Blake Anderson thought he had his life together. When his father dies, Blake’s troubled past catches up with him. Selling his father’s dilapidated cabin becomes Blake’s only priority, but the place is bursting with painful memories.

Alex Taylor, the restoration contractor Blake hires to do the work, immediately recognizes the camp’s potential, but she’s not so sure about the reticent Blake. Beneath her feisty façade, however, Alex is hiding a secret of her own.

Together, Blake and Alex restore the cabin to its original beauty, piece by piece. As they unearth secrets of the past, they stumble upon a tapestry of corruption and crime spanning decades. Compelled to find the truth, Blake and Alex must confront their inner demons, as well as some real-life criminals, as they struggle to overcome their pasts and learn to love again.

 

---

Purchase
Kindle ♥ Smashwords ♥ Nook ♥ Google Play ♥ Apple ♥ Kobo ♥ PRINT

Release Date: October 13, 2025
Genre: Contemporary Romance

---

Excerpt

Chapter One

Dust billowed up behind Alex’s truck, as she sped along the winding gravel road. Her balding tires skidded on loose rocks as she took an unexpected turn, eliciting a swoop of excitement in Alex’s stomach. The tape deck on her beater Chevy had been teetering on the edge of oblivion for months and had finally given out, leaving her alone with a useless box of early nineties cassettes from Goodwill and her own racing thoughts.

Earlier, she had received the strangest message on her voicemail—some guy rambling about Lost Lake and a cabin on Bear Road, how much work it needed, and how he was looking for a contractor. He’d sounded delightfully clueless. It had all the makings of a city boy trying to sell an old camp, but she’d find out for herself soon enough. He’d left an out-of-state number, most likely a cell phone, so it had gone to voicemail a few times when she’d called back. The reception out here was still spotty.

Alex’s decision to drive out and see for herself hinged solely on a single unfortunate event. Her first job of the year had been cancelled on short notice, and she was scrambling to make up for it. Being the only female restoration contractor in the Western Adirondacks was no easy task. For the past four years, she’d worked tirelessly, producing high-quality restorations, all the while desperate to be taken seriously. Slowly, her reputation was growing, but it was a constant battle.

As she crested the hill towards the end of the gravel road, a nearly hidden driveway appeared. Obscured by brush and trees, the entrance was punctuated only by a rusty mailbox whose lid hung open unnaturally, like the mouth of a long-extinct animal. This must be it. Alex turned into the driveway, hitting a deep divot with her left tire. “Shit,” she muttered. “This is out there.” As her wary nature was starting to prickle a warning to turn back, a sparkling lake rose up from the cloud of dust trailing her. Stopping at the edge of the driveway, Alex took in the view. The camp was an unqualified disaster—man, did it need serious work—but the view was unparalleled. Two ancient pines stood at the top of the lot, framing the sloping, mossy way down to the lake. The far shore curved gently, leading Alex’s gaze from the protected bay into the greater lake beyond. Misty, atmospheric blue mountains stood sentinel beyond, their ancient, rounded tops peeking out above the tree line, soft and dreamy. It was a million-dollar view.

Alex turned off the truck, reached across the seat to grab her tape measure, and looked out the window. A bear of a man sat in a dollhouse-sized chair, tipping back on two legs. With his feet on the porch railing and his arms crossed over his broad chest, he had been watching her. Curious, Alex met his gaze. She took in his muscular chest and arms, thinking they looked like they belonged on a linebacker, or maybe like the model Michelangelo wished he’d had. The guy’s hair was sandy blonde and buzz cut, and his eyes were steel blue. His expression held intelligence and curiosity.

Alex was about to smile at him when the porch railing gave way to his brawn, splintering, and violently thrusting the man forward and nearly off the porch. Through sheer force of will, Alex kept herself from laughing aloud. The guy brushed off his pants, looking furious.

The truck door creaked loudly as Alex opened it, hopped out, and slammed it shut behind her. This was going to be fun.

