What Comes Next

  WHAT COMES NEXT

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is protected under copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Cover design by Najla Qambar Designs

  Edited by Sara Meadows at TripleA Publishing Services

  Book design by Inkstain Interior Book Designing

  All rights reserved. Copyright © 2016 Desni Dantone

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9895090-8-4

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About Desni

  THE IGNITED SERIES

  Ignited

  Sacrificed

  Salvaged Soul

  Avenging Heart

  COMING IN 2017:

  Vessels of the Apocalypse Trilogy

  SUMMER 1973

  There is no cure for heartbreak. I know because I’ve looked for it. Extensively.

  Those that suffer heartbreak must eventually force themselves to do the one thing everyone expects them to do. Move on. I’ve found that not even that will cure true, unfathomable heartbreak. It’s merely a bandage, placed on a deep and complicated wound, and placing it is not as easy to do as others think.

  Trust me, I know.

  It’s been a year since I left everything I own behind in this tiny, two-bedroom apartment, and set out in search of the elusive cure for my own broken heart.

  I still seek it. Sure, I have been to extraordinary places, seen beautiful sights, and done exciting things, but I’ve yet to discover the secret to finding true happiness again. I’ve yet to find a place worthy enough to call home. My yearlong deviation from reality has not given me the clarity I hoped it would when I left.

  Ironically, reality has waited for me all this time, right here in this room, along with the few boxes that contain my life. Reality slaps me in the face when I stop long enough to actually look at the cluster of cardboard and strewn clothing I left behind in the corner.

  I approach the mess slowly, cautiously, certain that I am hallucinating. My hand trembles as I pinch the photograph between my fingers and hold it up in the dim light. The frayed edges and thin scratches that mar the surface are not familiar to me, but the image of the moment frozen in time is one I know very well.

  My leaden feet shuffle across the floor as I scramble to find my purse where I tossed it on the narrow bed. My hands dive in, withdrawing my wallet, some loose cash, spare change, two tubes of lip gloss . . . everything but the object I’m looking for. I upend the bag in desperation, and dump the remaining contents onto the bed. Hidden beneath a package of tissues is the photograph I’m searching for. The one I never go anywhere without, but never look at.

  I hold the two photographs up side by side, and stare in disbelief at their matching images. One still perfectly crisp and vibrant; the other, worn and faded. Both printed on the same day, and split between the young couple in the image—split between me . . . and him.

  The tenderness in both our eyes captures the love between us, as well as our obliviousness to what the future held. Looking at us then, and feeling the surge of unwanted emotions that comes with seeing our happiness, I can’t help but do what I have spent the past two years purposefully avoiding.

  I let my mind wander back to when it all started.

  With the new year comes a fresh start. That was what Mama told me moments before we tossed our bags into the trunk of Pop’s rusty Pontiac, and started the three-hour journey to Mama’s hometown. One thing I’d learned from being her daughter for nearly seventeen years was that Mama wasn’t usually right about a lot of things. But this?

  More than anything, I hoped she was right about this. I hoped 1969 would forever be remembered as the year I found a home.

  Not a homeless shelter. Not the back room of a crowded apartment conveniently located above the noisy bar Mama worked nights. Not temporary, after temporary, after temporary.

  It wasn’t that my mama was a bad mother. She’d always done the best she could with what she had. Moving from place to place had always been her coping mechanism. For what? I never really understood. Fired from another low wage job—move. Dumped by a man that didn’t want the instant daddy to two young children label—move. No money to pay rent—move under the cover of darkness.

  It was all my brother, Jeffrey, and I had ever known. We never moved far from the sleepy coastal North Carolina town where Mama was from. Far enough for Mama to hide when she wanted to. Close enough for Ma and Pop to help when she got into trouble.

  Which she had. Several times.

  Every year, for as long as I could remember, Mama had sent Jeffery and me to Stone Creek to spend the summer with Ma and Pop while she ran off to God only knew where, and did God only knew what. Until five years ago.

  An argument between Mama and Pop had resulted in Jeffrey and me being corralled by Mama into the barely running sedan with nothing more than the clothes we were wearing. She drove off into the night, and we never returned.

  Until we had to. Because when Mama eventually died, Jeffrey and I would have no one to take care of us except for Ma and Pop. It wasn’t some distant threat, some unlikely possibility of becoming orphans someday. No, it was happening now, whether my brother and I were ready for it, or not.

  I peered across the back seat of the car, toward the sixteen-year-old male version of myself. Though Mama had always claimed my father had been a traveling musician, in town for one night only, and that she didn’t know who he was, I didn’t believe her. Identical green eyes stared back at me from under a mop of dirty blonde hair, and I didn’t doubt that Jeffrey and I shared the same father.

