The warmth of the car and Dawson’s kindness were thawing Sloan from the outside in. She leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes, not wanting to think. Or to feel.
Minutes later, Dawson swung the car into the Waffle Palace parking lot. When they got out of the warm car, he pulled his long coat from the backseat and settled it over her shoulders. Once inside the brightly lit restaurant, he saw there were few customers, so they had their choice of seating. He guided her to a booth in a far back corner. The smell of frying bacon mingled with freshly brewed coffee and warm maple syrup. A waitress gave them a smile and a couple of menus. “Hey, y’all. Coffee?”
Dawson agreed for both of them as they slid into opposite sides of the booth. Over coffee, they both ordered waffles. Sloan slumped against the faux-leather bench, stealing glances at her rescuer. He wasn’t bad-looking, with tousled black hair and eyes so dark they looked black. The cold had given his cheeks a rosy glow. He was tall and lean, not muscular like Jarred— She straightened, irked at herself for making the comparison.
Dawson realized he’d have to do the heavy lifting when it came to conversation. She looked whipped, still pretty, but totally wiped out. He told her she had an amazing singing voice, watched her shrug off his praise. He fumbled for another topic and settled on asking, “You grow up in Windemere?” Dumb question, Berke!
“Born and raised. But you’re not a local, are you?”
“What gave me away? Be honest.”
For the first time, a smile flitted across her mouth. “You talk funny.”
That made him smile. Everyone pegged him as an outsider. His accent was definitely not from Tennessee. He told her about moving from Baltimore when his dad took a new job.
The food arrived. She slathered her pecan waffle with butter and syrup and dug in, then looked up to see him watching her. A sideways glance at the window next to the booth, darkened by the night, flashed back her reflection. She looked awful. “Your name’s different too. Dawson,” she said.
“It was my mother’s maiden name—Katherine Dawson. I couldn’t be a Kathy, so…” He grinned. “How about Sloan? Family name?”
She stiffened. Last thing she wanted to talk about was her family. Sloan set down the fork, deciding to get the main issue into the open. “I guess you saw what happened tonight in the gym.”
Dawson pushed back into the booth, where a torn spot in the red vinyl snagged at his sweater. “Yes, but it seems like he deserved what you gave him. I mean, if you caught him with another girl doing the deed. Not cool.”
She pushed her plate aside. “You got a phone?” He said he did. “Why don’t you pull up the videos? I know they’ve posted by now,” she said, sounding edgy and bitter.
It hadn’t crossed his mind, but he knew instantly she was likely correct. He took out his phone, went to a video posting site, and launched a video called “Revenge of the girlfriend/Windemere High.” He handed her the phone and she watched, the tinny sounds of her yelling loud enough for them both to hear. She winced seeing herself deliver the kick that had put Jarred on his knees. At the same time, she saw “the end” of her and Jarred forever. And her dreams of a future with the band. He’d never forgive her. She fought for composure as she handed Dawson his phone.
It struck him then that when he’d picked her up, she’d had nothing with her—no jacket or purse—and if she was kin to anything female, there was always a purse. “Um…did you leave anything at the gym? I could take you back—”
“No.” Wild horses couldn’t have dragged her back to the gym. She reached into the front pocket of her pants, slid out a lipstick. “Nothing’s important.” Maybe Bobby would retrieve her phone and purse from Jarred’s car. Unless Jarred found her stuff first. He’d destroy it. She had no idea how she would replace her cell phone. Her mother would go ballistic when Sloan told her she’d lost it, and even saying it had been stolen wouldn’t save Sloan from LaDonna’s tirade. Sloan knew she’d have to replace it herself.
Dawson eyed a clock on the wall, realizing he was pushing against the edge of his one a.m. curfew. He signaled the waitress for the check, and while he paid it, Sloan went to the restroom. Her mirror image was brutal, showing the dark circles of mascara streaked under her eyes. She washed her face, dried off with a scratchy paper towel, smoothed her hair, and retied the leather cord holding it back. She walked with Dawson to the car, and he started the engine and the heater. He turned to her. “Where to? I’ll take you home.”
