Chapter 2
GEMMA
Four Months Later
Standing on my front porch, I stare at the bright orange envelope, tacked to my front door. Reaching out, cheeks flaming with mortification, I rip it free and stare at it. I knew this was going to happen. I knew—but that doesn’t mean I was prepared for it.
Just open it. Quit being a baby and get it over with.
Flipping it over I rip it open before I can chicken out.
Ms. Pierce ~
This letter serves as notice that your tax debt of $15,593.
66 has been challenged by a private third party.
As in accordance with county statute 17-32, you have the term of ninety days from the issuance of this notice to pay any and all back property taxes in full or the challenge will not be met and the property in question will be sold to the private third party for the sum owed.
In other words: someone is able and willing to pay us the money you owe, so if you don’t cough it up, we’re going to sell your house out from under you.
$15,593.66
I stare at the sum, my eyes dry and hot. A few months ago, my tax debt was less than half that but thanks to another annual sum owed, plus interest, even though I’m throwing as much money as I can spare at it, I’m actually moving backwards.
You could call Beck. Lord knows after ditching you here to take care of Dent on your own, he owes you.
I’d rather jump off the Barrett Bridge, head first, than ask my brother for help.
Okay… what about your mom or maybe Jensen. If the rumors are even half true, he has money to burn. Fifteen grand is a helluva advance on your tips but?—
No.
Blocking out the voice of reason with a stubborn head shake, I set my jaw while folding the notice in half before jamming it into the back pocket of my cut-offs.
I’m not asking them for help.
Any of them.
I can handle this on my own.
Can you? Because from where I’m standing you’re the one getting handled.
“Shut-up,” I grumble out loud before wrapping a hand around the front door knob and giving it a twist. Even though I’ve been gone since last night and no one lives here but me, it turns easily in my hand.
Door open, I step through the opening before kicking it shut behind me on an irritated huff.
I’ve lived in this house all my life—weekend visits with Dent until I turned seventeen and decided I was going to live with him full-time—and I don’t ever remember the door being locked.
I don’t even know where the key to the dead bolt is. Hell, I’m not even sure there is a key.
That’s living in Barrett.
Five thousand people and not one of us locks our doors. Doesn’t hurt that Sheriff Montgomery lives across the street or that I work for Jensen Barrett, the town badass, at the Mill where I waitress on the weekends.
That’s what I do. Pretty much all I do these days.
Work.
I work the breakfast and lunch shift at June’s, after I stumble in at 4AM to bake off the morning’s cinnamon rolls, blueberry muffins, and fill the dessert case for the rest of the day.
As soon as the lunch crowd dies down, I drag myself home, take a shower and throw myself into bed for a few hours before I have to get up and get dressed for my shift at the Mill.
Technically, I only work there three nights a week but after Jensen’s psycho brother kidnapped and shot his girlfriend, Jen hired me to be her home health aide when they finally let her out of the hospital.
That was nine months ago.
Even though he only hired me for the first two-weeks, I still find my way over there most days to check on her under the pretense of visiting.
Not that she needs me poking at her—Sloane’s a trauma surgeon, I’m sure she’d be the first to know if she wasn’t—but I’ve gotten to know her and that means I like her.
Sloane’s a friend and I don’t have very many, at least not many in Barrett.
Aside from Sloane and River, another waitress at the Mill, I can’t say I have any.
Today is Sunday—my busiest day at June’s which immediately follows my busiest night at the Mill.
I’ve been on my feet for nearly twenty hours, fueled by nothing more than coffee, cuss words, and sheer force of will.
Up at 3AM on Thursday morning to head to June’s to start baking, followed by waitressing both the breakfast and lunch shifts.
After that I get to hurry home so I can feed my cat and cry for a few hours before I have to get dressed and head to the Mill for my cocktail shift, after which I get to head back to June’s and do it all over again.
Wash and repeat for the next 96 hours.
By the time Sunday afternoon rolls around, I don’t want to do anything except stare at a wall until it’s time to do it all over again.
Which is approximately twelve hours from now.
When I clocked out of my shift at the bar this morning, so I could hustle myself over to June’s and start baking, River stopped me at the door.
I’m serious, Gemma—I want you to come, tomorrow night. All we do is eat pizza and talk shit about Jen and Cade but it’s still a good time. Please? I’m not going to stop asking until you say yes.
She’s talking about the Monday night hen party Sloane hosts every week. Even though River’s nearly as relentless as I am, I’ve managed to beg off so far. If it were just her and Sloane, I’d have jumped at the chance to hang out with them but it’s not just them.
Sera Montgomery is there too.
And let’s not forget that her brother, Cade lives across the hall from Sloane and Jensen. It’s bad enough that I have to see them while I’m working. Making nice after hours isn’t something I’m willing to do.
I can’t blame Sloane or River for not understanding.
Neither of them grew up in Barrett or Clearwater and even though Sloane is technically a creeker, they don’t really get it.
They don’t understand the history that follows you around this town.
Things that happened ten years ago feel like they happened yesterday—especially when those things drove your best friend away and you haven’t seen her since, unless you count your daily FaceTime sessions, which I don’t.
