Survivor (First to Fight #2)
Nicole Blanchard
SYNOPSIS
I knew falling in love with him was bad for us both, but I did it anyway.
For a brief moment, we had it all. Even though he was leaving to join the Marines and I had four years of college ahead of me, he was everything I ever wanted, but didn’t think I deserved.
But real life has a way of dashing dreams—and that happy future we envisioned together? It disappeared at the hands of a monster.
Ten years have passed, and I’m not the same na?ve girl who believed in happily-ever-afters. When my mother passes away and I find myself caring for my two teenage brothers, the last thing on my mind should be reconnecting with the hottie-turned-hero who I loved at seventeen.
If I want a second chance at his heart, I’ll have to trust him with the secrets that tore us apart.
Please note there is a graphic scene that may be a trigger for some.
To survivors of rape and sexual assault.
You matter.
Present
EVERY RATIONAL BONE in my body is screaming for me to turn around, get back in my car, and return to sanity. But Varanos are not built for sensible decisions. We take risks, break rules, and say fuck the consequences.
Which is probably why I’m always getting myself into trouble.
But that’s a story for another time.
My black boots with the three-inch heel, another poor choice on my part, sink into the thick layers of mud and muck. I yank them free with a sucking sound and frown at the glop plastered all the way up to my ankle. So far, not so good.
I was a lot better at this when I was seventeen.
Skirting around the edge of the tree line, I make sure to stay bathed in shadows until the last light winks out in the windows. Then I make my move. I manage to dash across the neatly kept yard, made hazardous by the seven inches of rain, without face-planting or destroying my boots any further.
A girl has to have priorities.
The wraparound porch looks exactly like I remember it, deep and inviting. The swing creaks lazily in the night breeze, the worn pillows the same faded blue as the curtains fluttering in the front windows. I say a mental prayer as I tip-toe around the boards that used to creak. They may have been repaired in the ten years since I visited last, but I’m not going to take any chances.
I make it to the windows without a sound and give myself a mental pat on the back. Maybe I’ve still got it after all. I wedge my fingers under the edge of the window, cursing the damage I do to my new manicure, and heave. It takes a couple tries, but it finally gives way with a long, low creeeaaak.
My biceps freeze and my breath catches in my chest as I strain into the darkness for any sign that I’ve been made. Minutes pass without a peep and my breath releases in a woosh. Almost there.
Those four years of gymnastics come in handy at the most interesting times. New to the list is squeezing through windows. I go feet first, slowly, until I find my footing on the wood floors beneath, then I arch my back and squeeze my small, though still adequately sized breasts through the opening. I pause, perched on the floor in the living room beneath the window to listen for any stirring from upstairs.
It’s only a few seconds, but it’s long enough for my nose and brain to pull memories to the forefront simply by the smell—lavender and cotton. It was my mom’s favorite scent. She used it with everything. Her laundry detergent. Her potpourri. The shampoo she used to clean the rugs. Apparently, she hadn’t been able to get the air conditioning unit fixed either because its rattling hum can still be heard clear across the house.
I shake my head to clear it of the memories. Focus.
My eyes adjust to the darkness and I’m glad I waited before I started fumbling through the room. It may still smell and sound the same, but everything else is completely different. Underneath the comforting scent of lavender and cotton is the sweet ripeness of garbage and the dull, cloying smell of dirt and dust. A thick layer of it covers everything. I look down and dust off my boots, noticing my feet have made faerie sized tracks on the hardwood floors.
“Shit,” I hiss. There’s nothing I can do about it now. All I can do is finish what I came here to do and get the hell out before I get sucked back into this time warp. The 90’s were fan-fucking-tastic, but I have no wish to reminisce. The sooner I can get out of here, the better.