Closing the distance between them, Alex called merrily, “What’d you do that for?” Her eyes glittered with unconcealed amusement.

“Shit,” he muttered. Looking down at the shattered porch railing, the guy assessed the damage. “This place is completely rotten.” He kicked a splintered baluster off the porch and onto the lawn.

Alex spread her arms wide, taking it all in, and said, “Are you kidding? It’s a quintessential Adirondack-style camp. It’s got great bones. Granted, it needs a little TLC.”

Incredulous, he replied, “A little TLC? The entire porch needs to be ripped off.”

Still ebullient, Alex said, “Roof needs replacing, too, from the look of it.”

“I’m sorry.” He squinted at her, looking baffled. “Who are you?”

The brightness went out of her eyes as she remembered herself. A woman contractor named Alex. Of course he didn’t know who she was. Dully, she said, “You called and asked me to come over. I tried to call you back, but your cell doesn’t work out here. I’m Alex.”

“Alex?” The man still looked perplexed, until the realization hit him. “As in, Alex Taylor Construction?”

“Yes.” Steeling herself, her voice hardened, as she glared at him. “Not what you expected, I presume.”

Sheepishly, the guy said, “Um…”

“Mr. Anderson, right? Do you want me to look at the place or not?” Alex took a steadying breath, as she awaited his reply.

“Sure. Sorry. Please, call me Blake.”

Alex scanned the property critically. “Well, Blake, you’re right about one thing. The porch definitely needs to come off, but I might be able to save the structure of the porch roof.” She climbed the porch stairs and poked her steel-toed boot into a punky board.

“You might as well get the full effect,” Blake said, dismally, leading the way inside.

As Alex followed him through the front doorway, she was confronted with a behemoth fireplace gracing the center of the front room. It erased her annoyance in an instant as her inner preservationist took control of the situation.

“Whoa!” she exclaimed. “That’s extraordinary. It’s a pristine example of turn-of-the-century stonework. They laid each stone in like puzzle pieces.” She caressed one of the stones as she spoke. She kneeled down and looked up the flue, smiling unabashedly. “What a work of art. You’ve got a gem of a place here.”

“Really.” Blake’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Really,” Alex replied, as she stood up, brushing soot off her hands and onto her jeans. “Did you inherit or buy?”

With barely concealed annoyance, Blake answered tersely. “I inherited it. My dad died about a month ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Turning to face him, Alex fixed him with a gaze of remorse for his loss.

Blake’s features were marble. “Don’t be,” he said, harshly.

Alex’s expression hardened again. What was his problem? Done with this game, she asked, “Do you want me to come back another time?”

“No. Let’s get this over with.”

She snapped, facing him and coming a little closer than she should have. “Get this over with? Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Anderson. I will not do a hack job on this place. Not for any reason. It’s not the camp’s fault, whatever else happened between you and your father.”

He narrowed his eyes, ferocity simmering in his gaze. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make assumptions about me or my feelings about this place.”

“I don’t need to. You clearly hate it here, you hate him, and he probably deserved it.”

Every muscle in Blake’s body was tense, as he said, “Trust me. He did.”

“Fine.” Her eyes were blazing now. “All I’m saying is I refuse to compromise on my standards. I can reproduce the original intent of the place, but I will not use some pressure-treated four-bys and call it a day. It’s going to take time and money. If that doesn’t work for you, play roulette with the assholes in the phonebook. Good luck.”

She was turning away as Blake called, “Wait, I’m sorry.”

She kept walking. Blake wouldn’t have much luck booking a contractor this close to summer. He should jump at the chance to hire her.

Blake followed her outside, hopped off the porch where the railing used to be, and faced her on the lawn.

“Please wait. How much will it cost and how long will it take?”

“To do it right?” she countered.

“Yes,” he acquiesced. “To do it right.”

