Beauty (A Midsummer Suspense Tale) (3 page)

Eventually the SUV slowed and Sawyer cracked open his pale grey eyes. A long winding driveway unfurled like a ribbon up a slope, past wrought iron gates. The place had some security but not much. Less than he was used to, but then calling in more would’ve alerted someone, somewhere to his presence.

To his right stretched a massive lake in the distance, bleached sandy hills and tall uncut grass. Simple. He was grateful for that, the untouched natural beauty of the property. The house itself was directly ahead, two levels visible up front and a third below that opened to the beach, according to the photos. Tall, wide windows took up much of the walls, allowing in natural night. White and airy, clean modern lines. The place was furnished, cleaned and ready for their stay. Just the sight of it filled him with relief, weight lifting from his shoulders. Scott had picked up the key when they neared town an hour ago—Sawyer had been clear about not wanting anyone there to meet them or show them around. The fewer people the better.

Jeffrey swung the vehicle past the four car garage and pulled up near the front steps to the house and a path of wide, light gray interlock stones. Sawyer turned his gaze from the house to Valerie ahead of him. Her eyes, a gray tinged more blue than his own, were locked on his, and a dark brown eyebrow was cocked with enough questions she didn’t have to say a word.

“Not right now,” he warned, less bite and more weariness to his tone than he’d displayed so far that day.

Her brow didn’t move but she pursed her lips. After a lengthy, meaningful look, she swung around and jerked open the door. Her bobbed dark hair bounced with the movement and she climbed out to stretch.

“Hey,” Scott said, twisted around. “Don’t make my wife bitchy after dragging her out here.”

Sawyer bit back a comment about how he hadn’t, in fact, dragged her anywhere. Val was bullheaded and went wherever she damn well pleased. Instead he nodded, avoided his brother-in-law’s gaze, and shifted out of the vehicle.

The sun struck him hard and he fumbled with his coat for his shades. Damn hangover. Whiskey had seemed like such a good idea at the time and he made a mental note to not do that again. Instead he breathed in the fall air, fresh and tinged with the scent of water and trees. It filled his lungs, calmed his stress enough that the tension unwound just a bit more from his shoulders.

The driver took care of the bags without a word while Val looped her arm through Scott’s and pulled him across the lawn, pointing at the beach in the distance and murmuring something. Sawyer watched them for a moment, the closeness and realness palpable between them. They’d been married just six months, but they never seemed to have the supposed “honeymoon period” of doe-eyed loviness. They were always simply Val and Scott, friends first, couple second, with a genuine regard for one another Sawyer rarely saw in other people. Of course, given the company he generally kept, that was hardly surprising. He felt a sharp sudden squeeze of his heart, some yearning for something he’d never had, never
would
have, when he looked at them.

He scowled and glanced away, heading up the steps toward the rental house. Jeffrey already had the door unlocked and was heading back down to get the rest of the bags. Sawyer slipped inside past him and paused in the foyer to peer around. It was as the place was described, a vaulted ceiling just inside with a second floor balcony around it, stairs to his left leading up to the hall of bedrooms. A kitchen lay directly ahead of him, bright with the massive windows despite no lights being on. Around the corner would be the living room. Downstairs, a multimedia den and laundry facilities. Four bathrooms, six bedrooms. A small boathouse and dock by the water, complete with boats. Perfect getaway.

As if he could really get away from anything.

The silence was broken moments later when Val and Scott came in laughing, the latter giving Jeffrey instructions while the former scooped up one of her suitcases.

“Any room I want?” Val challenged, pausing at the stairs to glance over her shoulder at Sawyer.

He nodded. She’d pick a small modest one, he knew, but liked to pretend otherwise.

Scott closed the front door while Val headed upstairs and slapped Sawyer on the shoulder. “It’s a nice place.”

“It is.”

“You’re brooding still.”

“I am.”

“You’re here to
not
brood.”

“No, I’m here to brood away from the paparazzi cameras.”

“Point. You could do us all a favor and brood a little less, though.”

“There’s a hot tub on the deck. You won’t see me from there.”

