Ten Million Fireflies (Band of Sisters) Page 11

  “Whoever you are, you’re trespassing.” She nearly snorted. That word had been way overused lately and had turned more into a joke than anything. If it was Drew, he’d respond.

  No one responded.

  “I get I took over your party spot. There're miles of trails and woods where you and your buddies can drink and smoke and do whatever debauchery you have planned. I own this campground now and am making it a safe place for kids. I ask you to respect that. If you want to chat, come on out. We’ll chat.”

  Brooke waited, slowly pacing along the edge of the brush. Still no sound.

  “Okay. I take it you don’t want to come out of hiding. That’s cool. If you’re looking for a job, come back tomorrow morning. There’s a lot of cleanup that needs to be done around here.” Hey, why not? Maybe the drunk kid was looking for attention. Hard work and a good role model were better intervention than simply kicking him out. “I need an electrician and a carpenter. If you have tools, bring them with you.”

  It was a crapshoot that the kid lurking around had any skill, but she humored herself, nonetheless. Better to let the lurker know she wasn’t afraid and wasn’t an ass. Flies, honey, vinegar, she knew the drill. Brooke may not be all flowery with her language and manners, but she could handle a troubled teen.

  Still keeping her attention sharp, she headed back to her car and slowly drove away, praying whoever was prowling her woods wouldn’t trash her new screens in the middle of the night.

  Her luck had worn off the following morning. Fourteen of the cabins were untouched, but the screens in the Penobscot cabin, as well as the door, had been ripped to pieces.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Drew hadn’t had a hangover like this since his first critical review. He’d been riding on a high for months after being deemed the next Dean Koontz when a well-known literary critic published a scathing review of Devil’s Vengeance. Even though he’d received hundreds of four- and five-star reviews on the first day of his release, that one hit him hard.

  Robert Miller had called his writing style juvenile and his prose flat and mind-numbing. He went on and on, tearing up the plot and calling the novel fan fiction when clearly, it wasn’t.

  Drew’s agent scolded him for succumbing to reading reviews. But he’d been a newbie. What did he know? That night he’d drowned himself in a bottle of Jack and had paid for it all the next day.

  When he received his first royalty statement with the string of zeroes at the end, he’d pushed the negative reviews—because there had been more, which he’d read—to the side and focused on his next book.

  The positive reviews far outweighed the bad, and Drew focused his energy on those, still learning from his critics. After his second book, he left the review reading to his agent and editor, who summarized some weaknesses and gave Drew some helpful hints and goals for the next book.

  And then there was no looking back. He’d learned to take the good with the bad and focused on writing instead of the negativity. He read more, learned more, and wrote more.

  And then came his writer’s block. No, it wasn’t that. Just as he’d told Brooke, there wasn’t a block. He had been fresh out of ideas. Different matter.

  He owed her big time for her inspiration and for his lack of sleep. After returning from their hike, he’d brainstormed for five hours and wrote for a solid ten, only stopping to take a twenty-minute power nap, and then spent another eight solid hours on his laptop.

  Write. Nap. Repeat. He’d had less than four hours’ sleep in the past two days, but he had a ten-page, three-book proposal, which was in his agent’s hands, and three chapters to the first book under his belt.

  He’d celebrated in the night with a glass of Crown Royale, easy on the ice, and had continued to write.

  It was Thursday or Friday afternoon, he wasn’t sure. Drew saved his files and closed his laptop as he rolled his shoulders to work out the kinks. The days were getting longer, which meant more time to write outside. It was his favorite spot to work, his second being in his lounger in front of the fire.

  He stood and stretched, then walked over to the deck railing, resting his elbows on it and looked over the water. He appreciated the quietness of the pond. There were times when he thought about moving somewhere closer to civilization, but he didn’t like to socialize much anyway, so there was no point.