For a long moment, Alex regarded this strange man before her. Blake was even bigger up close, broad shouldered, definitely over six feet tall, and almost too fit. His eyes had a hard edge to them when he was being defensive, but now they were softening into defeat. There was something sadder than she’d seen in him a mere moment ago. Every word, every action to this point, had made it clear to her how much he hated the camp. He probably had legitimate reasons. Her heart squeezed a bit for the poor son-of-a-bitch.

Regardless, she kept her guard up, facing him authoritatively. Blake had finally deflated, which she was thankful for, not having been too fond of his blustery defensiveness. But as she stared him down, his plaintive, vulnerable expression tied her stomach in knots. His eyes appeared so much bluer outside than they had indoors. They were less the color of steel, as she’d first thought, and more the color of lightening, unusually clear and bright.

Kicking her toe into the dirt, she looked out at the water, trying not to feel petulant. This shit happened all the time. If she’d been a man, he wouldn’t have questioned her. If she’d been a man, she wouldn’t have had to justify her commitment to restoration. If she’d been a man, where would she be? The question wasn’t worth the pain of the answer, so she pulled herself together.

“Do you actually want me to do the work?” she asked, defiantly.

“Yes, Alex. Please.”

“We talking inside and out or just the obvious outdoor work?”

“Outdoor. Roof, porch, paint.”

Done with his shit, she said, “For the exterior work, we’re talking minimum thirty grand and six weeks of work. Materials are included in that estimate.”

“How many in your crew?”

“Only me. I had a guy helping me out last year, but he was more trouble than he was worth. I only take a couple of jobs a summer. I have stuff lined up for July and August, but my June job fell through. You can have me now and I’ll be done by the fourth.”

“You’ll get eaten alive working out here in June. It’s almost black fly season.”

“Occupational hazard.” Alex turned away from the lake, looked up at the façade, peeling paint and all. Wistfully, Alex said, “I’d buy the place from you if I could, as is, and do the work on my own time. I’d live here. It’s a great view. But I only started out a few years ago and haven’t quite built up my bank accounts yet.” Turning back to him, she mustered her most businesslike demeanor. “Well, what do you say? Do you want me?” Immediately she blushed, realizing she should’ve phrased her words differently. “I mean, do you want me to do the work or not?”

“Fine.” The shadow of a smile played at his lips.

“Half now, half at completion. I take bank checks. I can give you a few days to get the money together, if you need it.”

“I don’t,” he replied, hastily. “I brought cash.”

“Cash?” she asked, incredulous.

Blake shrugged. “Yeah. Don’t people use cash anymore?”

“Um, sure. I guess. Not often, though. Usually to buy gum or something.”

“This would buy a lot of gum.” Was that a glimmer of humor? He headed back into the camp.

Alex looked around the living room, as she followed him in. “Are you going to do the interior work yourself?”

“I guess. I need to get this done as fast as I can and sell it. I need to get back to my life.”

Alex was curious. “Where is your life?” Her voice was soft. She shivered in the cold of the dark camp. Why hadn’t he turned the furnace on?

“Chicago,” he said as he grabbed his backpack from the living room floor. He reached into it and dug around.

Alex watched him, quizzically. “That’s kind of far from here.”

“Yeah. Exactly.” He pulled a bulging white envelope from the backpack.

Eyes widening, Alex asked, “What do you do?” She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as he stared up at her.

“Do you always ask so many questions?” He stiffened and narrowed his eyes at her again.

She was prepared this time and asked coyly, “Are you always such a jerk?” Amused, she ran her hand along the stone mantel.

“So yes, then. You can’t help it, can you?” Blake gave her a half-smile, as he removed a thick stack of bills from the envelope.

Alex sighed. “I guess not. You can, though,” Alex said.

“I can what?” he asked, “Help being a jerk?”

“Yeah. Give it a try.”

“Okay.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I’ll try, but I’m not promising anything.”

As he counted out the money, Alex asked, “So, what do you do?”

“I deal drugs,” he replied, glancing back up at her with a straight face.