Scott shook his head and pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his nylon jacket. “Here’s the code for the door alarm and the front gate. I don’t figure we’ll need it, but just in case.”

Sawyer took the paper, glanced over the string of numbers, and pocketed it. He stepped away from Scott, the other man’s hand slipping off his shoulder, and grasped his overnight bag and suitcase to head upstairs.

“Sean.”

He was halfway up the stairs when Scott called him, and he glanced over his shoulder at him in silence.

His brother-in-law’s expression was serious, dark brows pulled tight over his deep-set eyes and lips set in a grim line. “It’ll be okay.”

Sawyer bit back a comment and continued on up the stairs. What was there to say, after all?

His life was a mess. Everyone else’s life he came in contact with became a mess in turn. Somehow he’d gone from a bright-eyed kid with big dreams to a jaded, washed up loser who destroyed everything he touched.
At least I’ve got the brooding down. Too bad it doesn’t make for much of a career.

All the bedroom doors were open but the one nearest the stairs, which he figured meant Valerie had claimed it already. He continued on down the hall to the farthest end where a pair of massive doors opened to the master bedroom. It had a vaulted ceiling like the foyer, one wall nearly entirely glass with big doors that led to a veranda. King-sized bed already neatly made in cream and taupe sheets with stacks of pillows. Hardwood floor polished to a shine. Two doors to the left lay open, revealing an empty walk-in closet and an ensuite bathroom decorated in pale blue and white tile. The bedroom was utterly silent, just the call of gulls in the distance over the water. Exactly what he wanted.

Wasn’t it?

Sawyer let the bags thump at his feet, wandered past the bed, and unlocked then cracked open the door. Vines crept around the balcony railing, though swiftly losing their leaves so only spindly branches remained. Two reclining wooden chairs, a table. It would be quite picturesque in the summer, he imagined, but in fall it was silent and cold.

He lowered himself to the chair, made a mental note to hunt down some cushions as the slats bit into his flesh through his jeans, and found himself pulling out his phone. Another thing he’d promised he wouldn’t do—check it—but there the habit was ingrained deep like all the rest, his thumb moving absently over the screen to check for messages like always. He skipped the voicemail, glanced at texts. Found the usual. Stupidly checked Twitter, where his mentions were a mess of retweeted news stories that had tagged him, stupid comments calling him names, and fluffy fan questions. His gaze snagged on the headline he saw over and over, not the latest but the one that seemed to be tweeted the most.

Questions for SkyHigh Members After—

He turned his phone off again and looked away. It was an ugly article despite the innocuous headline, one he could practically recite by heart at this point, despite the fact that he only pulled it up to read after having a few drinks when his head was fuzzy. And read it he would, over and over again, until it made him want another drink, and then the cycle would continue until he woke up feeling like he had that morning.

He set the phone on the wide wooden arm of the chair and took in a few deep breaths. That pressure was there again, pushing at his shoulders, reminding him that he could run away all he wanted and nothing ever went away. Because the problem wasn’t with what was around him, the problem was with
him
. Everywhere he went.

Sawyer rubbed at his face like that could change him, make him someone new, and stared out at the water. Maybe a few days, a few weeks away would clear his head.

Maybe he’d somehow just make this worse.

Chapter Two

Bryar had avoided telling her aunts about what she’d been doing all afternoon.

She had a schedule from Gina, what days she was coming in for basic training and what days she’d start working. She could hardly believe it happened so quickly—part of her hadn’t really expected to land a job that afternoon. Her best case scenario was
maybe
getting asked for an interview. But Gina was cool and understanding, and even part time hours were a blessing. Plus some job experience there might mean someone else would hire her later. She could juggle a couple of jobs. Not like she had much else to do.

The Rosings’ cottage was bustling, at least out in the main part where her three aunts were busy with dinner. Bryar was in her room going through her closet, figuring out what would be best to wear for the new job. Gina was fairly casual, after all—Bryar could get away with simple pants and a button down shirt. First paycheck, she’d pick up something nicer. Maybe from Lady in Red. Gina mentioned eventually having uniforms or at least something color coordinated, but didn’t have firm plans yet. For now, there were aprons with the store logo over them that would identify her as staff while she was in the shop.

