Bad Things (Tristan & Danika #1) (53 page)

I shook my head, well shook it as much as I could, with my jaw held in his viselike grip.
 
“I don’t think that.
 
We wouldn’t be doing this at all if I thought that.
 
I didn’t mean for that to come out.
 
It was just my instinctive reaction.
 
I guess I’m feeling insecure.”

He pulled my hand over his heart.
 
“That hurts me.
 
This is all yours right here.
 
All of me.
 
No one else gets a thing from me, you understand?
 
I wouldn’t do that to you.
 
I wouldn’t make all these promises if I didn’t intend to keep them.”
 

I nodded, blinking back tears.

He moved back into me, pinning me to the wall.
 
His forehead touched mine as he gripped my hips, shifting his hips until he was poised back at the core of me.
 
“I’m fucking done with this record deal if it means I’m losing your trust.
 
This is forever for me, sweetheart.
 
I want it
all
with you.
 
You’re the thing that gets me up in the morning, and lets me rest easy at night.
 
I wouldn’t have survived some of the shit these last few months if it weren’t for you.
 
You’re my rock, Danika, and I
need
you
to trust me.”
 

I nodded again, then gasped as he thrust hard into me.
 

Here is a sneak peak at
Search Me
, a new adult novel by NYT's bestselling author, Katie Ashley.
 
Coming June 30
th
.
 

Preface

       
With only the dim beam of the flashlight lighting the way, I could barely see what was straight in front of me, let alone what was farther around the bend. The jagged, rocky walls of the cave closed in around us. The air started getting cooler and damper, but salty beads of sweat still stung my eyes, blurring my vision. Our feet sloshed through the dingy puddles as I tried calming my erratic heartbeat that thundered like a canon blast in my ears. We whirled around the corner and were immediately blinded by sunlight and an earsplitting roar.
 

I squealed in fear as my shoes skidded to a stop just before the cave’s crumbling edge. Maddox grabbed my arm, jerking us both back before we could go over. Peering over the mossy-covered ledge, I gulped down the rising bile in my throat. The mere sight of the enormous drop to where the rapids from the falls churned into harsh rapids made my stomach clench and my entire body shudder in fear.
 
“Oh shit,” I muttered.
 

With a firm grip, Maddox grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me to him. “Okay, we don’t have much of a choice here, Lane. We’ve gotta jump!” he called over the pounding water.
 

My eyes widened. “Are you insane?”

“And just what else would you suggest?”
 

As I surveyed his desperate expression coupled with the harrowing situation we faced, I fought the urge to throw my head back and laugh maniacally. If you had told me forty-eight hours ago, that I, Lane Montgomery—college student, part-time ballerina, sheltered and spoiled only child—would be running for my life from deranged treasure seekers with the very guy who broke my heart and stole my virginity, I would have laughed in your face.
 

Maddox reached out for my hand. “You have to trust me!”

I fought the urge to say,
Like you haven’t claimed that one before!
At the sound of footsteps, I realized I didn’t have any more time to debate my options. I turned back to see the menacing shadow bobbing closer. Its voice echoed through the cave toward us. “All right, I’m through playing fucking games! Give it to me, or I start shooting!”
 

“Lane, come on!” Maddox shouted.
 

With my chest heaving, my trembling hand flung out for his. Grasping blindly at thin air, I finally felt Maddox’s fingers close over mine. Once my hand was clasped firmly in his, I closed my eyes and tried to ready myself to take the plunge—in more ways than one.
 

Chapter One
 

“Okay, from first position now go to second,” I instructed. My voice rose to be heard over the classical strains of Bach pumping in from the sound system overhead. Tiny dancers outfitted in an array of colorful leotards squirmed and giggled rather than assuming the correct positions. Glancing at the clock, I blew a few errant strands of hair that had escaped my bun out of my face. With only five minutes left before dance class was over and summer break began, I don’t know why I bothered with any instruction. Their minds were miles away. “Girls, are any of you listening to me?”

“Yes, Miss Lane,” they replied dutifully.
 

“Good. Then go ahead and pack up early. Then you can free dance the last few minutes.”

Ear piercing squeals of delight went up over the room. There was nothing they loved more than being able to goof around in front of the mirrors at the end of the day. I couldn’t help grinning at their enthusiasm.
 

It was t-minus five minutes left for me before I would begin the same summer ritual I’d had my entire life. I’d be abandoning the comforts of home in Marietta—a suburb of Atlanta—for the wilds of the North Georgia Mountains. I’d be trading my college textbooks, along with my tutus, for my extreme family time and my summer job at Maudie’s Orchard and Brewery.
 

Once the last girl had given me a hug and I’d collected quite a few end-of-the-year presents from the parents, I slipped into the bathroom to change out of my wrap skirt and into some shorts. As I slid my folded leotard into my bag, my phone chirped with a text. “Dad,” I murmured without even glancing at the screen. Although my twentieth birthday was in less than a week, my overprotective parents had a hard time believing I wasn’t there little girl anymore. Instead of driving myself, they were picking me up. They claimed it made better financial sense for me to ride with one of them since we had two cars at our summer home, but I knew better. It was more about them still wanting to be smothering, over-protective parents.
 

Tossing my bag over my shoulder, I grabbed my packages and gave my studio one final glance before heading outside. Dad’s fire engine red Volvo convertible sat at the curb. “Hey baby girl.”

He hopped out of the front seat to help load my gifts and bag into the trunk. “Looks like you racked up again today,” he mused.
 

I grinned. “I think so. There’s at least enough Starbucks cards to get me through the summer.”