So, working with Cade and Sera Montgomery is hard enough without having to see them off the clock. I don’t even want to talk about the obscene amount of pride I had to swallow after Cade showed up at June’s to tell me that Jensen was hiring.
Jen is looking for a weekend waitress and with your grandpa gone I figured you could use the work. It’s good money—you’d have to contend with looking at me most days but don’t let hating me keep you from it.
It was a no for me.
Actually it was a hell no.
Actually, I dumped a pot of lukewarm coffee in his lap and told him that if he didn’t stop harassing me, I was going to call his parole officer.
I felt pretty smug about it too, until Emily talked some sense into me.
When I told her that Cade ambushed me at the diner, she interrupted my fuck the Montgomerys in general and fuck Cade Montgomery specifically tirade with a tired sigh.
Don’t be stupid, Gemma. It’s not like jobs—good paying jobs—come along in Barrett every day. Of course you’re going to go talk to Jensen. Cade is right. You need the money. You can’t afford to be stubborn about this—not on my account.
As usual, Em was right.
And so was Cade, damn him to hell.
With Dent gone, I need the money. That meant I had to put my pride on the back burner and venture into enemy territory, hat in hand, and ask for a job.
Not that Jensen made it easy.
As a matter of fact, it took some persuading and a whole lot of guilt tripping on my part before he finally conceded to hiring me on.
And so began my descent into madness.
“Totally worth it,” I hype myself up as I make my way past the foyer and through the dining room, on my way to the kitchen. When I set my bag on the table, I hear a heavy thump above my head, followed by a plaintive meow.
“I know, I know…” I say, reaching into my bag.
“Sorry I’m late.” Pulling out a pair of bulging zipper pouches—one for my tips from June’s and one for my tips from the Mill, I hold them up over my shoulder, showing them as proof, before slapping them onto the table with a sigh.
“But one of us has to work and since I’m the one with opposable thumbs, evolution says it’s gotta be me.
” As much as I hate to admit it, the pouch with my Mill tips in it is twice as fat.
Because you wear ridiculously short shorts and a push-up bra to work every night. It’s the tits and ass they’re paying to see, Gemma Rae—don’t get it twisted.
My tardy excuse is met with another meow, this one edging toward flat-out accusation before it’s followed by a recorded version of my own voice.
Feed me
“Thumbs or not, you can feed yourself, you know,” I say on my way to the refrigerator. “I get that it’s just dry food but it’s better than nothing.”
Feed me… churu
Churu treats are basically mini-squeeze tubes full of cat crack and as far as I’m concerned, my cat is a full-blown addict. If she did have thumbs and access to firearms, she’d commit felonies without disinclination in service to her addiction. I’m all that stands between her and certain ruin.
“Sorry—” Fridge open, I pull out the takeout container I tossed on the shelf when I got home from June’s yesterday afternoon. “But you know the rules. Real food first.”
Churu… now… bitch
“Excuse me?” Swinging the fridge door closed on a huff, I turn to glare at my ingrate of a cat, leftover chicken pot pie, in hand. “You want to try that again, Miss Ma’am?”
Baleful glare aimed in my direction, my cat drops it to survey the row of buttons in front of her before selecting her response.
Name… Janet
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say on a scoff. “Would you like to try that again, Janet.”
Instead of answering, my cat looks up at me, her slow-blinking, topaz-colored eyes full of condemnation because I’m the one who, after too much wine and a four-hour facetime session with Em, thought it would be funny to sprinkle some swear words into her row of communication buttons.
How did this become my life?
“Apologize.” I huff it, empty hand on my hip while I teeter on the brink of an exhaustion-fueled spiral. “Right now.”
My cat, who is even more stubborn than I am, does nothing more than yawn.
“I’m serious.” Moving to the kitchen counter, I open the silverware drawer and fish out a fork. Slamming it closed, I turn back around and brandish it at her. “Say you’re sorry or no churus for a week.”
Sorry... bitch
Seriously?
My shit-talking cat is the last thing I need right now.
“You’re an asshole.” Turning away from my asshole cat on an indignant scoff, I tap the button on her self-feeder with my foot, dispensing a generous amount of dry food. “A mean, churuless asshole,” I gripe at her before turning toward the back stairs. “And don’t follow me.”
Rude
Rude
Rude
“You’re rude,” I shout down the stairs when I make the landing. Crossing the upstairs hallway to the bathroom, I practically kick the door open while downstairs, my cat lets out one of her plaintive meows before stepping on her favorite button.
Abuse
“You’re the name caller here,” I yell back. “Not me.”
Come back
“Nope.” Ignoring the fact that I’m actually arguing with my cat and that I’m pretty sure ours is by far the most toxic relationship I’ve ever had, I set my cold chicken potpie on the counter in favor of reaching under my skimpy, low-cut tank to open the front closure on my bra.
The relief is immediate. “I’m going to eat this in the tub, then I’m going to cry myself to sleep and you’re not invited. ”
My declaration is met with another meow, followed by the distinct sound of her crossing the kitchen. When I hear her paws hit the stairs, I slam the bathroom door and lock it for good measure because even though my cat doesn’t have opposable thumbs or access to firearms, I still don’t trust her.