If she’d had coffee in her mouth, she would have spit it across the room. Her horrorstruck expression was enough to restore Blake’s smile.

“Kidding. I’m a physical therapist. I work with the Bears.”

“As in, the Chicago Bears?”

“Yep, them. It’s a pretty good living. And luckily, it’s off-season right now, so it was less problematic for me to take time off for this.” He waved his hand to indicate the cabin, then handed her a wad of cash.

Hesitantly, she reached out her hand and looked up at him. “This is weird. You know that, right?”

“Whatever. Take it or leave it. Do you want the job?”

“Yes. I love a challenge.” She took the money, still reluctant. “Seriously, though, why cash?”

“Jesus. You don’t give up.” He looked incredulous. “I knew I’d need to gut this shithole, and I didn’t want to deal with a bunch of banks and checks and bullshit. Cash is easier, and I’ve been saving up for ages.” He gestured widely and added bitterly, “I consider this an investment.”

“Thank you for explaining,” Alex replied. “I try to be careful, you know. There’s a lot of weirdos in the woods.”

“Oh, I know there are,” Blake said, in an exaggerated way, his eyebrows arched. “Are you going to count it?”

“I guess I should.” Awkwardly, she stood in the dim, decrepit camp, counting the bills. No one had ever handed her this much cash before. The bills were all hundreds, but it still took a while.

When she was finally done, she pocketed the money and said, “Okay. I’ll get you a receipt and start work tomorrow. How much land here is yours?”

“Four acres straight back to the main road. Why?”

“Can I cut trees on the property?”

“Sure. Go nuts.”

All business again, Alex said, “Okay. I’ll order a dumpster so we have someplace to put all the wood from the porch.”

“Can I fill it with shit from the house, too?” Blake asked, brightening.

“Definitely.”

“Fantastic.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow.”

As Alex slammed the door of her truck, she shook her head. What had she gotten herself into? As she drove back down the mountain road to town, she decided Blake was an unusual man. He was sullen. He turned on a dime. He made gender assumptions. And worst of all, he seemed to be settling for her as a contractor.

Still, there was something else, something compelling about him. There was a sense of humor under all that bluster, and between angsty glares and broody frowns, she saw the glimmer of a good man beneath the taciturn façade.

Maybe the job wouldn’t be fun, but it might be interesting. At least it was work, and she needed the money.

 

* * *

 

What was he thinking? Blake had just given fifteen thousand dollars to a diminutive wood sprite and watched her speed away in a beat-to-hell truck from 1986. Alex could so easily take that money and he’d never see her again. No receipt, like it never happened. Somehow, though, he trusted she wouldn’t stiff him. Her independent spirit was refreshing. It took balls to be a female contractor in the middle of the woods. This was definitely a man’s world, and she was alone in it.

Despite her size and her adorably cropped copper curls, which seemed to have a life force of their own, she was tough as nails and all business. The color of her eyes, however, lingered in his mind as she drove away. Their particular shade of forget-me-not blue was painfully familiar. It was the same shade his mother’s eyes had been, so long ago.

As dust from the gravel driveway settled, the sound of Alex’s tires slowly dissipated, and Blake was swallowed once more by the quiet of the lake. The woods blanketed all sound, muffling it from within. Birds called to each other, but they were so much a part of the place they didn’t register as noise. Alex was gone. Blake was alone, and he needed to stay busy, to move forward, to get away from this damned place as fast as possible.

When he’d arrived a few hours ago, stepping into the front room was like falling into a black chasm. Without looking around, he’d gone to the phone table, dug out the phonebook, and called the numbers for local contractors. There were few choices, and Alex had been the only one with voicemail. After he left a message with his number, he sat on the porch and stared at the lake, not ready to face the ghosts awaiting him inside.

Now, holding his breath, Blake surveyed the cabin’s dilapidated exterior again. What a wreck. The cleaning alone was a daunting prospect, but the dumpster would be a blessing. Everything that wasn’t nailed down would go. Absolutely everything. Blake would pass a clean slate on to the new owners, erasing every last trace of his father.

