Chapter One #2
Maine feels closer to Texas than it did five minutes ago.
Last week I did my monthly Google deep dive on my ex-husband, Nicholas Ammon, and learned he’d started a ministry program at the same prison he was released from six months ago.
Seeing he was also back on his “inspirational” bullshit on social media—complete with a handle referencing forgiveness—was unsurprising, but still unnerving.
That I ever introduced him to the concept of being a pastor influencer is one of many mistakes I tow around in my regret wagon.
I’d been young, in love, and convinced the messages Nicholas preached would change lives for the better—even if it seemed a bit much to me at times.
Goose bumps spring to life on my legs—damnit, I just shaved them—though the bathroom is still steamy from my shower.
Don’t default to the worst-case scenario.
What’s most likely?
The text could be a prank. A wrong number.
A prank for a wrong number. That’s the most logical answer.
Dread churns in my stomach regardless, because what if?
Decades from now, my nervous system will still be spitting and hissing like a feral cat at the possibility of Nicholas.
He’s the horror villain who won’t stay dead, ready to reanimate the moment I let my guard down.
I respond, hands trembling. Shaky-thumbed or not, the hatred I have for him is rock solid. The me who fled to Maine was terrified of what Nicholas was capable of. And what you were capable of, the little voice in my head chimes in. Don’t forget that.
Not going there.
Me: Who is this?
Time becomes a clock with a dying battery, the second hand twitching but never traveling. I wait. And wait.
The local area code is the only reason I don’t block the number without responding. If Nicholas is in the same state as me, I need to know. Finally, my phone chimes again, the tone too cheerful for the moment.
Unknown number: Caine. This is my new number.
Unknown number: Guess the picture didn’t go through, lol.
Every ounce of rage leaks out of my body, leaving room for butterflies, or maybe bats, to swoop and soar.
Caine.
Tattoo artist, haunted-house designer, and the sexy, intimidating kind of handsome that would fluster me senseless if he weren’t nonsense personified. We’re friends, and during the months the haunt is open, sort of coworkers.
Also had a teensy, tiny hookup that I pretend didn’t rewire every single circuit in my brain.
My phone rings: the unknown number.
Shit.
Inhaling deep, I try to recalibrate. I need a plan.
I want to casually drop the fact that I’m single, see what kind of reaction Caine has.
See if he cares. See if he would be up for a repeat encounter so I can figure out if the sex is actually that good, or if I was just riding the high of being fresh out of a miserable marriage when we hooked up five years ago.
The phone rings again.
Deep breath.
Caine’s rich, throaty voice fills my ears, doing nothing to calm my goose bumps.
“What’s new, killer?”
Easy, breezy, casual.
“Jeremy and I broke up.” I blurt the sentence with urgency appropriate for letting someone know their hair is on fire.
Damnit.
Caine takes my announcement in stride, a hint of surprise in his voice. “Oh, really? You doing okay?”
I try to behave like an easygoing person. “Yeah, thanks. I’ve been staying at Claire and Shane’s. They’re calling it house-sitting to protect my pride.” Setting the phone to speaker and placing it on the counter, I decide to finish the rest of my skin-care routine.
“I didn’t know you were out there. I’m in Newbound.”
“Why are you in town?” I examine the breakout along my jawline. Could be hormonal. Could also be the fact that my skin is offended by every substance known to humankind. “And what was with the cryptic text?”
“I’m buying the Abattoir. On my way to meet with the—”
I scream, an ear-piercing screech that makes Gremlin yip with glee. My smile may take over my face. Spinning to lean against the sink, I lower my voice to a less earsplitting volume. “How did you not lead with this news?! This is amazing. Congratulations!”
“Thank you.” He chuckles, trying to play it off like it’s no big deal. I won’t let him; it’s huge.
Two years ago Caine started bouncing the idea that the Abattoir—the haunted house he’s managed for as long as I’ve known him—would be the perfect setup for escape rooms, making it more profitable because it could stay open year-round.
Last fall, he mentioned that he was looking into business loans and seeing what it would take to buy the haunt from Ronnie, its owner, who was completely hands-off in its running.
“So you’re going all in with escape room idea too, yes?!”
“It’s going to be one hell of an undertaking, but yes.” At last, I can hear the smile in his voice. Picturing it makes me feel like I may never stop grinning again.
Questions upon questions fill my head. Is he done tattooing, or shifting to part-time?
Usually, he only tattoos part-time while the haunt is open, renting a space out of a small shop in Newbound.
Does Shane know? There’s no way he doesn’t.
Does Claire? If Shane knows, she definitely does, but she would have told me.
One question overshadows them all, though.
“Does this mean you’re moving here?”
Caine lives six-ish hours south of Newbound, which is why he stays with Shane every autumn while the Abattoir is open.
“Yep.”
Oh my gosh.
He continues, “Think you can deal with me year-round?”
I make a disgruntled sound. “No. I’m going to have to move now. Thanks for that.”
He laughs. Somewhere in the background, a car door slams. There are distant voices, but Caine doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to hang up.
“Do I need to let you go?”
“Not yet. I have a question for you first.”
I wait.
“You still a gambling woman?”
Turning back to the mirror, I pick up my moisturizer. “That depends—are you still a losing man?”
He sounds entirely too pleased for someone who was just reminded that he’s lost our annual bet every year since it began. “I have a good feeling about this year.” Pausing, he clears his throat. “So good that in light of recent events, I want to up the ante.”
Interest sparks. Under most conditions, I’m actually not a gambler.
But our annual bet doesn’t leave much up to chance; we’re betting on ourselves.
Specifically, he’s betting on his ability to make me tap out of one of the extreme haunt nights at the Abattoir, and I’m betting on my ability to make it through. So far, we’re 0 for 4 in my favor.
“Fine with me. Not like I’m losing.”
His voice lowers. “I don’t know. If you agree to my raise, I’m going to be pretty motivated.”
Curiosity piqued, I wait.
“I want a kiss.”
My moisturizer slips from my fingers and bounces off the sink. Gremlin squawks indignantly as the tube careens to the floor.
“You okay?” Caine sounds concerned.
“Fine. Everything’s fine.” I don’t feel half as nonchalant as I try to sound.
“Is this because you’re buying the haunt and low on funds?” I ask in an attempt to keep yes from slipping out. “We can bet a cup of coffee or something. It doesn’t need to be cash.”
“No, I’m not low on funds.” His sigh is exasperated. “If you’re so sure you’ll win, it shouldn’t matter what we’re betting.”
“Wait, what do I get when I win, then?”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “What do you want?”
“To tattoo you.” It slips off my tongue and surprises me, but now that it’s out there, I like it. Caine is covered with tattoos, but there must be an un-inked patch of skin somewhere.
He lets out a low whistle. “Intense.”
“If you’re so sure you’ll win, it shouldn’t matter what we’re betting.” Throwing his words right back at him makes him chuckle.
“Fine, deal. But if you get to tattoo me, I feel like I should be playing for more than a kiss.”
“Don’t even think about it,” I say, then immediately feel presumptuous.
As if working at a haunted house and being a tattoo artist weren’t impressive enough, Caine competed on—and won—season one of Love & Ink, a reality TV show that’s part artistic challenges and part elimination competition.
If the show is anything to go by, Caine is used to women throwing themselves at him.
Including me.
But only once.