  “What?” His upper lip curled in disgust.

  “Nothing,” I hissed.

  We certainly had matching attitudes. His had only worsened after Mama’s diagnosis right after Thanksgiving.

  For the first time ever, she’d made a nice meal. She’d stuffed us with turkey and potatoes and green bean casserole, which was pointless because I’d puked it all back up in the toilet fifteen minutes later, after she’d told us her news. I would never regard the holiday in a positive light again, and Jeffrey . . .

  He was miserable, even for a sixteen-year-old, know-it-all boy.

  I turned away from his scowl to observe the gently rolling
green fields and scattered homes as we wound farther from the interstate and any semblance of city life. At the splintered wooden sign announcing our entry into the town of Stone Creek, I sat up a little farther in my seat. Thirty miles from the coast, and the sprawling beach homes and popular restaurants that had sprung up in recent years, the town remained unchanged from five years ago. Exactly as the locals preferred it.

  We cruised along the one-stop-sign street, passing a few family-owned stores I recognized. Aside from the ice cream parlor, which I noticed had tripled in size and was now called The Pit, they all looked the same.

  I leaned forward in my seat as Pop turned the Pontiac off the main strip and onto a familiar red dirt road. A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as we bumped along at an impossibly slow speed.

  I remembered these bumps. They were excellent bike-jumping bumps, and appeared to have only improved over the years. Spring rains had chiseled out a few steep mounds and deep gullies along the beaten road, only improving the conditions for an adventure-seeking kid. I’d certainly earned a few cuts and scrapes on this road in my youth, while racing the neighbor boys on our bikes. Now, I worried a bike wouldn’t even pass.

  Pop didn’t seem to notice, or mind, the occasional thump from the belly of the old sedan as it dragged across the uneven ground. The road was apparently nothing to worry about. Pop’s farm, on the other hand, was a different story.

  “A lot of work needs to be done,” he groaned from behind the wheel. “Last hurricane ripped the roof off the barn, tore down half the fence. Took two weeks to gather most of the cows back up, and we’re still missing some of ҆em.”

  I leaned forward as the small farm opened up through the windshield—quaint, with an old two-story farmhouse and an even older barn, separated only by a broad patch of red dirt. Behind the house, wheat fields stretched out to the borders of the property. A cluster of trees rose up on the other side of the barn and separated Pop’s land from the neighboring farm. Sixty acres, he complained. Too much for him manage by himself now. He might have to sell a chunk of it soon.

  “Repairs are costing me something terrible,” he continued.

  “Barn roof looks pretty good, Pop,” I offered from the back seat.

  “Only҆cause the boys been workin’ on it. I still have to pay҆em.”

  I nearly asked who he was talking about before the Pontiac ground to a halt in the shade of the barn, and I saw for myself. Above us, two boys stood on the roof, watching. Both young and fit—the perfect picture of hired help.

  I climbed out of the car, and stretched the stiffness out of my legs before grabbing the bags from the trunk. One each for Jeffrey, Mama, and me. A shame, really, how little we had to bring with us. Then again, it was probably best to leave Norfolk, the location of our most recent temporary residence, completely behind. The less reminder I had of that old, nomadic life, the better. The easier it would be to start over, and settle down.

  A childhood of switching schools and constantly moving had taught me that lesson. Just as I had also learned to never get too comfortable in a new place. Though I knew this time would be different—that we were here to stay—old habits die hard.

  At least I was optimistic. Unlike my moody brother, who had left behind the love of his life in Norfolk, I wasn’t bitter about the move.

  Jeffrey snatched his bag out of my hands with a scowl and stalked toward the house as the door swung open. Ma bustled outside with long and purposeful strides, her flour-speckled apron billowing around her waist. She took my mama in her open arms with a drawn-out sigh.

  “My girl is back home at last,” she whispered. Her eyes squeezed tightly before she pushed Mama back to arm’s length. Her lips pursed together at the sight of Mama’s stick-thin arms and hollowed cheeks before she pasted on a smile. “Well, let’s get you inside, and get you comfortable. Ana?” Ma turned to find me standing to the side. “Be a dear and carry your mama’s bag, would you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  While Ma and Pop assisted Mama into the house, I tossed the bags over my shoulders. I shot a parting glance behind me, toward the roof of the barn, before following. One of the boys had gone back to work while the other still stood, watching the commotion from above. With a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, I couldn’t make out his face, but there was something about the way he stood that sparked a flicker of recognition. The slight tilt of his head as he watched me . . .

