Page 2 of Salvaged Heart

2

ANDERS

1 012 Arbor Ct, just like all the other properties surrounding the lake, screamed wealth. Not of the new money variety either. No, this level of luxury was the byproduct of old, dirty wealth passed down from eldest son to eldest son and earned off the back of someone else’s labor.

According to Zillow, the home was completed in a farmhouse style. I found this both amusing and incredibly infuriating, as none of the home’s previous four occupants had spent a minute of their stuffy, prissy lives in the vicinity of a farm. Not that I could talk–but at least I knew I was out of touch.

I hated everything about this place. The large windows with their not-so-rustic shutters. The wrap-around porch that looked like it was torn from the front cover of a Southern Living magazine. The long, sweeping driveway lined with giant oaks that would cost a fortune to maintain. The upper balcony, the wood paneling, the–well, you get the idea. But the thing I hated the most was the view from where I was currently standing on the boat dock, looking out over all the privilege surrounding the lake as far as the eye could see.

I never fit in here. Never would.

It was good that this would be the last summer I had to spend here. I’d rather burn it to the ground than renovate it. I didn’t want anything to do with this place and half of the memories that came with it, but Aunt Millie always had a soft spot for me. She used to say, “You may not have been born family, but you’re stuck with us now.” She’d meant it to be endearing. To me, it just sounded like a curse.

The crunch of tires hitting the broken cobblestones of the driveway pulled me from my thoughts. “Here we go.” This I said to no one in particular and threw back the rest of my beer. I'd hoped I would have time for another one–or ten–before my dearest sister showed her face with her whipped jock of a boyfriend. But, if I had learned anything over the last nine years, hope was not something I could place a lot of stock in.

“Anders?” The thick Tennessee lilt made my name sound more like an accusation than a question.

I crushed the empty can and threw it into the lake before popping the top on another and taking a long, long sip. Rotating slowly, I scanned my sister from head to toe.

“Well, I see someone bent the truth about being sober. This might be a new record for the quickest you have ever disappointed me.”

“Sister,” I tried to match her tone, but I had never done hostile resentment quite as well as Laurel Mitchell. “First of all, to be disappointed, you would have needed to have faith in me to begin with. We both know you did not. Second, I said clean, not sober — which I am trying my darn hardest to be even though the mere presence of you makes me want to get so blitzed my face slides off.” I met her eyes dead-on, waiting for the retort that surprisingly didn’t come.

Little did she know or care that I was trying harder to be sober than I ever had before, but I refused to let her or anyone see I was struggling. For years now, my family has brushed my drug use off as “party boy” behavior. Anders doesn’t have a problem. This was just Anders’ way of rebelling—a phase. One day, Anders would grow up, and that would be it. He would walk away from the drugs, the drink, and the prescription pills. Because in their eyes, this was something I could turn off. When in reality, those statements couldn’t be further from the truth. That was not a switch I had access to.

I would be an addict for the rest of my days. I knew that like I knew the sky was blue and the earth was round. The only control I had over the matter was whether I fought every day to claw myself out of the darkness towards the light sobriety offered. But that control was brittle, and the battle I was fighting was a losing one.

There were days when I could hardly control taking my next breath, let alone decide not to use. I’d been sober for short spells before, but never more than a couple of days. The voices in my head inevitably got too loud again -

“And third…”

I blinked rapidly, coming back to the moment at hand. “And third… It is lovely to see you, darling sister. It has truly been too long.” I flashed her my best Cheshire cat smile and pulled a pack of smokes from my pocket, slipping one between my lips. “It’s just boring old tobacco.” I lit it slowly. “Don’t get excited.”

This caused her eyes to narrow even further, and for several seconds, I felt like she was trying to set fire to me with a look alone. Then, with a noncommittal shrug, she broke eye contact and flicked her gaze to the mountain of a man hovering in her shadow. “This is my boyfriend, Beckham. He will be helping us this summer. I told you on the phone.”

“Beckham? What? You don’t have a first name?”

I kept my eyes locked on my sister, letting thick smoke billow from my mouth directly into her face with each word. It was one thing to have to deal with her all summer, but also to suffer whatever pathetic shell of a man she had roped into helping her with the project was something I would not do. As far as I was concerned, he didn’t exist. I was here to get what I came for by helping my sister renovate this old dump, and then I would be out of her life for good.

“Actually, that is my first name.” His hand shot out in my periphery, causing me to startle slightly. I had been straddling the threshold of withdrawal for two weeks now, staying just high enough that getting out of bed was achievable but not high enough that I spent every moment a jittery, anxious, normally nauseous mess. Jumpy was quickly becoming a personality trait that, luckily, seemed to go unnoticed. “Beckham David, nice to meet you.”