“And thankfully Ellijay has become even more civilized by building one.”

“I know. Thank God.”

As I buckled up, Dad said, “Mom’s just gotten on the interstate, so she won’t be too much ahead of us.”

“Sounds good.”

Dad’s phone rang then, and we both spent the next thirty minutes wrapped up in our separate social media. When he finally hung up the phone, he glanced over at me with a grin. “Ah, smell that beautiful smog free oxygen!” he inhaled sharply, gulping in air like a drowning man who had just broken the surface of water. He probably would have done something truly mortifying like sticking his head out the window like a dog, but it was kinda pointless to do that in our convertible.
 

“Yeah, it’s totally awesome, Dad,” I mumbled in response, never taking my eyes off my iPhone. My fingers flew furiously over the keyboard as I was using the last precious moments before the service got spotty the further we got into the mountains. I promised friends I’d Facetime and text with them and maybe even make it back to the city a few times before August rolled around.
 

“Bet you can’t wait to get that city grit outta your hair and pump some fresh mountain air in your lungs?”

I inwardly groaned at his over the top enthusiasm. But when Dad threw a glance over at me, I plastered on my most sincere smile. “Sure.”

Dad grinned. “That’s my girl.”

He usually wasn’t such a goofball when we were back home in Marietta. But something happened to him that first day we packed up the car and headed out of town. I guess you could say the mountains were my dad’s muse—the place where he penned the crime novels he was famous for.
 

Motioning his head towards the bound manuscript on my lap, he asked “So what are you thinking of the new one?”

Even though I was only coming off of my second year of college, Dad trusted me as one of the first people to read his novels before he sent them to his agent and editor. Somehow in middle school I graduated from Harry Potter and dove head first into the gritty world of Dad’s famous Southern detective, Harrison Baylor.
 

Discarding my phone, I flipped through the pages of his latest masterpiece, bobbing my head enthusiastically. “I think it’s another New York Times solid gold.”
 

“Really?” Dad questioned, his voice uncertain.
 

“Of course. And I really like where you’re going with Harrison’s darker side.”
 

“You don’t think he’s too…oh what’s that word you teenagers use for depression?”

“Emo?”
 

“That’s it.”

A snort escaped my lips at how utterly clueless Dad was to think his 6’3, 250-pound detective was anything close to teenage angst. “No, I think it’s great. It’s showing the growth of his character since the earlier books.”

“Good. That’s exactly what I was shooting for.”

We zipped along Interstate 515 with the wind rippling our hair and clothes. Digging in my purse for my brush, I readjusted my long, dark hair back into a loose bun. Although the air was cooler the farther we got out of the city and into the mountains, it was still a typical stifling June day. I shifted between my mammoth purse and dance bag, trying to get my legs out of the direct sunlight. With my ultra pale skin, I didn’t want to be stinging with a sunburn later.
 

When my stomach started rumbling, I turned my head to survey where we were. As if on cue, a giant sign boasted, “
Maudie’s Mountain Brewery and Orchard. One Mile Ahead”
.
 

I leaned forward in my seat. “We’re still stopping at Maudie’s, aren’t we?”
 

Dad smiled. “Of course. If we even tried sneaking on to the lodge, we’d never hear the end of it!”

I laughed. “You’re right.”

“I told your mother to stop off there as well.”
 

Not only were the mountains Dad’s muse, but they were also the home of Maudie Sinclair—his one-time foster mother. He was only five when moved in with her and her husband, John, for three years until he was adopted. But he always kept in close contact with Maudie, and she’s always been like a second grandmother to me.

We turned into the store’s packed parking lot. Dad eased into a spot between two cars with out-of-state license plates. Twenty years ago, Maudie had started making jams and jellies as a hobby and to make some extra cash. That progressed to opening a store in a log cabin right off the interstate. But the real breakthrough came after mixing peach and apple juice together, along with some other concoctions, to make the frothy, tart Maudie’s Mountain Brew. It came in both alcoholic and non-alcoholic versions. Her business kept on growing, and now included stores all through North Georgia. The main store was still in a log cabin situated just below her house and about a half a mile from ours. One of the best parts of my summer in the sticks was working for Maudie.
 

Dad didn’t even get a chance to knock on her office door before she bounded out to meet us with Mom close on her heels. “Well hello! I’m so glad y’all finally made it!”
 

From summer to summer, Maudie never changed. Always outfitted in some kind of gauzy flowing skirt along with a peasant blouse, she had a hippie grandmother look. Her long silver hair was swept into its usual loose knot, and a large turquoise Dream Catcher necklace hung from her neck.
 

I lunged forward to wrap my arms around her. Closing my eyes, I rested my head against her shoulder, inhaling of her comforting fragrance of strawberry. “I’ve missed you!”
 

“I’ve missed you too, Laney-Poo,” she replied, clutching me tightly to her. When we finally pulled away, she wagged a finger at my dad. “Stephen, you better start coming during the winter more. I get mighty lonesome for y’all!”

Dad held up his hands in mock surrender. “Yes, ma’am. I sure will try. ”

Mom smiled. “It’s my fault really. My teaching schedule makes it hard to get away for more than a few days a time. And then there’s Lane’s college and dance schedule.”

Maudie smiled and brushed the hair out of my face. “Ah, yes, our little Twinkle Toes!”

“Ugh, you know I hate that nickname!” I protested, playfully nudging Maudie.
 

“I’m always going to call you that. Even if you make it all the way to the National Ballet, I’ll shout it out to you at one of the performances!”

“The National Ballet? I think you’re setting the bar a little high for me, no pun intended.”