Bad Things (Tristan & Danika, #1)(110)
Maddox reached out for my hand. “You have to trust me!”
I fought the urge to say, Like you haven’t claimed that one before! At the sound of footsteps, I realized I didn’t have any more time to debate my options. I turned back to see the menacing shadow bobbing closer. Its voice echoed through the cave toward us. “All right, I’m through playing f*cking games! Give it to me, or I start shooting!”
“Lane, come on!” Maddox shouted.
With my chest heaving, my trembling hand flung out for his. Grasping blindly at thin air, I finally felt Maddox’s fingers close over mine. Once my hand was clasped firmly in his, I closed my eyes and tried to ready myself to take the plunge—in more ways than one.
Chapter One
“Okay, from first position now go to second,” I instructed. My voice rose to be heard over the classical strains of Bach pumping in from the sound system overhead. Tiny dancers outfitted in an array of colorful leotards squirmed and giggled rather than assuming the correct positions. Glancing at the clock, I blew a few errant strands of hair that had escaped my bun out of my face. With only five minutes left before dance class was over and summer break began, I don’t know why I bothered with any instruction. Their minds were miles away. “Girls, are any of you listening to me?”
“Yes, Miss Lane,” they replied dutifully.
“Good. Then go ahead and pack up early. Then you can free dance the last few minutes.”
Ear piercing squeals of delight went up over the room. There was nothing they loved more than being able to goof around in front of the mirrors at the end of the day. I couldn’t help grinning at their enthusiasm.
It was t-minus five minutes left for me before I would begin the same summer ritual I’d had my entire life. I’d be abandoning the comforts of home in Marietta—a suburb of Atlanta—for the wilds of the North Georgia Mountains. I’d be trading my college textbooks, along with my tutus, for my extreme family time and my summer job at Maudie’s Orchard and Brewery.
Once the last girl had given me a hug and I’d collected quite a few end-of-the-year presents from the parents, I slipped into the bathroom to change out of my wrap skirt and into some shorts. As I slid my folded leotard into my bag, my phone chirped with a text. “Dad,” I murmured without even glancing at the screen. Although my twentieth birthday was in less than a week, my overprotective parents had a hard time believing I wasn’t there little girl anymore. Instead of driving myself, they were picking me up. They claimed it made better financial sense for me to ride with one of them since we had two cars at our summer home, but I knew better. It was more about them still wanting to be smothering, over-protective parents.
Tossing my bag over my shoulder, I grabbed my packages and gave my studio one final glance before heading outside. Dad’s fire engine red Volvo convertible sat at the curb. “Hey baby girl.”
He hopped out of the front seat to help load my gifts and bag into the trunk. “Looks like you racked up again today,” he mused.
I grinned. “I think so. There’s at least enough Starbucks cards to get me through the summer.”
“And thankfully Ellijay has become even more civilized by building one.”
“I know. Thank God.”
As I buckled up, Dad said, “Mom’s just gotten on the interstate, so she won’t be too much ahead of us.”
“Sounds good.”
Dad’s phone rang then, and we both spent the next thirty minutes wrapped up in our separate social media. When he finally hung up the phone, he glanced over at me with a grin. “Ah, smell that beautiful smog free oxygen!” he inhaled sharply, gulping in air like a drowning man who had just broken the surface of water. He probably would have done something truly mortifying like sticking his head out the window like a dog, but it was kinda pointless to do that in our convertible.
“Yeah, it’s totally awesome, Dad,” I mumbled in response, never taking my eyes off my iPhone. My fingers flew furiously over the keyboard as I was using the last precious moments before the service got spotty the further we got into the mountains. I promised friends I’d Facetime and text with them and maybe even make it back to the city a few times before August rolled around.
“Bet you can’t wait to get that city grit outta your hair and pump some fresh mountain air in your lungs?”
I inwardly groaned at his over the top enthusiasm. But when Dad threw a glance over at me, I plastered on my most sincere smile. “Sure.”
Dad grinned. “That’s my girl.”
He usually wasn’t such a goofball when we were back home in Marietta. But something happened to him that first day we packed up the car and headed out of town. I guess you could say the mountains were my dad’s muse—the place where he penned the crime novels he was famous for.
Motioning his head towards the bound manuscript on my lap, he asked “So what are you thinking of the new one?”
Even though I was only coming off of my second year of college, Dad trusted me as one of the first people to read his novels before he sent them to his agent and editor. Somehow in middle school I graduated from Harry Potter and dove head first into the gritty world of Dad’s famous Southern detective, Harrison Baylor.
Discarding my phone, I flipped through the pages of his latest masterpiece, bobbing my head enthusiastically. “I think it’s another New York Times solid gold.”