Two weeks ago, Blake’s blood had gone cold as he learned of his father’s death. Aunt Sal, his mother’s sister, had called to share the news. Dwight was finally dead. There was little to say about it, other than the fact. Sal wasn’t sorry, Blake wasn’t sorry, and neither of them feigned remorse for the loss. The conversation was short and to the point, mainly because Blake had ended the call quickly, before Sal could pepper him with questions or blanket him with sympathy. The realization, however, settled in like a hard frost. His father was dead, and work needed to be done.

For better or worse, Sal had always cared deeply about Blake, reassuring him as often as she could that he’d eventually be free of his psycho father’s tyranny. She had even offered to adopt him after his mother died. In a characteristically cruel rebuff, however, his father had refused to relinquish custody. Instead, Dwight had kept the ten-year-old Blake around, because Blake assumed, with his mother dead, his father would’ve had no one left to abuse.

Over the years, Sal had tried so hard to help. Sometimes, she managed to convince Dwight to let Blake come and stay with her, but it was only ever to suit his own convenience that Dwight agreed. Seeing the love of a real family close up, only to be tossed into Hades again at the end of the stay, was a torture all its own. Blake grew to dread those trips, with their cruel glimpses of the perfect, peaceful life he couldn’t have. Poor Sal. How could she have known being with her family only made Blake feel worse? Her best efforts hadn’t made a difference in his world at all.

Guilt for pushing Sal away had gnawed at Blake for decades. Why was he so hard on her? She had tried her best, after all. Tried and failed. Would Dwight’s death change anything? Blake doubted it could, but he should at least let her know he’d arrived. Out of habit, he reached into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone, but of course, as Alex had pointed out, there was no reception here. Somehow, there was still a scattering of remote places left in the world. This forsaken corner of the Adirondacks was definitely one of them.

Steeling himself, he walked back into the gloomy cabin. On his way to the landline, he paused in the living room to glare at the fireplace Alex had admired so much. To Blake, it was only a monument to misery. Fifteen years had passed since he’d left his father’s home, yet here, time had stretched and warped, as though teetering on the event horizon of a black hole. Now that he was alone, oppressive memories crept out from every corner to mock him. His racing heart betrayed him, try as he might to ignore the voices of his past.

Disintegrating roller shades, once so adept at concealing the violence within those walls, hung impotently at the windows. They had grown tired and given in to the persistent sunlight edging defiantly through the cracks. Ferociously, Blake tore down the tattered roller shades and threw them out the front door. A pile of decrepit paper mounted on the front lawn as Blake worked his way through the downstairs. As the papers landed, clouds of dust billowed up, curling and eddying into the day’s golden air like ghosts, and then dissipated in the breeze.

Natural light now entered the cabin, streaming through filthy windows, making the place seem less like a dungeon. It was a slight improvement. Blake’s mood rallied incrementally.

Resuming the dreaded task of calling Sal, Blake sat at the phone table and dialed his aunt’s number.

“Hey, Aunt Sal. It’s Blake. I’m here.”

“Hi, my boy. I’ve missed you. Is it absolutely horrible there?”

Blake steadied his breathing and answered, “Not that bad. It’s fine, actually. I’m going to clean it up. I hired somebody to fix some things, and then I’ll sell it.”

“You’ll make some money on it, I think. That’s a beautiful piece of lake frontage. Are you sure you don’t want to keep the place?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Blake replied, not bothering to conceal the bitter edge in his voice. “I’ll sell it as soon as I can.”

“Why don’t you come over for dinner? It’s only me and Sam. The kids are still at college.”

“College, huh? That’s crazy. Are they doing well?” Blake rubbed his eyes.

“Who knows.” Sal’s laugh reminded him of his mother’s.

“Listen, I gotta go. I’ll call you soon.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Sal said, knowing he was trying to get out of seeing her. “You’re staying here and that is that. Come for dinner, sleep in Bunny’s room, and we’ll look after you. You certainly can’t stay there.”

