Fly’s Path (Sweet Chaos #3)

1. Strike Three

Strike Three

Sheridan

The alien spacecraft exploded into a billion shards that will be hurled through space endlessly until they break down into little bits of dust.

Space dust…that sounds silly.

This book is going to drive me out of my mind. Why did I start writing in the sci-fi genre? I’m a romance girlie.

That’s not what my fans say. Since I started publishing sci-fi, my income has tripled. Focus on blowing up moons or whatnot.

My cell phone rings.

Who’s calling me…my friends always message.

Not that I have many friends. I work too much to keep up with them. “Hello?” I really should look at the caller ID before I pick up.

“Hey, Sheridan.”

“Dahlia. How are you? How goes the wedding planning?” I set down my laptop and lean back against the tall back of the rocking chair.

“Amazing, but I need to put it on hold for a few weeks because I got some exciting news and I need your help.”

My help? I’m the last one anyone calls for help. “Sure, what’s up?”

“Dylan got married.”

“WHAT? No way. She wasn’t even dating. Didn’t she have a bad breakup or something a while ago?”

“It wasn’t bad…just sort of sudden. Anyway, she eloped a little while ago. And I thought the writing club could get together and help throw her a party to celebrate.”

Then, pool some money to help finance her divorce.

Not that Dylan has a problem with money, but who knows what’s going to happen with this insanity.

“That sounds like fun.” Except I have no money, and you’re half a country away.

Not literally, but it’s close with me living down south and Dahlia being up north.

But Dylan lives down here somewhere…maybe she’s within driving distance.

“Excellent. The guy she married, Rogue, lives a little outside of Urbium. So I thought we would coordinate everything from my house and bring it there.”

“Um…” There’s no way I could afford that. Maybe in a couple of months. After I’ve gotten a few more decent checks, but now…

“Maverick is making arrangements for his plane to pick you up.”

His plane? People I know don’t have a plane. Most barely have a television and air conditioning.

“There’s a large enough airport for it to land just a little bit north of Beach Haven before you hit Center City.”

I know that airport…who doesn’t? It’s been there since before I was born. The farmers around here used to use it to dust their crops with tobacco for pest control. Flying one of those planes was a dream of mine when I was five…but doesn’t every five-year-old want to fly a plane?

“The plane will be there tomorrow at four if that works for you?”

What? “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely. You can stay in one of my guest rooms. We’ll have so much fun. What do you say?”

Stay here and work all day or go play in the city with my friends for a few weeks…is there really a choice? “Sounds like fun. I’ll be at the airport at three thirty tomorrow.”

“Yay!!! I’ve got to make a few more calls. See you tomorrow.”

“See you—” The phone clicks off before I can finish.

I’m going to Urbium. I’m completely broke and going to visit a friend in one of the most expensive cities in the country…Everything will be just fine. I better get this chapter done.

***

No. No. No. I can’t blow up another spaceship…the universe doesn’t need any more space dust. Maybe I need to add a new alien…should he be freakish with nineteen eyes and weird fins for feet, or should I make him seven feet tall with wings?

Like that hasn’t been done to death. And how realistic would it be to have a bird-man in space…

Nah, that would be stupid.

Why can’t I focus today? It’s the perfect weather to write. Unlike up north, winter here is blanket-on-the-rocking-chair weather. Curl up with a cup of tea and breathe in the crisp air.

Everything in the world I need to create…

So why is it that the only thing I can think about is Dylan falling in love? For the same reason I’m writing science fiction instead of romance.

Love is a pipe dream that leads to nothing but pain, and I’ve had enough pain in my life to fill a thousand books.

The light rustle of the breeze blowing through the crinkling dry leaves is suddenly drowned out by the rattling of a muffler.

There’s only one person who drives a truck that sounds like that: Jimbo.

And it’s never good when he drives down the lane to my little shack in the woods.

Worry freezes me right to the spot. Not that I wanted to move from this rocking chair.

Move.

Hide in the forest until he leaves.

That would be cowardly. Jimbo is a nice guy…most of the time.

He hops out of the lifted truck and walks over, stopping in front of the porch steps. “How’s it going, Sheri?”

How does it look? No, don’t answer that. The truth of my perpetual mess would depress even the happiest person. One of these days, my life will look like those white picket fence people. The ones with two kids, a dog, and a husband that adores them…

I almost snort at that pipe dream. You live in a shack in the middle of the woods. “Been better. How is Tracy Jo?”

“My wife is grumpy as always.” He grins.

That describes her so well. I’ve never met another person who makes grumpy into their entire identity like Tracy Jo. “Good to hear she’s doing alright.”

“About that…” He kicks a pile of dirt next to the flowers that are currently in hibernation. “I don’t want her to turn that grumpy attitude on me.”

Is that even possible?

“So, I need you to move out.”

Not again…Please not again.

“You know I’d give you a few more weeks if I could, but we have bills to pay as well, Sheri.”

Should I plead with him? Try to explain all that’s been going on with my life? “I’ll pay you back for the two months that I’m behind.”

“I know you will, and so does Tracy Jo, but we can’t wait for you to get the money. We need to get a renter in here. You do understand, don’t you?”

No.

No, I don’t understand how you can throw a person out that you have known since kindergarten.

You can’t leave me homeless. But it’s not like this hasn’t happened before.

Over the last few years, I’ve lost my apartment more times than I want to remember.

At least sleeping in my car isn’t so bad in Beach Haven.

There’s no real crime here, so it is just as safe as sleeping in the middle of the woods with the doors unlocked.

“Tracy Jo said you could hassle us, but I told her you wouldn’t do that. Am I wrong?”

Like I want Little Timmy to get involved in my business.

If he does, his wife is sure to involve the ladies in town.

I want that like I want a hole in my head.

I wouldn’t take anything from them even if I was starving…

even when I was starving…That was a long time ago.

“I’m not going to give you any problems.”

“Can you get…” His eyes wander around the porch. “…all your stuff moved out by tomorrow afternoon?”

Tomorrow, before I hop on a private plane, I’m going to be homeless. The cognitive dissonance of the thought makes my head hurt. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Thanks for not making this hard for us.”

You’re welcome seems wrong when I’m about to be homeless again. But I can’t expect someone else to provide for me. In this world, you have one person you can rely on, and that person lives in your skin.

“If you need any help packing up your stuff…Tracy Jo would be happy to come by this afternoon. We’ve got some boxes—”

Boxes? My life doesn’t fit in boxes. Boxes are for people who know where they’re going. My life works just fine stuffed into trash bags in the back of my car. Sad but true. “No thanks. Don’t need them. I’ll be out by tomorrow.”

Jimbo nods. “Thank you. Tracy Jo asked me to tell you she loved your latest book. Your aliens—what were they called?”

“Therans.”

“Yeah, that was it. She said that they were the best. I’m thinking about reading them, but you know how it is.” Jimbo shrugs.

If that man has read more than the back of a cereal box in the last ten years, I’d be shocked. “Thank you.”

“Could she get an autographed copy? She wants to add it to her book wall. That is, if you have one lying around.”

Of course, I have some lying around. Don’t all authors have dozens of copies of their books everywhere in case a rabid fan walks up to their shack in the woods?

“I might have one.” There might have been a copy or two left over from the last time I did a signing event on my website. “Let me go check.”

Finding anything in a single room should be easy, but my place is as chaotic as my mind most days of the week. There might be a few left over in a box by the corner…

Oh, that’s where I left those towels. They need to be washed. A laundromat run has to happen before I leave.

There! Found it. The last book at the bottom of the box. Taking it out feels like closing the chapter on a good part of my life…

Here’s hoping the next one is better.