  It took over two hours to get to Portland, and another six to drive to New York. He didn’t mind the drive in to meet his agent and publisher. After a few nights in the city attending meetings with Carl, coming home was always a welcome relief.

  He wasn’t cut out for the city life—the nonstop parties, schmoozing, and such. Carl scheduled the obligatory book tour during the two months after a new release, but other than that, Drew stayed put on his little corner of the pond in the middle of nowhere.

  Sugarloaf drew in the winter crowds, which was when he stayed close to home in front of the fire and got most of his writing done. Spring brought new life, new beginnings, and new releases.

  For the past five years, he’d had a March release, and with that came spring book signings throughout the country. He typically spent June resting, and he brainstormed and researched all of July and August. The real writing happening from September through January with edits to follow.

  It was a good cycle he had, until now. He really didn’t think he’d be able to lay out the foundation for this series. Which brought his wandering mind back to Brooke. There was still another hour or two of daylight left, and he figured she’d still be working on this project of hers. A project fated to fail.

  It wasn’t like he wanted her to fail, but he didn’t want the camp to fill up with children and be a constant reminder of how he could have saved a boy’s life. Two boys.

  Drew brought his laptop inside and plugged it in to charge. Spying the decanter of whiskey on the bar in the corner of the living room, he cringed and moved past it up the stairs to take a shower.

  He’d never been one to drink while writing, but he celebrated with one after he sent his synopsis to his agent and left the bottle next to his laptop while he wrote. If his fingertips weren’t moving across his keyboard, they were wrapped around his glass, his mind in deep thought. Then he’d set the glass down and write for a few more hours.

  He didn’t think he’d had much to drink. If so, the words wouldn’t have flowed, but he must have had just enough to keep a constant buzz, which turned into a raging hangover at nine o’clock this morning.

  The words stopped, as did his brain. After a few hours of rest, he chased Tylenol down with glass after glass of water, cooked up a greasy brunch, and sat in front of his laptop again, hoping the fresh air and motivation he’d had for the past two days would dilute the hangover.

  It did, and it didn’t. The words came, just not as fast, and he’d stopped regularly for more Tylenol and water. Now, with the sun dipping behind the mountain, he was finally feeling better.

  Stepping into the warm spray of the shower, he soaped, lathered, and rinsed, then shut off the water. Donning a pair of shorts and a clean T-shirt, he tugged on a pair of ankle socks and laced up his sneakers.

  A quick walk through the path to check on Brooke and thank her for jump-starting this series was in order, no matter how much it pained him to step foot on the campground. He still didn’t think she’d be able to pull it off.

  The land—the camp—was cursed, and no one would sign their kids up to stay overnight at a place where two boys had died. She was bound to lose a lot of money on her investment. He didn’t want to be negative, but he was a realist. Hell, he’d never send his children to a place where kids were known to die.

  Grabbing his keys and cell, he shoved them into his pockets and headed off to the trail. As he neared, loud country music and terrible singing carried through the woods. Brooke’s Subaru was backed up in front of the mess hall, the trunk open and empty.

  He contemplated turning around for a moment, but his manners got the better of him and he climbed the rick
ety steps. Over the music were two voices not fit for any karaoke bar, belting out words of cheating hearts and tequila. He was tempted to back away.

  Only Brooke’s throaty, raspy singing got louder and even more terrible, and he couldn’t help but laugh. Letting himself in, he glanced about the empty hall. The only thing filling the space were piles of opened boxes tossed about, and he followed the noise into the kitchen.

  He stood in the doorway unnoticed. Leaning against the doorjamb, he crossed his ankles and his arms and chuckled. Brooke, with a camouflage scarf tied over her short hair, held a rubber spatula and sang into it as if it were a microphone.

  A blonde he recognized as one of her girlfriends held an empty pot under her arm and banged on it with a wooden spoon. The song ended and both girls burst into a round of giggles.

  The blonde spotted him first and stilled, a flirtatious smile growing on her lips.

