When You Start to Miss Me: A Romantic Suspense (Wildflower Romance Book 3)
When You Start to Miss Me
Stacy Claflin
WHEN YOU START TO MISS ME
by Stacy Claflin
http://www.stacyclaflin.com
Copyright ©2020 Stacy Claflin. All rights reserved.
©Cover Design: Rebecca Frank
Edited by Staci Troilo
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental or used fictitiously. The author has taken great liberties with locales including the creation of fictional towns.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited. Do not upload or distribute anywhere.
The ebook version may not be resold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with others, please either purchase it for them or direct them to StacyClaflin.com for purchase links. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
Receive free books from the author: sign up here.
Contents
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
Other Books by Stacy Claflin
Author's Note
About the Author
Chapter One
Lincoln
My stomach has moved past the point of rumbling as I trudge down the boulevard, my feet protesting every step. Most of the shops have closed for the night, and the only light comes from the street lamps above.
Wait. There’s light coming from a business.
Hope rises within me, but I shove it down because all I have is two dollars in my pocket. If this place actually has food for sale, what can I get? This part of town doesn’t offer any dollar menus. Even the bottled water is out of my price range.
Sighing, I glance in the window as I trudge by.
A restaurant. Devereaux Delight. Looks like one of those fancy places I grew up going to with my family before I moved out and started eating ramen noodles and college cafeteria food as my staples.
I pass the window and keep going.
Then I hear a scream—shrill, horrified. Or someone’s just playing. But it doesn’t sound like it.
I stick my hands in my pockets and continue on.
Another shriek, this one even louder.
As tempting as it is to keep going—whatever’s going on is clearly none of my business—I can’t. What if something is wrong? I might be able to help.
It’s doubtful, but I have to at least take a look. If nothing else, maybe whoever’s inside will have pity on me and box up some leftovers. Or maybe even offer me a ride home.
I’m going to get my roommates back for this prank. Leaving me on the opposite side of town without my wallet or car, in my grimy workout clothes no less.
I push on the door, fully expecting it to be locked. It isn’t. I stumble inside, regain my footing, and stand up straight.
Can’t see anyone. Everything looks pristine and perfect, ready for tomorrow’s customers. Perfectly straight black tablecloths with elegant matching silver candles on each one.
I’m turning to head back out into the night when something catches my attention.
Sobbing. Someone sounds miserable.
No way I can ignore that. I follow the cries, heading toward the back of the restaurant. The lingering aromas from the night make my mouth water, reminding my stomach to growl. The delicious smells from the night are a cruel, false hope—my mouth waters and stomach growls in anticipation of a meal I cannot eat.
“Hello?” I call.
Nothing. Sobbing continues, coming through a set of double doors.
“Is everything okay?” Stupid question, I know, but I can’t let the person think I’m in here to hold the place up. “Can I help?”
I take the lack of response as my invitation to enter. After pushing through the doors, I’m in a sparkling kitchen full of gadgets I can’t name.
The cries are to my left, louder.
I hurry toward them, and find two people on the ground. A guy, unconscious, who looks even less like he belongs in this expensive restaurant than I do, and a girl about my age. She’s the one in tears.
“Do you need help?” Another dumb question.
The girl sits up and whips around to look at me. Her long, dark-brown hair flies out, her eyes are red, and her face tear-stained. She stares at me like she can’t tell if I’m real or not. The girl looks like she’s probably beautiful under normal circumstances.
I kneel next to her and nod toward the guy. “What’s with him?”
She wipes her eyes, and I see her name tag.
Malia.
I get lost in her green eyes for a moment before realizing she’s speaking. “Can you repeat that?”
“My brother just collapsed.” Her voice is strained, probably from the screaming.
“Have you called for an ambulance?”
She shakes her head no and collapses on his torso, begging him to wake up.
“Where’s the phone?” I leap to my feet and look around. Can’t see one—probably because everyone has cell phones. And mine has a drained battery at the moment. Totally useless.
Malia turns back to me. “I can’t call them!”
I give her a double-take. “He’s your brother, right?”
“Yeah, and his system is full of illegal drugs!” She presses her hands on her face. “He can’t go there.”
My mind spins, trying to make sense of her logic. “But if he dies, it’s over! He gets no more chances for anything.”
She leaps up. “You can’t call!”
And she has me there. Not with a phone that won’t power on. “We have to do something! No offense, but crying isn’t going to help.”
Malia leaps to her feet. “We need to make him throw up!”
“What? Here?”