His words hit Sloan with glacial gravity. She was supposed to have spent the night with Jarred because his parents had gone to Gatlinburg for the weekend. They’d planned their “sleepover” weeks before. A long night together, in each other’s arms. His cheating arms, she reminded herself. She couldn’t go home either. Her mother was at the trailer with a man Sloan thought was creepy…the way he looked at Sloan, like she was candy for the taking. She shivered. Tears welled in her eyes. “I…I…don’t know….” She turned and stared at Dawson, unnerved and panicked. “I…I have no place to go tonight.”
CHAPTER 8
Dawson turned onto the quiet, narrow street of his neighborhood, lined by old oak and maple trees, in the upscale older part of Windemere. Most of the leaves had fallen, and the branches poked into the moonlit sky like dark vampire fingers. He was taking Sloan home with him, hoping that his father hadn’t been called into the hospital on an emergency and that once they walked in the door he could make his father understand that Dawson had no other choice.
Dawson had made the decision in the Waffle Palace parking lot when a tearful, trembling Sloan had hesitantly told him about her plan to spend the night with Jarred, now jettisoned, and her reluctance to go home because of the man staying there with her mother. Sloan told him enough to make Dawson realize it was up to him to help her, so he offered her their upstairs guest room.
During the drive, he tried to assure her she would be safe, that it would be okay, that he’d take her home as soon as she was ready to go the next morning, but she had tuned him out, too tired, too numb to even ask questions. She simply didn’t care. She just wanted to sleep. A bed in this guy’s house was as good as any on this particular night.
When the garage door rose, Dawson was relieved to see his dad’s car. Dawson drove into the open bay, parked, and came around to open the door for Sloan. His nerves were piano-wire tight, because he honestly didn’t know how his dad would react. If he’d been bringing a guy friend home, one who might be drunk or strung out, Franklin would have had no issues with Dawson’s judgment…but a girl…
They went into the kitchen, lit softly by a light above the kitchen sink. “Dad?” he called. “Dad, I’m bringing in a friend.”
“In here,” Franklin called from the den.
Dawson led Sloan into the wood-paneled room where his dad was sitting in his recliner, a book across his lap, his reading glasses shoved atop his head, the television, mounted on the wall, glowing with images but muted. “You’re kind of pushing your curfew, Daw,” Franklin said lightly. But when he saw Sloan, he rose from the recliner. “What’s this?”
Dawson did the introductions. Sloan shifted from foot to foot, her gaze darting around the room like a cornered cat’s before landing on Franklin Berke’s face. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” she said.
Dawson guided Sloan to the worn leather sofa beside the recliner and spread an afghan on her lap. “Just cozy up here while I talk to my dad in the kitchen.”
Sloan needed no urging. She sank into the cushions, pulled the afghan up to her chin, and clutched it tightly with both hands.
In the kitchen, Franklin braced his hands on the granite countertop and skewered Dawson with a look. “Explain. What’s going on, Daw?”
The good thing about having a doctor for a father meant that the man was an excellent crisis manager. He was a big-picture kind of man. He listened, stayed calm, only reacted when he grasped the scope of a situation. Dawson knew exactly how to talk to his father. Present facts first. Be impartial. Don’t argu
e. Know when to stop talking. Driving home, he’d silently rehearsed his story and now offered up the pieces—ugly public fight with her boyfriend at the gym, stranded, fearful of going home because of the alcoholic man who was bedded down with her mother. He quickly finished with “So I brought her here because I thought it was the safest thing to do.”
Franklin stared at Dawson until Dawson thought his dad’s eyeballs would fall out. Finally Franklin said, “She needs to call her mother, let her know where she is.”
Dawson’s spirits buoyed. “It’s really late, Dad.” Dawson knew that Sloan had already told her mother she would be out all night, but he didn’t think telling Franklin this would help his cause. “And truth is, her mother doesn’t really care. That’s why I brought her with me.”
“Her mother doesn’t care where her daughter is spending the night?”
“It’s complicated. Her mom…well, she drinks. Sloan’s on her own a lot.”
“And she has no other friends she can stay with? No girlfriends?”
