What had she done anyway? It used to be chocolate brown and long. Now it had all those highlights the color of melted toffee and some gold pantone number he couldn’t remember. He rubbed his hand over his head, the bristles of white blond hair growing in unfamiliar.
A cough cracked through the silence, and Cujo shook his head.
“The list?” Drea said, opening the binder to a tabulated index page.
Staying on the high road was going to be hell.
* * *
Christ, what she wouldn’t give for a coffee, but she wasn’t going to give Cujo the satisfaction of saying so. She salivated at the nutty smell and had to stop staring as he lifted the steaming mug to his lips. The toll of working the late shift for Harper, and battling to get her mom out of bed and up for the day, was pounding its way across the top of her head.