“Dinner!” Aunt Lora called from the other room. “Hurry up, girl!”

Called like a kid. Every night. Irritation rose, though Bryar stuffed it back down again. There was no sense getting annoyed with them. They cared, she knew. They did a lot for her. Raised her from infancy after her parents died, did their best to care for her.

They’d also
suffocated her
since childhood with their fussing and fretting and grounding and “You’re never leaving the house again after that stunt you just pulled”, which she heard practically weekly as a teen. They were ridiculously strict, allowing a television and movies but no actual cable channels or anything, a computer without internet. Bryar got an old cell phone of her friend’s in high school, snagged some pre-paid cards, and was grounded for three months when they found it. Living in a world where everyone was online and connected
except
you had been a nightmare and was likely the cause for all the acting out she did, even if the aunts didn’t want to admit it. It was like growing up in one of those super religious families Bryar ran into at school except they had no Jesus as an excuse. No reason for their protectiveness.

Maybe it was her parents dying. Her aunts Donna and Lora were her father’s sisters. They probably missed their older brother. Aunt Merry was Aunt Donna’s wife, had been with them Bryar’s whole life too. Sometimes she watched Bryar oddly when she was disciplined for this and that or fighting with the others, like words were about to bubble forth, but then she held her tongue again and never said what was on her mind. After two decades, Bryar had expected them to relax a bit, but so far? So far they acted like she was still thirteen.

She left her bedroom with a sigh, stepping into the dark narrow hallway and toward the main part of the cottage. The air was thick with the scents of dinner. Lora had been busy. Whether they all ate a regular breakfast or lunch wasn’t something anyone focused on, but an enormous family dinner was always on the table in the evening, home cooked from scratch. On the dining room table, a basket of freshly baked sliced bread waited, steam still rising. Dishes of roasted, spiced potatoes, fall vegetables from the garden, salad, and pork chops. Despite her annoyance with the family situation, the sight and scent of food—the familiarity of the daily ritual—filled her with welcome comfort and she found herself smiling.

Plates were already set out and she took a seat on one side of the table. Aunt Merry set down tongs and a wooden bowl of salad, settling her plump self down to Bryar’s left. Her graying hair was spun up in a messy, loose bun, and glasses sat crookedly on her long nose.

She smiled warmly at Bryar. “So how was your day? You disappeared this afternoon.”

“Went for a walk.” Bryar busied herself spooning potatoes onto her plate as Aunt Lora and Aunt Donna entered.

“Must’ve been quite a walk.” Tall, slender Lora sat next, cocking a thin, shaped brow up in question as she met Bryar’s gaze.

Bryar kept her poker face. “Well, the giant drunken orgy was outside of town, plus they needed me to pick up the meth first from the dealer. So that took a bit of time.”

“Such a mouth on you,” Donna admonished with a disapproving look as she took her seat at the head of the table. Donna was the eldest of the women, in her late-forties, and was the authoritarian of the three. Her hair was cut short and severe, clothes conservative and simple. She and Lora were a study in contrasts that way—Lora wore her black hair long and flowing, her clothes casual and usually a size too big for her willowy frame. The two of them had features in common—the width of their noses, the tapering of their chins, and dark, dark eyes that were similar to Bryar’s own, skin a shade just a touch darker than medium brown. Enough, perhaps, to put pieces together of what Bryar’s own father had looked like, but not enough for more details. And that was more than she knew of her mother. A few times, when she was younger, she would catch odd little stories of her parents, usually during a tangent in a conversation about something else, but then her aunts would meet gazes and grow silent again, and no more would be said.

Gina Cassidy, at least, had that family photo of hers. Bryar practically felt like an orphan, despite being raised by family.

She brushed the thoughts aside and stuffed a hunk of potato in her mouth to avoid any more conversation.

Unfortunately, her haunts had other ideas.

“Lilly Pepper down the road said she saw you downtown today,” Donna continued. She’d spooned food out on her plate but didn’t pick up her fork, instead folding her hands on the table in front of her.