  “We have company.”

  Brooke twirled around and pointed her spatula at him. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Not long enough. I missed the first act.”

  “How many did you see?” She moved closer, prowling like a cat. He had a perverse hope that she’d pounce on him.

  “Just this last performance. I’d say don’t quit your day job...” But he actually wanted her to. Not the teaching gig she said she was starting in the fall. She should devote twelve months of the year to that—to keeping children in school and safe. She should help ward off bullies and comfort the loner kids. Camp was not all they cracked it up to be.

  “You think you can do better?” She held out the spatula for him.

  He pushed it back at her. “There’s no way in hell I could top that.”

  Another song came on and the friend turned the music down. “I’m Charlie. Army sister of Brooke’s. We haven’t officially met.” She held out her hand and Drew shook it. Firm and strong, just like Brooke’s, but she held on and he swore she stroked the back of his hand with her thumb.

  “Drew.”

  “The neighbor?”

  “Yup.”

  “The famous author?”

  “I guess.” He was still uncomfortable with the fame and recognition bit.

  “Can I get your autograph?”

  “If you think you need it.” He didn’t mind signing his name at an event, but it was the spontaneous autograph requests that made him uncomfortable.

  “If I gave you a sharpie would you sign my chest?”

  “Charlie!” Brooke shoved her friend aside, who stumbled into the stainless-steel worktable and keeled over laughing.

  He’d been played.

  “I’m kidding. Sorry if I offended you. It’s not like you’re a rock star or anythi—” Charlie clamped her mouth shut and sagged her shoulders, casting Brooke an apologetic glance he didn’t understand.

  Brooke shook her head and reverted her attention back to Drew. “What brings you by? You here to help us unpack?”

  Drew spotted a stack of unopened boxes and a dozen bags on the floor.

  “Looks like you ladies went on a major shopping spree.”

  “We did. Amazon shipped most of our supplies to the house, and we picked up some odds and ends at Walmart.”

  “You’re prepping your kitchen pretty early if you don’t plan to open the camp until next summer.”

  “Boss here needs a kitchen.” Charlie draped an arm across Brooke’s shoulders. “She’s moving into the main cabin and needs a place to store her food. And to cook... what little she does.”

  “You’re moving to the camp?”

  “Sure.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because...” Because it would mean this fantasy of hers would become a reality and his nightmares would become real again as well.

  “I can’t afford the summer rental rate on the house I’m in. They’ve already extended my rate a few weeks. I’ll be living here all summer once camp opens next year anyway. Helen and Marcus lived in the director’s cabin back in the day. If it’s good enough for them, it’s more than good enough for me.”

  “There’s no bathroom. Or running water.” It was lame, but if she needed him to list the reasons why this was a dumb idea, he would.

  “I can use the outhouse. I’ve used worse in the military. And the kitchen will have electricity on Monday and running water by Tuesday. I don’t need much else.”

  A woman who didn’t need much else? There weren’t many women who’d be content, or even happy about roughing it for months on end.

  “There’s no heat in the cabins. You’ll freeze in the winter.”

  “I don’t need heat in the summer. There’s a fireplace that can warm me up if we have an unexpected cold spell. Besides, I’ll be back in the rental by Columbus Day weekend. I’ve already made arrangements with the owner.”

  Hell, she’d thought this through and was really moving forward with it.

  “It’s not safe.”

  “Are you trying to scare me out of here?” Brooke stepped closer, a mad look in her eyes. “Were you drinking last night?”

  How the hell had she known about that? He opened his mouth to deny it, but no words came out.

  “Shit. You were.” Brooke placed both hands on his chest and shoved him back. “You’re a creep, you know that? You’re not going to get rid of me that easily. Go back home, you alcoholic-creepy-stalker-rich-writer-asshole.” She gave him one more hard shove, and he backed into the wall, banging his head on the side of the door.