“If there had been any other way…Please believe me. We’re it for tonight.” Dawson used the corporate “we,” having heard his dad use it when he wanted to pull reluctant listeners into his frame of mind.
Franklin pressed his thumbs into his eyes wearily. “How old is Sloan?”
Dawson didn’t know for sure, but he understood what his dad was asking. Is she underage? “Not sure. She’s a senior like me.”
“I can’t risk my reputation—”
“Dad! One night. I live in the basement. She’ll be up in the guest room.”
“I live upstairs too.”
Dawson hadn’t factored that in when he’d formed his rescue plan. “You can have the sofa in my room,” Dawson offered quickly. “Just for tonight.”
Franklin fell silent, placed his palms flat on the counter. Eventually he nodded, but his expression was as hard as the granite under his hands. “I’m unhappy about this, Dawson. Real unhappy.”
Dawson blew out the breath he’d been holding, knowing he’d won the battle. “I know. And I’m sorry to dump this on you, but…thanks. I…I mean it.”
Franklin rolled his shoulders. “I’ll go up and get the guest room ready. You stay with Sloan until I call you. And, Dawson? Two things: you’ll sleep on that god-awful sofa tonight, and don’t ever pull a stunt like this again.”
Lani came into the kitchen to find her dad, Randy, sitting at the counter, waiting up for her and thumbing through messages on his cell. He looked up and smiled. “Hey. How was homecoming?”
“Fine. The zombies were awesome.” She crossed to the fridge, got a soda, and returned to take a stool next to him. No use going into details. “And thanks for lending me your car.” She put his car keys on the counter. “Mom in bed?”
“I’m the night owl, remember?”
She took a long drink from the soda, knowing she was more like her mom, an early riser. She loved riding Oro in the early morning and watching the dark gray-blue of a night sky turn gold with the sun’s rise.
“Lani, something came across my desk yesterday. A reporter brought in a news story you might be interested in reading.” Randy searched his phone’s emails.
When her dad was fresh out of college with a degree in journalism and newly married, he had passed on better jobs in bigger cities in order to raise his family in Windemere because he liked the laid-back lifestyle. The small local paper that hired him spotlighted mostly “soft” news, focusing on local sports, interviews, farm reports, every imaginable community event—engagements, weddings, births, anniversaries, obituaries—a true repository of small-town rural life. He often joked, “We’re full of news no other paper is likely to print.” These days the paper was struggling to survive in the digital world.
“What kind of story?”
“The new hospital is sponsoring a start-up program called Step-Prep to train health care workers, especially nurses.”
Lani was instantly interested. “Go on.”
“The program will work hand in hand with Middle Tennessee State University. Reporter said the volunteer aspect is called Helping Hands, aimed at sixteen- to eighteen-year-olds. Personally I think it’s just a way to get free labor.” He winked. “But if you stick with it and enroll at the college in the school of nursing, you’ll work with a mentor, get hands-on experience and some money.” He grinned. “In three years you’ll graduate as an RN able to step into a full-time job.”
“Seriously?” She was already planning to go to nearby MTSU in Murfreesboro and live at home. “Being a nurse is my dream job.”
“What about your job at Bellmeade?”
Ciana had hired Lani to muck out stalls and exercise horses for owners who couldn’t or didn’t have time to do it themselves. The part-time job came with a reduced boarding fee for Oro and allowed Lani to pay for a portion of his feed bill, which always escalated in the winter. Coupled with earnings from babysitting, she was able to shoulder most of the costs for her horse. “Never giving it up. Oro’s my best friend.” She quickly realized that after her fight with Kathy, the horse might be her only friend.
“Time crunch, Wonder Girl. You still have your senior year to finish.”
She waved away his words. “Are you kidding? I can do both. What do I have to do to get into the program?”
He tapped a text into his cell. “I’m sending you the info. Apparently there’ll be a general meeting in December at the hospital with the program starting in January.”
She heard the message hit her phone, opened it, and skimmed it quickly. But it was the last part of the article that grabbed her interest the most. It read in part: “…seminar given by the program’s creator, and head of pediatrics, Dr. Franklin Berke.”
