The Woodsman (Lust in the Woods Book 1) Read online

  I didn’t need her in my life taking care of me. Taking care of my family. I took care of myself. I took care of my family. I didn’t need her.

  “Can you thank Robby for the ticket?” She held out her hand and I slid her boarding pass into it, careful not to touch her.

  “He didn’t buy your ticket. I did.” She didn’t thank me. No, me buying her ticket was a slap in the face.

  “Your mom’s a strong woman. I’m sure she’ll make a fast recovery.” She bent down and picked up her bag before looking me in the eye. “Good luck with your life, Sam. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  She turned and walked into the airport, never looking back, not even once.

  Forcing myself back in the cab, I told the driver to head back to where he picked me up and slammed the car door. My cell phone rang. It was my mom’s number and I quickly picked up, thinking it had to be her nurse.

  “Hi, honey. Where are you?”

  “I’m just running some errands, Mom. Are you okay? Is the nurse doing her job?”

  “Of course, she’s great. Who do you think got the phone for me? Now, if you’re out running errands, I take it you’ve got that darling girl with you. Can you put her on? I wanted to ask her the name of a cream she recommended.”

  “She’s not with me, Mom. She went home.”

  The silence reverberated down the phone. There were few things I hid from my mom. She always laid it out straight for me and I did the same. But this? This was not going to go down well.

  “You mean back to her little cabin in the woods? That home?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm and I knew I’d disappointed her.

  “Mom, that is her home. What did you want me to do? She needed to get back to her life.”

  “That’s where she lives. That’s not her home. And you know that as well as I do.”

  “Tell me what cream to buy and I’ll pick it up.”

  “Oh, forget the damn cream. I’m sure whatever the nurse has will do fine.” There was nothing like hearing the disappointment in my mother’s voice to make me feel like the smallest man in the world.

  “Mom, you know I had to do it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You know what you have to do, and I don’t know how long it’s going to take before you realize you can’t just hide behind me your whole life.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’m your mother and I will never stop appreciating how hard you and your brother have worked to become the strong, successful men you are and how much you take care of me. I’ll never stop being proud of you. But you’re more than a man who grew up with a single mother in a run-down trailer. You have to let yourself be a little weak once in a while. You think you have to be strong because of me, but it’s gray, honey, can’t you see that? Life’s not that black and white. It’s full of gray.” She started to slur and I realized she must have taken pain medication.

  “Mom, I think you need to rest.”

  “That girl, that sweet girl. She was looking for someone strong, but also someone she could take care of. I told her you were that, my strong boy who needed someone to bake him a pie and make him some beautiful babies. Can you imagine the kind of mother Katy would make?”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

  “I’m coming back now. I’ll be there soon, Mom. Get some sleep.” I heard her mumble something before she hung up.

  Katy as a mother.

  Katy pregnant with my baby.

  Katy naked and pregnant. Of course I’d thought about that. Probably not in the way my mother was thinking. That’s why I had to send her away.

  I barely knew the woman and I was fantasizing about having a family with her. Watching her read at my mom’s bedside was what did it. Seeing her care for my family and realizing I couldn’t have it and then lose it. I couldn’t have someone like that in my life.

  So she wasn’t in my life. Not anymore.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Katy

  Drawing my braid over my shoulder, I perused the bottles on Charlie’s counter. I was looking for vodka. Surely she had to have vodka. God, she had something that wasn’t even written in English. How could the girl not have vodka?

  Shuffling a few bottles, I finally found what I was looking for. Now I just needed a shot glass and I’d be set.

  I could feel Charlie’s silent inquisition, her sharp gaze drilling into the back of my head. She’d picked me up from the airport and I’d cried the whole way home, interspersed with jagged attempts to tell her what had happened. The irony that Sam had barely been able to get to the airport without my help and now I was a barely able to get home from it without Charlie holding me together was not lost on me.

  She got the gist and she didn’t even bother driving me to my cabin. Instead, she got me settled in her apartment whereupon I decided to get drunk. Roaring drunk.

  Drinking really wasn’t my thing, but at the moment I decided it was the only logical action to deal to what I was feeling. How else was I supposed to respond to the fact that my body didn’t seem to be working? My heart had a strange swelling thing going on, and the bottom of my lungs seemed to have filled with concrete because I couldn’t take a deep breath. And then there was my stomach. There was a wave of almost constant nausea. Pouring vodka on it couldn’t do any harm at this point.

  “Are you going to join me?” I asked over my shoulder.

  “No, hun, I’m going to be your designated-driver-slash-responsible-adult and stop you from drunk-dialing him.”

  “Okeydokey, then. Bottoms up,” I said to myself as I knocked back the shot. With my refilled shot glass, I walked back to join Charlie on her couch.

  Vodka was definitely the way. I knew it wouldn’t take much more than a shot or two to start numbing the pain. At least, that was what I was hoping would happen once the vodka hit my system. That, or I’d end up a crying mess, drunk-texting Sam, but then again that was what Charlie was around to help with.