“I need to be here, Sal. I can’t drive back and forth every day. There’s so much to do. I’ll come for dinner soon, though.”

“Okay, Blake, but the offer stands. I’m here.”

He forced a softer tone. “Thanks, Aunt Sal. I appreciate it. See you soon.” Blake hung up before she could say anything else.

Rubbing his face again, he tried to put the hurt in his aunt’s voice out of his mind. There was barely enough time for his own emotional baggage right now, let alone anyone else’s. He had too much to do but didn’t know where to begin.

As he surveyed the rest of the cabin, one glance into his father’s darkened bedroom was all he could manage before a wave of nausea threatened to take him down. He closed the door again, blocking out the air of cruelty and decay, the foul remnants of a foul man.

Apprehensively, Blake approached the back hallway. Thick layers of off-white paint peeled from the walls above the wainscoting, revealing glimpses of the strangely bright greens and pinks of the past. The walls were so far off-white now that to use the word white, even modified, seemed a gross misrepresentation. Even the paint was trying to escape this place, flinging itself from the horror of its own existence. The bathroom off the hall was a lost cause, and Blake shuddered at the thought of what might be growing in that fetid biome.

As Blake reached the stairs to the second floor, he inclined his gaze upward, toward his childhood bedroom. Darkness tunneled to another closed door. Desperately, Blake fought his flight response, willing himself to calm down, willing himself to face this whatever lay beyond. Nothing could undo the past now. Blake put his hand on the battered newel post, began to take a step up, and faltered, as his racing heart betrayed him. Enough. He turned around and stormed back down the hallway, through the living room, and towards the screen door. It slapped like a shot against the outside wall, as he burst through.

Breathing fast, Blake looked down to discover his hands were balled into tight fists. Sweat had broken out over his entire body despite the chill air of the camp. The toothless, broken balustrade surrounding the front porch leered drunkenly at him. Rotten decking that shouldn’t have borne his weight bowed precariously beneath him, as though the entire world would give way any moment.

Eventually, Blake’s senses resurfaced through the panic. Little by little his breathing slowed, and his muscles relaxed, as he mastered himself once more. The tightness in his chest had been overwhelming as he gazed up those stairs. It had trapped him, pinning him with his own fear. Outside, though, it was as it had always been. The brisk air and the whisper of the wind through pine needles eased some of his anxiety. The sparkling water of the lake teased him, flirting with him, drawing him out of himself and into its beauty. He walked down the overgrown path to the water’s edge, with its shifting array of blues, and sat on a mossy boulder until his calm was fully restored.

He could do this. He could face this place, these memories, without breaking. He had to. He had faced worse in living through it, after all. His reaction was only natural. He could master his emotions and get through the next six weeks. Dwight, from the hell he had surely gone to, could not hurt him anymore. Blake had won the fight.

When Blake eventually forced himself back into the camp, he strode past the fireplace and entered the kitchen. He flipped the light switch, but what he saw made him wish he hadn’t. This was a different breed of awful. He wished for a hazmat suit.

The counters were encrusted with layers of filth. The tattered linoleum floor was caked with grime. The refrigerator would be a horror all its own. Surrounded by mismatched chairs stood the same sturdy depression-era table Blake remembered. Its stout wooden legs seemed rooted to the floor, as though they had grown there and never been shifted. Telltale gashes crisscrossed its shellacked surface; evidence of the violence Blake’s life had been plagued with. We’re twins, Blake mused bitterly, running his hand along the scars.

Under the kitchen sink, Blake was shocked to find cleaning fluid and a scrub brush stuck in a tin bucket from the 1950s. The scrub brush was brand new, the tag still on it, and by the price he assumed it was only a few decades old. Blake went at it. He first scrubbed the kitchen counters. Then he moved on to the windowsills. He tore down the ancient, moth-eaten, formerly-gingham curtains, rods and all, and added them to the growing pile of detritus on the lawn. He scrubbed and washed, emptying bucket after bucket of filthy water down the drain. It was a purifying ritual, utterly satisfying.