Her dad stood and stretched. “My mattress is calling.”
“I’ll turn out the lights,” she told him, which she did, but then sat back on the counter stool thinking about what had happened at homecoming and how it had made her feel to see Dawson run after Sloan—hopeless. She sighed, switched gears, remembering instead how she’d felt when she was thirteen and the desire to become a nurse first surfaced. Four years later, she had the opportunity to explore that dream. In the soft ambient light of the kitchen, Lani raised the soda can high and whispered, “To you, Cousin Arie.”
CHAPTER 9
By November, the homecoming blowup was ancient history.
To no one’s surprise, Jarred never returned to Windemere High, dropping out not because (rumor had it) of the Scene, but because he was flunking every subject. Bobby Henley told others that Jarred had moved to Nashville and gotten a job and that the band was now defunct.
As for Dawson and Sloan, they were a couple. A twosome. Paired off. Joined at the hip. Together. Obvious to all who saw them in the halls holding hands and rubbing shoulders. “Isn’t that just like Sloan?” Kathy sniped to Lani. “She kicked Jarred to the curb like dog doo and wormed her way into another ‘lucky guy’s’ life.”
After their fight in the gym, Lani kept her thoughts to herself around Kathy. Saying nasty things about Sloan wouldn’t change things, nor would it make Lani feel better about the “Dawson and Sloan together forever” scene.
“Did you know Dawson’s dad is a doctor?” Kathy said, pausing at the water fountain.
“I’ve heard.”
“She thinks she’s so freakin’ hot. But she isn’t. Won’t take this Dawson guy long to figure it out. Anyway”—Kathy sniffed—“Jarred had a way cooler car. I could hear him coming from blocks away. Dawson’s car sounds like a windup toy.”
Lani bent, took a drink from the fountain. She and Kathy had been friends since second grade, but now Kathy had turned into someone Lani wasn’t liking very much. She thought again of the hospital’s volunteer program and the upcoming seminar and saw a future beyond high school. She was going into that future, away from this one, to a place where more mattered than a guy’s wheels.
For the first time since being forced to move to Tennessee, Dawson w
as flying high. With the band and Jarred out of the picture, Sloan was his. The one casualty was Paulie. Paulie told him, “It’s okay. I get it. Girl comes first,” but Paulie’s look of rejection belied his upbeat tone. Dawson was sorry about it, but there was no going back to lone-wolf status for him.
Sloan was unlike any girl he’d ever dated, or even known. She was able to come and go as she pleased—no parent dumping curfews on her like Franklin did on him. She went all out on anything she did and left him breathless and off balance with her sense of daring. His days started and stopped with wanting to be with her. He picked her up for school, brought her home, hung with her before, after, in the halls, at lunch. He did weekend chores swiftly so they could be together. She loved driving his car very fast on the rural back roads with all the windows down no matter the weather.
“Speeding ticket’s on you!” he shouted whenever she jammed down the accelerator.
“Cop will have to catch me first!”
Somehow they got lucky, never got a ticket, never had an accident. Not that they would have survived one at the speeds Sloan liked to drive.
They studied together, always at his house. Franklin never let him slack off on schoolwork, insisting grades and test scores mattered more than girlfriends. Dawson wanted to go to college. Sloan did not. She wanted to break out, become a singer. She wanted fame. So if Sloan didn’t crack the books with Dawson, she hunkered down with headphones or brought her guitar and retreated into a private world he didn’t enter. Let her sing.
For Sloan, Dawson took her away from her despised real-life world. He had money to spend, and he was willing to go and do things Jarred never could afford. If she wanted to see a certain movie, Dawson took her. Grab a bite? “Where to?” Bowling, paint ball, laser tag—Dawson went for it. He bought her little gifts, made her happy. But the most surprising part to her was that he didn’t ask for anything in return. Like sex. Not at all like Jarred, who had pushed her for sex anytime they were alone. Dawson held her, kissed her, tasted her, touched her body, but always pulled back. The only thing she missed from the days before Dawson was singing in the band and the adrenaline high that performing for an audience brought with it. Dawson Berke couldn’t give her that.