  Drew rubbed his scalp and stepped out of her reach before she slugged him. “Hang on.” He held out his hand to stop her. “I’m not a creepy stalker.”

  “But you admit to the alcoholic rich asshole writer bit?” she fumed.

  Running his hands through his hair in confusion, he shook his head. “What the hell is this all about?”

  Charlie stepped in between them, hands on hips and fire in her eyes. “Someone was lurking outside the cabins last night.”

  Being ganged up against by two former military women was a scary thing. Even so, he’d do his civil duty and protect them from harm.

  “Seriously?” He straightened and stupidly looked around him as if he’d spot the creep from the kitchen.

  “Seriously.”

  “And you think it’s me?”

  “Why not? You’re the only one who doesn’t want me opening the camp back up.”

  “I’d never do anything to frighten you.”

  “You just told her it wasn’t safe to be here,” Charlie pointed out.

  “Because you’re a beautiful woman living out in the open with no secure locks and no real privacy.”

  Brooke’s eyes softened a tad and she dropped her ready-to-attack stance. “I can protect myself.”

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  What troubled him was the drinking part. He had been drinking last night and had been drunker than he thought—evidence of his hangover this morning. Could he have wandered off in the middle of the night and stalked her?

  Shit. Drew spun around and trailed off into the dining hall. The heroine of his new series was about to face a similar dilemma. They would accuse her of committing crimes she swore she didn’t do. Could he really be morphing into one of his characters? Hell, he hoped not. Fiction becoming reality was never his plan.

  As soon as he got home, he would empty his liquor cabinet and dump the contents down the kitchen sink.

  “It was you,” Brooke accused, stepping too close to his personal space, the fire back in her eyes.

  “I don’t think so.” He tugged at his hair in frustration.

  “You don’t think so? Well, that makes me feel so much better. I believe you’re what’s called a trespasser. Leave. Now.”

  “The book I’m writing...” He took in a deep breath. “The protagonist. She’s like you said. A writer, a good wife, and mom. She’s being accused of petty crimes in town.”

  “Great. Glad I could help your writer’s b
lock. Now get your ass off my property.” Brooke seized the sleeve of his shirt and yanked him toward the door.

  Drew didn’t resist and followed her willingly. “I’d been up for nearly thirty-six hours straight writing the synopsis and starting the book. I had a few drinks.”

  “And then you creeped outside my window and tried to scare me? Why didn’t you say anything when I called out to you?”

  “You did?”

  “I carried on a conversation with you while you were cowering in the woods.”

  He hid in the woods? That was a new low for him. “I don’t... I don’t remember that.”

  “Great. I’m opening a camp for kids and an alcoholic lives next door. I’m going to get a restraining order on you.” Brooke opened the door with her foot and shoved Drew outside onto the porch.

  “No, I... I don’t normally drink.”

  “Heard that one before.” The screen door slammed in his face. “Shit-faced before the sun even sets is a sure sign that you’re an alcoholic.”

  “Wait,” he called to her retreating back. “The sun hadn’t set?”

  Brooke crossed her arms and turned, her body in a defensive stance, Charlie by her side. They both shot fiery daggers at him through the screen. “You may have blacked out, but it was still light for the rest of us.”

  “What time was it?”

  “You’re pathetic.”

  “No. Really. I need to know.” He reached for the door but dropped his hand when she growled a warning at him.

  “Almost eight. It gets dark in the woods even though it was still fairly light on the water.”

  “Eight? You sure?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe eight-fifteen. Does it really matter?”

  Drew let out a sigh of relief. “Yeah, it does. It really does.” This time he didn’t heed her warning and let himself back inside.

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Brooke took a step backward.

  Her retreat shouldn’t have felt like a stab to his chest. It wasn’t like they were close friends and she suddenly mistrusted him. They weren’t even what he’d consider friends. Acquaintances with the possibility of something more that had been shot down the second she mentioned her interest in the camp.