Finding Me

Finding Me

By

Danielle Taylor

Finding Me

© 2013 Danielle Taylor

All Rights Reserved.

Cover Art:

Design: Danielle Taylor

Image:© Rivilis |
Dreamstime Stock Photos
&
Stock Free Images

Lettering:
www.ribbet.com
&
www.ipiccy.com

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the owner. Excerpts for reviews – only when stated as such and quoted – are an exception.

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

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright
 

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

About the Author

1

I’m standing here, my feet firmly on the ground, and yet I’m still having trouble believing what I know is true. I’m actually
here
. This island, made up of three different countries – four if you include Northern Ireland – goes by a few different designations. The United Kingdom and Great Britain, to name the most common. Now, I also call it my home.

My first stay is in London. So far all I’ve seen is Heathrow Airport and the underground train that brought me to the city center. The first thing I want to do is go off exploring but, like I promised Mom and Dad, I find the nearest store with cell phones and buy myself a cheap pay-as-you-go device to send them a text, letting them know I’ve arrived safely.

Once I swapped over my greenbacks for some very cool looking pounds at the place Dad told me to – a place he found on Google maps – I grab my stuff and enjoy the late morning sunshine at a park. The first empty bench I come across, I make it my own. Suitcase shoved right up against it, rucksack dropped casually beside me on the bench, and my guitar case. I never leave home without my guitar. It’s more than an instrument to me, it’s like an extension of me. The first time I picked it up, I knew it was the one. It felt so right and my parents were only too happy to oblige me.

From my purse, I take out a small mirror and check my appearance. Approximately fifteen hours in transit and I don’t look half bad. Just a little tired. Swapping the mirror for a pen and a pad of paper, I pull out my phone and dial the number I’ve got for Melanie Chambers.

She’s got this awesome service I found by chance online. All you have to do is call her up, tell her what kind of work you’re interested in doing – hospitality-wise, like bar, waiting tables, housekeeping, the usual hotel / inn / pub jobs – and she will match you up with a few prospective employers. The best part is, they pay in cash and put you up with a place to stay, all meals included too. Plus, most of them are willing to pay your fare to them, so you really only have to show up and work hard.

The phone rings through to voicemail so I leave a message with my new number for her to call me back. If she doesn’t get to me today, I have the number to a hostel lined up to stay in tonight. Dad would kill me if he knew, but ten quid, as they call their money in slang here, for a shared room and semi-private bathroom, plus a lock box I can keep my stuff in, sounds a heck of a lot better than forty something quid for a hotel room.

I’m anxious to hear back from Melanie and whenever this feeling strikes, I pull out my guitar and play, which is exactly what I do now. The familiar sounds of strumming strings fill the air. I’m just messing around at first, giving my fingers a little warm-up. Feels like weeks since I last played, instead of about a day or so. Then I move on to a popular song on the radio back home. Never much of a singer, I hum along to the chords instead, tapping my foot to a beat only I can hear. I get so lost in myself when I play, eyes shut, body swaying, that I never notice if anyone is paying attention.

I slide effortlessly into another song, and then another. This one is more emotional, about a guy leaving home for the first time – but he’s not going to college or on a road trip with his friends. He’s going off to war and he doesn’t know if he’ll be home soon, or if he’ll be returning at all. My humming voice cracks, throat tight with the immensity of the unsung words. As I pluck the final chord, letting out my breath, people start clapping. Loudly.

Snapping my eyes open, I watch as people step forward from the crowd to drop money into my open guitar case, and I’m stunned. I’ve played in public before with my friends or alone, but always closed the case and never busked. I must have been in such a rush to play that I forgot to shut the case. Still, I start counting up what’s gone in. There’s well over fifty pounds in there!

“Th-thank you!” I call out nervously.

More people are starting to show up with their expectant gazes boring into me. I hate feeling pressured. I’m not good with large groups of people. I always feel like they’re judging me, calling me cruel names in their heads. I can’t come up with a reason for why I feel this way, but it’s there. Lurking in the back of my mind. Maybe it’s because I’m not blonde enough or skinny enough.

“Mind if I join you?” The melodic, raspy voice with a sexy-as-sin accent belongs to exactly the kind of guy I imagined it would.

He’s big and toned and –
oh my freaking gosh
– tattooed. All. Over. I can see a tribal tattoo around one bicep, a snake wrapping around his arm, and the curve of lettering on his collar bone. A beaten-up guitar case hangs from his right hand. He’s wearing all black; t-shirt, jeans, big boots. Jet black hair hanging down into piercing cerulean eyes. So intense. My soul is trembling beneath his awesome gaze.