  The reflection in the mirror opposite the couch caught my attention. I had red-rimmed eyes and puffy lips, swollen from crying and rubbing my face. I knew it would only get worse. Unconsciously, I reached up and ran my fingers over the braid, letting my mind wander to the last time Sam had touched me. He had rough hands, worn from hard work, but he was always so gentle with me, especially when he touched my hair. I’d fallen asleep the night before with his fingers stroking my blonde strands, spreading them methodically over the pillow beneath my head.

  The sting from my scalp as I yanked on the braid, in an attempt to bring myself back from the reverie, reminded me of what I’d lost. There was no point lingering on it. Sam’s smile flashed through my mind, his voice an echo I feared I would never forget.

  Your hair, you could slay me with your hair.

  The lush locks were the first thing he’d really touched when his control started to slip, that heavy moment in my kitchen when he ran his hands down my back and through my hair. I could still feel the heat of his palm as it traveled down to rest just above my behind, where my hair finally ended.

  The moment had been magical, and I’d believed him when he called me his siren, bewitching him not with my voice, but with my hair. At the time it seemed romantic.

  Not so much now.

  “I got played. Again. I’m good at that,” I mumbled to myself.

  Charlie’s response was to get up and pour me another shot.

  Wasn’t siren just another euphemism for a woman who tried to trap a man? But I’d fallen for it. I’d fallen for all his empty words. The hair was just part of a package that ticked all the right boxes for Sam. Great rack, curvy hips, and long blonde hair. Give me a push-up bra and some lip gloss, and I easily transformed from a boho hippie into a walking wet dream, the perfect girl. His dream girl, apparently. One who fulfilled sexual fantasies and nothing else. Certainly not any other emotional fulfillment I thought he was looking for.

  I couldn’t change the shape of my body, the curve of my hips, the dip of my wai
st, at least not without drastic measures, but I could get rid of the hair. Yanking off the hair band, my fingers nimbly undid the braid. Yes, this albatross, such a defining part of me, could easily be gotten rid of.

  The more I focused on it, the clearer the picture became. Every man who’d ever gotten close enough to touch me commented on my hair.

  Well, not anymore.

  Downing the shot, I turned to face Charlie, who’d remained unusually quiet.

  “We need to go to the store. I have a plan.”

  Twenty minutes later we stood in her bathroom, staring down at the implements of change I’d picked up. A sharp, brand new pair of scissors, a comb, and a box of permanent hair dye. I’d grabbed a dark brown, bordering on black.

  “No half-measures, Katy, just do it,” I said to the pathetic woman in the mirror.

  “Katy, wait.” Charlie reached out and covered my hand holding the scissors. “Do you really want to do this? I think this borders on irresponsible drunk behavior that I, being your sober friend, need to stop.”

  “You’re the one who’s always telling me to have more fun with my style! You told me the other day that it was ‘just hair’ when I commented about your new color. It’s hair. What’s the worse that could happen?”

  Breathing deeply, I curled my fingers around the scissors. I could do this. I could take control of my life.

  The sharp metal sliced through the first clump and the cut hair fell onto the counter. My fingers deftly selected the next bunch, ignoring the gasp that escaped Charlie’s mouth.

  I deliberately grabbed it close to my scalp, bringing to mind the blonde pixie cuts I’d always admired and never had the guts to go for: Michelle Williams, Mia Farrow. Then I remembered I wouldn’t even be blonde anymore. A new list, that’s what I needed. Anne Hathaway, hadn’t she gone dark and short? And she won an Oscar. That woman totally had control of her life. Yes, I would channel Anne Hathaway.

  I stared at my reflection. The fourth vodka shot I’d downed when we came back from our shopping mission was swiftly fogging my mind up.

  Didn’t Anne Hathaway cut off all her hair to play a dying prostitute?

  Okay, so maybe this moment was more Britney Spears, circa 2007.

  A giggle escaped as I worked my way across my head, snipping slowly and methodically, humming the words to “Baby, One More Time”. At least I wasn’t going for a buzz cut.

  The last clump fell on to the sink, now practically covered in hair. I ran my hands through the shorn locks. It was short, but there was still enough to work with. When I got to wherever I was going, I’d find a salon and neaten it up. Get some wax and start learning how to style short hair. Because there was no way I was staying. No way I was sitting in that damn cabin, waiting for nothing to happen to me, unless a man was involved. It was time for Paris.

  Sitting down ungracefully on the toilet seat, I rested my elbows on my knees and cradled my head in my hands. A headache was beginning to bloom across my temple.

  The vodka had been a stupid idea.

  This whole thing was a stupid idea.

  The moment he’d first touched my hair, that day in the kitchen when the spell had been cast, I should have stepped back, slowed things down, read the warning signs.

  I should have shown him my warning signs.

  Don’t let me in because I’ll fall for you. And then you’ll break me. That should have been written in bold fuchsia letters, large fluorescent arrows pointing toward my heart.

  Charlie squatted down in front of me.

  “Come on, you’re drunk and tired. Sleep is what you need.”

  She guided me down the hall to her bedroom and helped me under the sheets. Later I would worry about what my next move was. For now, drunken sleep would provide me with some sort of solace. I shifted onto my side and unconsciously moved my hand up to shift my hair out of the way of my shoulder. Instead I touched bare skin. How long would it take to get used to that, I wondered, as my eyes drifted shut.