The laugh burst from my throat so quickly that it came out as a cross between a snort and a choke.

“You are not serious?”

“As a heart attack.” He deadpanned, earning himself his first glance of acknowledgment.

Well, damn.

Would you look at that?

David Comma Beckham was quite the male specimen.

He stood a couple of inches taller than me and was all long lines, sinewy muscle, high cheekbones, and chiseled jaw. Dark hair peeked out under a backward cap like the universe was trying to play some cruel, sick joke on me. Kryptonite was Superman’s downfall, and backward ball caps were most certainly mine. He looked like a goddamn wet dream in his short sleeve navy henley. Surely that had been available in a larger size? It looked like it was painted on. But easily, the most heart-stopping feature on his face was revealed half a second later when he slid his sunglasses from his straight, lightly freckled nose, revealing two insanely blue eyes that sat beneath a questioning brow.

Oh! Right. He was waiting for me to respond.

Locking into his glacial stare, I grasped his hand in a firm shake that sent a ripple of current straight through my core and to my dick. “Nice to meet you, man. Thanks for coming to help out.”

He held my hand for a beat too long. Something unreadable glinted behind his eyes before he dropped it and gave the bro-iest nod he could muster.

“Don’t mention it. Happy to help.” Deep and smooth like whiskey, his voice was a punch to the gut.

This summer might be enjoyable after all.

“Well then, sister. I guess we better get inside and take a look around.” It took a herculean effort to pull my attention back to the five-foot-seven spitfire tapping her foot in annoyance in front of me. I made a mental note to ask her to teach me how she managed to look down her nose at someone half a foot taller than her. It was quite an impressive talent.

“I figured you would have torn through the place already and squirreled away anything of value.” Laurel was nothing if not predictable.

“See, I knew you would say that. If you had only answered your phone earlier, you would know I have been sitting on this dock for the last three hours waiting for your arrival. I wouldn’t want to lose your trust by going in without you.”

Truth was, the lawyer knew better than to give me a key, but she didn’t need to know that. It’s not like I couldn’t have broken in if I had wanted to.

“Why don’t you both get the house unlocked, and I’ll bring our luggage up?” Beckham lay a gentle peck on my sister’s cheek before taking long strides back the way they had come. I watched his ass flex and relax inside his khaki shorts as he went, my tongue darting out to trace my bottom lip subconsciously.

“Don’t even think about it.” Laurel snapped as soon as he was out of earshot. She tore the last dregs of the cigarette from my fingers and stomped it beneath the sole of her sandal.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

She hummed low in apparent disbelief.

I let out an exasperated sigh. “Look, Laurel. It’s going to be a long summer. Can we at least attempt to get along?”

She had every reason to hate my guts, especially after the last time we had been in each other’s presence almost seven years ago, but I was determined to try and restore some of our lost relationship. However, after our reunion, I felt like maybe things were even more fractured than I remembered. So much for time healing old wounds, or whatever the saying was.

We had been close once.

Well, as close as two hormonal teenagers fresh off the heels of nasty divorces and thrust together into a brand new build-a-family could be. That first summer, before we started school on our new side of town, we were all each other had. We’d set about exploring on our bikes, racing up and down the West Tennessee hills, causing mayhem. By the time the semester started, we had already created quite the reputation for ourselves as ‘those Mitchell kids.’

But I wasn’t a Mitchell at all.

My mother hadn't even taken the name after marrying husband number four–Alexander Mitchell. I think she gave up on that paperwork nightmare after the second go-around ended in less than three months. Hindsight being twenty-twenty and all that, she should have invested the time, as ten years later, the marriage to Laurel’s father was her longest yet–albeit, a miserable one. I guess when a marriage comes with a ridiculously large bank balance and multiple vacation homes scattered over Europe, your tolerance to overlook verbal abuse and a whole string of sordid affairs grows exponentially. Either that or the Xanax strength she was now being prescribed made her so numb that the threats, taunts, and blatant infidelity glanced off her with little to no impact.

“You’re right.” Laurel finally announced after giving me a long, assessing look.

“Call the press! We might still have time to make tomorrow’s headline.” I gave her what was supposed to be a genuine, but I’m sure came across as a ‘you’re going to regret this’ smile.

“But…”

Of course, there was a but.

“Trust is something that needs to be rebuilt, Anders. I will be keeping a close eye on you.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

Draining my beer, I crushed the can, tossed it into the lake, and set off up the sloping back lawn towards the manor. Laurel fell into step beside me just as Beckham appeared again on the wrap-around porch, a half grin curling up the side of his lush mouth. It was almost certainly delusion, but I could have sworn those ocean eyes were fixed on me instead of his girlfriend.