After hours of cleaning, hunger crept up on Blake. All he had with him was crappy snack food left over from the drive. He hadn’t touched the refrigerator yet—he would have to scour it before he would allow food in there—but it would have to wait.

With his keys and his backpack in hand, Blake headed to his car and drove to town. He ate at the first restaurant he saw and picked up some beer, food, cleaning supplies, and garbage bags at the general store. A few of their lackluster, premade dinners would last him at least a few days. He got a blanket and a pillow as well, knowing there was no way he could use what was in the cabin.

The all-purpose nature of stores in remote places fascinated him. It was too far for people to drive to a big-box store, so the little stores had everything they thought you’d need. It was one of the few things he appreciated about the place where he’d grown up.

Back at the cabin, Blake tackled the fridge and then the bathroom. For hours, he channeled his unhappiness and anger into a dervish of scouring and scrubbing. Well after midnight, when he’d finally exhausted his manic energy, he grabbed a beer and drank it on the porch. Racing silver clouds obscured the stars and the cold sapped away his body heat. Every exhale floated off to collect with the low fog rolling over the lake. Blake finished his beer, tossed the bottle into the hulking pile of debris on the lawn, and walked to his car.

Trying not to think too hard, he unpackaged the pillow and blankets, and lay down across the tight back seat. Maybe he was being stubborn, but he refused to sleep in his father’s cabin. No fucking way. The cold he could handle. The ghosts were another story. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable night.

As he lay awake, staring through the rear window at the fissures between clouds, glimpsing an occasional star, his thoughts turned involuntarily back to Dwight. For years, Blake would lay awake, staring at that same sky, trying to block out Dwight’s cruel voice, the clatter of upturned furniture and breaking glass, the muffled sounds of his mother crying downstairs.

In the mornings, she’d hide her bruises and pretend all was well. Blake had no baseline for what a normal family life was like, but in his heart, he knew this was not it. He tried to be strong for her anyway. He fought impotently against the torrent of insults Dwight would unleash on her for the slightest misstep, but it was like talking to a wall. The bastard had ignored him entirely, like Blake didn’t exist. Dwight waited until nighttime to unleash his physical cruelty. Until the end, that is. The violence had escalated fiercely in the end.

Dwight’s cruelty against Blake, however, had begun almost the moment his mother had died. When Blake was at his most vulnerable, having finally confessed his deep sadness to his father, the man had turned on him viciously. Blake still bore the scars of that first assault, and those of all the subsequent attacks. They were etched into his back like a topographical map. He could see himself cowering in the corner. Calling out to empty space. Begging for the pain to stop. Begging for his father to stop. Catching sight of his father’s face reflected in the bedroom mirror, contorted in hatred and anger as he landed blow after blow.

“You little bastard.” His father’s voice echoed through time, cold and cruel. “You coward. Cry, little baby. Go on. Cry. It won’t bring her back.”

Blake choked back the lump he hadn’t realized was in his throat, as he wrestled himself for control. Of course, coming back here wouldn’t be easy, but this was torture. I should’ve sold the fucking place and been done with it. Why am I doing this to myself? I don’t have anything to prove. I’ve healed. I’ve moved on. The faded memory of his mother drove the lies from his mind. He had come back here for her, not for his father. He was desperate, whether he wanted to admit it or not, for some kind of closure. Fighting the flood of heartache, Blake beat back the memories, one by one.

Even now that Blake was free of his father, he knew he wasn’t free. The idea of setting down roots or having his own children someday set off a death spiral in every relationship he chanced. It was for the best. No good could come from getting attached anyway. That had been proven to him early on. Life was a game everyone lost in the end.

Sleep evaded Blake for hours, as he tried to settle his body and his mind. It proved an impossible task.

 

↑ Return to Top ↑