Scooting over on the bench, I make room for him, feeling big and uncoordinated next to his agile and lean frame. We’re drawing more of a crowd now and I know I should say something to this guy, but he doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood for talking. His case is open next to mine, his guitar in his long fingers, resting on his thighs. He starts off playing a song that everyone knows and nods at me to join in.

I’m a little clunky in the beginning but he lets me catch up in my own time, and then,
ohmy
! He starts singing. I only hear one word, the first of the song.
Today
. It sticks in my mind, a hauntingly beautiful caress on my brain. His voice is the perfect combination of gruff and melodic, married together. By the time the song is over my hands rest limply and I realize I’ve stopped playing altogether. He totally awes me.

A ringing phone snaps me back to the present, simultaneously breaking up the crowd. Excited to speak with Melanie and start working, I place my guitar in the case while bringing the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Lacy? Honey, is that you?”

“Yeah.” I can’t hide the disappointment from my voice. I hoped this call would be from Melanie. “Yeah, Mom. It’s me.”

“Oh good. We just wanted to hear from you in person that you made it there safely.”

“I’m fine. Just called the service and waiting for her to call me back.”

“Where are you?” Dad speaks this time. “I heard a lot of people.”

“I just got here, Dad. Literally. Found this park and an available bench and I sat down.”

“Honey,” Mom chides, “leave her be. Now Lacy, you just make sure you let us know what’s going on, mmkay? It’s hard with you being so far away from me…”

“I know, Mom, I do. But you know I have to–”

“Find yourself,” Dad finishes with a groan. “We know, darlin’. Doesn’t make it any easier on us though.”

I really don’t want to do this right now but I know I’m going to start frickin’ bawling my eyes out any second now. “I miss you guys.” The tightness is already clogging up my throat. “But I’ve gotta just…I dunno, see this place. Get a feel for who I am.”

If you’ve never been in my position, you can’t possibly know where I’m coming from. Whether they abandoned you or something happened that they couldn’t care for you, an adopted child – at some point during their life – is going to have questions. I was born here in England and found on the side of the road in a small town in Texas at two and a half years old with my passport. That’s it. So of course I’ve got questions, I’ve got tons of them. And the only way I feel I can get any answers is to be here.

“We know.” Mom’s voice is cracked, shattered. I can almost hear the tears pouring down her cheeks.

“Just keep us in the loop, Lace.” Dad clears his throat. “Anyhow, we don’t wanna keep you, it’s just gone eight in the morning and your Mom and I need to get to work here.”

“Okay. Love you guys.” I sign off before my tears start up too. The heaviness in my chest weighs down on my heart as I turn back to my luggage. I miss my parents, but we all know this is something I need to do.

The gorgeous guy is still there, guarding my belongings. Hesitantly, I trudge over, clutching the neck of my guitar with a damp hand. I cross the distance between us slowly, dragging out each step. When I reach the bench, he smiles at me and moves to his feet.

“You play beautifully,” he murmurs with his stupidly hot accent that makes my brain turn to mush and my knees quake.

“Nah.” My head shakes, reinforcing my thoughts. “No way. I mess around.
You
play and you’re freaking incredible.”

Ugh. I’m gushing. It’s embarrassing. But he laughs, a deep, sensual growl. “Yeah, I suppose. You play with so much feeling though. I heard the notes you were playing here–” He points to his ears. “–and here.” His palm rests above his heart and a fraction of a second later, my right hand is perfectly enclosed in his free hand. “By the way, I’m Dex.”

You’re friggin hot!
my brain wants me to admit.

“Lacy,” I reply, stumbling over my own damn tongue.

“Pretty.”

His comment is so different to what I’m used to – guys back home never say the word pretty unless it’s followed by awesome or something like that. Now I don’t know what to say. Do I thank him? I know what I
want
to do. My fingers are itching to tear that black t-shirt from his body and explore his torso. I’ve never met a guy like him, all grunge and sex and confidence.

“So, Lacy.” Dex gestures to my stuff. “What’s your plan here in London?”

Only then do I take a look down at my hand. He hasn’t let go yet. This situation should be awkward but it isn’t. “Um…long story.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Care to share it over a coffee?”

Now it’s my turn to smirk. “I thought you guys only drank tea?”

The air from my lungs vanishes when he brings his face so close I can feel the rough stubble from his jaw on my cheek. “That was terribly cheeky of you, Lacy. I’ve a mind to bend you over my knee, right here in front of everyone…”

I’m not an idiot. I read those novels everyone else read and right now, clutching his shirt in my hands is all I can do to keep from melting into a pool of need on the pavement in front of his boots. I moan. I freaking moan at him while squeezing my thighs together in a very vain attempt to rid myself of this growing ache.