She nods rapidly and pulls hair behind her ears. “It’s the only way to get it out of his system!”
I look around. “Where’s the bathroom? I’ll get him there.”
It’s as if she doesn’t even hear me. She lunges for a counter and grabs a wooden spoon and turns to me wide-eyed. “He’s out cold. We have to do it here. With this.”
“I’m not sure I follow.” I glance back and forth between her and the spoon.
Malia kneels next to her brother again. “Hold down his arms!”
“We really should call the professionals.”
“He might wake up and fight us. Don’t let go.” She opens his mouth and aims the thin end of the spoon.
My pulse races. What have I gotten myself into? This dude could die. I’d be an accessory. Or held negligent at the very least. Honestly, I have no idea, but there’s no way this can end up good for any of us. Least of all for the guy about to have a giant spoon shoved down his throat.
Malia glowers at me. “Do I need to do everything?”
She’s enchanting, even when shooting me with that look. I can’t say no to her.
So I grab her brother’s arms and press them against the floor. He doesn’t resist at all. I’d be worried he was already dead if his chest wasn’t moving up and down.
My crazy partner in crime shoves the spoon into his mouth.
That elicits a reaction. His arms pull away from my grasp.
I regain my hold and press harder. Pray that I don’t wind up in jail over this. Isn’t there a good Samaritan law or something? I sure hope so. Malia only cares about her brother not getting locked up. I need to watch out for myself.
And I’m doing a terrible job at that.
I have to squeeze harder to keep the druggie still. He’s strong, and he’s not happy about this situation. Not that I blame him, but he did get himself into it. Sure, I’ve made a ton of crappy decisions over the last few years, but nothing like this.
He starts gagging. Then common sense hits me. I roll him to his side so he doesn’t choke.
Just as I get him sideways, he spews his stomach contents. I close my eyes and try to forget the sight. My stomach lurches. Now I’m glad there’s nothing in it. Can’t puke without food in there—at least I hope not.
For once, my life choices have worked to my advantage.
Unlike the dude I’m holding down. He’s still retching, and the smell is atrocious.
He may prove me wrong. I might be able to vomit with an empty stomach, given the way my insides are heaving.
Finally, he stops. Starts shaking. Gasping.
I want to shout, don’t throw up again!
Instead, I cover my mouth, hoping that’ll help keep me from retching. Then I scoot away and finally dare to open my eyes, trying desperately not to look at the mess.
Malia leans closer to him, seemingly oblivious to the rancid mess between them. “Are you okay?”
He moans, rubs his eyes.
“I said, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he whispers.
“Then sit up,” she demands.
This Malia is completely different from the one a minute ago.
Her brother groans.
“Holden. Sit up!”
The dude glowers at her, and finally I see a resemblance between them. Otherwise the sandy blond, with what has to be a week-old beard, looks nothing like her.
“Do I need to call your sponsor?” Now she whips a phone from her pocket. That would’ve been useful five minutes ago.
“No.” Holden struggles to sit up. “See?”
“You’re going to be okay?”
“Yeah. Leave me alone.”
“You idiot!” She slugs him in the shoulder.
“Hey!” He rubs the spot. Then he glances my way. “Who’s the dude?”
“Don’t change the subject.” She guides his chin back to her. “What did you take this time?”
He shrugs.
She shoves him. “You better clean this up.”
Holden glances down at his vomit and winces. “That’s gross, dude.”
“I’m not a dude.” Malia rises and dusts her hands on her pants. “Now get up and clean this mess before Mom and Dad see it.”
He shakes his head.
“Fine. I’ll call your sponsor and let him know about this.”
“Give me a minute, okay?” Holden rubs his temples then turns back to me. “Seriously, who are you?”
Before I can respond, Malia answers. “He helped save your life. You could try thanking him.”
He just stares at me like I’m out to get him.
“I’m calling Dad to come get you. Clean this mess.”
Holden turns his disdainful expression to her. “You wouldn’t.”
“No? Try me.”
He struggles to his feet, holds his stomach.
“What’d you take this time?” Malia taps her foot, narrows her eyes.
“I don’t remember.”
“Smooth. What would you have done if I weren’t here? If he weren’t here?” She makes a sweeping motion toward me.
Holden stumbles toward me. “You work here or somethin’?”
“Nope. Just passing by. Heard a commotion.”
He scowls.
“You should try thanking your sister.”
“My warden, is more like it.”
Now I want to punch him. But I shove my fists into my jacket pockets. “She saved your life.”