  Probably not as long as it would take me to get over him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Charlie, I don’t think Mr. Gross is going to fire you. I can pretty much guarantee it.”

  I listened to her nervously chatter down the phone. It was midnight in Paris but with the time difference, the only time we could really talk was when Charlie finished her shift at work. Since I was just writing and didn’t have to get up too early, our little midnight chats worked.

  “Okay, I’m just nervous because he never, I mean, never asks me to stay late. For the past three years I’ve worked for him, he’s literally never asked me that. Don’t you think that’s weird? Forget it. I know what you’re going to say. It’s weird. Shit, I really can’t handle it if he fires me.”

  “Charlie, sweetie, he’s not going to. It’s probably something to do with scheduling and it’s the only time he can get some time. You know how busy he is, especially since he’s decided to fill my position himself.”

  “She keeps coming around.”

  There was no need for Charlie to say who she was talking about. Mr. Gross’s ex-girlfriend, also Charlie’s arch nemesis, had been a point of contention since before I even started working at the coffee shop. Charlie stuck to her story that the woman was a stuck-up bitch. Rumor was she cheated on Mr. Gross and that in itself was enough for Charlie to completely decide the woman was scum of the earth. Charlie couldn’t stand cheaters. Especially not cheaters who then complained they weren’t getting enough attention and that was what caused them to wander.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. Or maybe it’s not. You’ve got to give me something more than ‘she keeps coming around’.”

  “Ugh, I don’t want to talk about her. Or him. Tell me about Paris. What did you do today? Have you met any French hunks who whisper sweet nothings that you can’t even understand while eating croissants and still managing to look hot in a beret?”

  “Is that how you picture I spend my time? And I have yet to see a beret.”

  “I don’t know. Sort of. Just tell me you’re happy.”

  I sighed. Part of me wanted to lie and tell her that my heart had healed, that things were amazing and just as I’d dreamed. Because the truth was, it was a lot like a dream. My tiny shoebox apartment that had the world’s smallest shower, smallest kitchenette, and could only be accessed by climbing the ricketiest stairs ever built was perfect.

  Despite Parisians having a reputation for being rude to foreigners, I’d yet to find anyone not willing to help me when I got stuck with my limited French skills. I was writing, walking, eating, and not freaking out that I was living on the world’s smallest budget.

  But I missed him. I missed Sam. I missed his man-bun. I missed the way he ignored me when I asked him a question he didn’t want to answer and instead gave me that derisive stare. I missed the way he tucked my hair behind my ear a thousand times a day. I missed what we almost had. Because lying in my bed at night, going over so many moments when I lost my breath touching him, lost my mind just being around him, I had to admit to myself that it was short and sweet and not a lot much else.

  At least not for him.

  As much as unrequited love was the stuff of great writing, I didn’t want to feel it. The ache in my chest when I replayed his words over and over again: “You don’t need to be here.” Which really meant, “I don’t need you anymore.” They burned hard, like an acid fog seeping into my lungs.

  He didn’t want me or need me.

  That was what unrequited love was—unneeded love. The real reason it hurt so much wasn’t just that I was being rejected, but the love I had to give wasn’t even desired. Not from him.

  Again I’d taken care of someone, thrown myself into his life, only to be let down. He needed me to get him on that plane. He needed me to help him sleep those first nights. He needed me to help mediate between the nurses and his brother. He needed to lose himself in my body, in me, in us.

  Until he didn’t need it anymore.

  “Okay,
tell me you’re not thinking about him.”

  I realized I’d been lost in thought and hadn’t answered Charlie’s question. “I’ll tell you I’ve been thinking about not thinking about him. How’s that?”

  “That’s crap, Katy. Don’t make me come over there, drink weird French coffee, and kick your sorry ass.”

  “French coffee is so much better than the stuff you make. I can’t even begin to explain.”

  “All right, this conversation is over. I’m telling Mr. Gross you told him our coffee was crap. And by the way, you look really cool in that shirt.”

  I ignored the comment about my awesome oversized Eiffel Tower t-shirt I slept in. Some touristy purchases were necessary. “I miss you. I wish you were here with me. I’ll tell you that.” I listened to her sniffle quietly on the phone. My best friend and her dark secrets—she hated it when I got too mushy.

  “I miss you, too. But I’m glad I’m not there because this is about you. And you need to be alone, and scared, and have lots of French sex, and fun, slightly worrying, unstable fun.”

  “Bye, Charlie. Let me know how tomorrow goes.”

  Disconnecting the video call, I started to shut down the computer and froze as I heard a shuffling sound coming from outside my front door. I lived on the top floor of my building. My small apartment was accessed by its very own tiny, rickety stairwell. As such, there was no reason for anyone to be in the little hallway outside my front door, unless they were coming to my apartment.

  I stepped closer to the door, listening for the sound again.

  Stop panicking. Someone’s probably just lost.

  There it was again.

  Suddenly there was a knock on the door and I yelped. Yelped. Like a damn Dr. Seuss character.

  “Katy? It’s me. Sam. It’s just me.”