  The screen door slammed shut behind me before I could piece together what seemed familiar about him, and I turned to take in the kitchen. Large and open, with miles of counter space spread across three walls to my left, a wood-topped island with three stools in front of me, and a table with six chairs fit into the niche to my right, it was exactly as I remembered it.

  Ma hurried through the arched opening separating the kitchen from the rest of the house. “Pop’s getting your mama all set. Do you remember where your room is?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Go on then.” She swept me farther into the house with a wave of her arms. “Get unpacked, and help your brother. Dinner will be in an hour.”

  She settled in front of the stove, and I took that as my cue to get a move on. Ma had never been a fussy grandmother, so I hadn’t expected an over-the-top welcome. She had a heart of gold, but didn’t wear it on her sleeve. Efficient and down-to-business. That was Ma.

  Upstairs, I found a grumpy Jeffrey already unpacked. At the sight of the scowl on his face, I cautiously backed out of his room and angled across the hallway. My room was the best room in the house, I always thought. Even as a child, I recognized the potential when I claimed it as my summer hideaway.

  The pink walls had been the result of a childhood princess obsession. Years later, the paint was duller, chipped in spots, and covered with framed school pictures of myself. In my absence, Ma and Pop had apparently turned this room into their Ana Shrine. While it was weird to be surrounded by the photographed evidence of my awkward childhood, I was grateful the room was no longer adorned in unicorns and plastic tiaras.

  The view was still the same, and was what made the room worthwhile. The barn, in its entirety, was framed by the single bay window. Though old and splintered, with peeling red paint, the barn was my favorite place on the farm. Beyond it, a gently rolling field stretched to the line of trees at the edge of the property. Barely visible through the tree branches was the creek I used to spend hot summer days splashing in.

  I turned away from the window and glanced at the bag of my belongings on the bed. It felt like an anchor, weighing me down to the room, suffocating me. Surrounded by the promise of freedom, the last thing I wanted to do was stay in the room to unpack.

  My mind instantly made up, I dashed down the stairs. My feet pounded the wooden floors as loud as a herd of cattle in a stampede. Ma glanced up from the stove as I raced through the kitchen.

  “Where do you think—slow down!” Her protests faded as the door banged shut behind me.

  I breathed in the instant relief, and took a moment to orient myself. It had been five years since I last roamed this farm. I had been a kid then. Now I was older, and everything seemed . . . smaller. I wondered if the creek would seem smaller, or just as majestic as it had to my child eyes.

  The hammering from the roof started and stopped at a steady rhythm as I scurried past the barn. Once the fence separating me from the path to the creek was in sight, I bolted for it, intent on making it into the field before the workers realized I was there.

  A floating stack of boards rounded the corner of the barn and into my path. I tried to jump out of the way, but they were coming too fast. We collided hard. I lost the battle and landed on my butt under a mountain of wood.

  “Oh, shit!”

  A hand thrust under my nose, and I peered up at the figure looming over me. The sun, directly behind him, created a shadowy illusion difficult to look away from. I wanted to look away since I was partially blinded by the sun, but I hadn’t yet gotten a clear view
of his face like I desperately wanted. Instinct told me it was a handsome one.

  He shifted. With his head now blocking most of the sun, I could see the smirk settled firmly on his face under the baseball cap. I was right. It was a handsome one, but there was one problem. He was laughing. At me, I suspected.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  I ignored his hand, and pushed myself up with a nod.

  “Sorry about that,” he offered, and stuffed his rejected hand into his jeans pocket. “I should know better than to carry that many boards at one time.”

  “It’s fine. I . . .” Probably should have paid a little more attention to where I was going instead of trying to run out of there so fast. “I’m fine.”

  I finally permitted myself a closer look at him. Amused chocolate eyes peered back at me from beneath a full set of lashes. Tufts of dark hair curled under the edges of his hat and completed the cute boy-next-door package. I stared a little longer than I probably should have. Not only because he was insanely attractive, but also because, again, I noticed there was something familiar about him.

  Before I could figure out what that was, the other boy rounded the corner, interrupting our peculiar staring contest.

  “What are you—” He eyed the boards at our feet, and turned to the boy that had knocked me over. “What happened?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention. Ran her over.”

  I was pretty sure I was more at fault than he was, but I let him take the blame since I was now under the scrutiny of both boys. Two attractive boys. Boys close to my age, if not a little older. I wasn’t a natural at talking to boys. Never had been. It only got worse after puberty hit and they all started looking at me like a piece of meat.

  Kind of like the sandy-haired newcomer was doing right now. I darted a glance at the one that I ran into, and found him squinting at me with a frown on his face. I wasn’t sure which was worse at the moment—being blatantly checked out by one, or frowned at by the other. I did know I wanted to get out of there before I made a bigger fool of myself.