“He doesn’t care.” Malia slides her finger around her phone’s screen.
“Who ya callin’?” Holden flares his nostrils.
She lifts a brow. “You don’t want to know.”
His mouth forms a straight line.
I stand between them and glare at him. “If you’ll be grateful to your sister, I’ll help you with this mess.”
He tilts his head, sizes me up. “Why?”
“Because you need to cut her some slack. I wanted to call an ambulance, but she insisted I couldn’t.”
His brows draw together. He starts to say something but then his hands fly to his stomach, his face paling even more. “I don’t feel so good.”
I grab his arms and drag him, following the signs to the bathroom. Then I shove him into a stall. He falls to his knees and the door slams behind him.
Retching sounds, along with the sounds of water splashing.
This is definitely not how I saw my evening playing out.
Chapter Two
Malia
I put the mop away and wipe my forehead. Yet another of Holden’s messes for me to clean up. It’s not even close to the first and it won’t be the last. And I’ll never receive any thanks, unless that guy in the bathroom with my brother actually gets him to thank me.
Can’t see that happening.
I lean against a counter and look around to make sure I haven’t missed any of my brother’s vomit. My parents will never let me hear the end of it if they discover even a speck.
If only I could break free of this family. But that’ll never happen. Every one of them needs me. They don’t appreciate me, but they need me. And I need the money. Although, sometimes living on the street does seem more attractive than constantly putting up with the things I have to deal with.
Footsteps sound. Holden is leaning against the mystery man.
It’s too bad I’ll never see him again. I could use a distraction like him. But he’s going to run out that door and never look back. Not that I can blame him.
Just one more way my family has managed to ruin my life.
“I think he’s going to be okay,” the guy says. “He really should have a doctor look him over though.”
Holden throws me a pleading look.
“He probably should.”
My brother glowers at me. “You wouldn’t.”
“Wasn’t there something you were going to tell your sister?” asks the guy.
I really have to find out his name.
“Nope.” Holden pushes himself away from the stranger and stumbles out of the kitchen.
“Should we go after him?”
I shake my head no. “What’s your name?”
“My name?”
“Yeah. I assume you have one. Mine’s Malia.” I hold out my hand.
He glances at the still-swinging door then back to me. “I’m Lincoln. Everyone calls me Linc.”
“Like the game. Cool.” I shake his hand.
“Why don’t you seem concerned about your brother? He could’ve died.”
I draw in a deep breath and rearrange a vase of orange flowers as I try to think of a reply that won’t take hours. “It’s complicated.”
Linc leans against the counter across from me and rakes his fingers through his messy dark hair, then rubs the dusting of his beard. His hazel eyes seem to stare directly into my soul. “I’m going to wager that complicated doesn’t begin to describe it.”
“You could say that.” I hold his gaze, waiting for him to bolt. Any sane person would.
“How long have you been dealing with his drug addiction?”
“Long enough.”
We st
are each other down until I can’t take the silence. “Want something to eat?”
He tilts his head. “You want food now?”
“There’s plenty.” I pan my palms around the kitchen.
Linc glances at the floor where my brother’s vomit was ten minutes ago. “That didn’t put off your appetite?”
“I’ve dealt with worse.”
He cocks a brow, and for some reason that makes my heart skip a beat.
I turn from him. “So, what brings you here tonight? Everything on the street is closed by now. I can’t imagine you were just wandering the streets.”
“It’s complicated.”
I study him—he’s gorgeous, well dressed, and clean. Hardly seems like the type to be wandering around with such bad luck. Sighing, I play with the flowers again.
“You seem to like those,” he says.
“Orange is my favorite color.”
“You must love this time of year.” He leans against the counter. “You dressing up for Halloween?”
“Maybe. I’ll probably take my youngest brother trick-or-treating.”
Linc slides his hands over his scruff again. “Cool.”
“So, you want grub or not?”
He tilts his head. “Yeah, sure. Like what?”
I shrug. “Let’s have a look.”
“You sure your boss won’t get mad?”
“My parents won’t care as long as I leave everything sparkling clean.” I open the nearest refrigeration unit and scan the contents.
“Your parents own this place?”
“Yeah. Why do you think Holden came here all strung out?”
“I’d say he was more than just strung out.”
I move onto the next fridge, hoping one of the cooks left something to eat. They often make the most popular dishes before they’re ordered and sometimes end up with extras and save those. My brothers and I usually eat them. My parents may be world-class chefs but they almost never make anything at home. Mostly because they’re rarely ever there.