Hidden, Me

by JL Rizzo

Genres: Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance; Second Chance Romance

Synopsis

Love isn't always patient. Or kind.

When social elite Lacey Magnus meets charismatic college student Kellan Bale, the pull of mutual attraction is immediate and intense. However, each is guarding a long-hidden secret...the weight of which threatens their relationship.

She doesn't know if she can trust him. He doesn't want to hurt her but knows it is inevitable. Kellan and Lacey are together but remain isolated in their shared weakness -- too broken to trust, afraid of judgment, terrified of consequences. The magnitude of their pasts may destroy their present.

Will they ever tell their secrets? Can they get past their lies?

When does bravery overcome foolishness?

Release date: April 24, 2018

Publisher: JL Rizzo

Print pages: 394

Sample

chapter one

4 years from now

Lacey

 

The pain cuts deep.  My hand is throbbing.  My head is throbbing.  Everything hurts.  How the hell am I supposed to deal with this?  

I have a newfound respect for people who can slap others and not bat an eyelash.  Maybe they don’t do it as hard as I just did.  Maybe they just don’t show the pain.  But I’m hurting.  My hand hurts, my wrist hurts, my skin hurts, my conscience hurts.  I’ve got to get the hell out of here. 

I can’t bring myself to really look at him.  His eyes slay me every time.  And I can’t handle that right now.  I just need to go.

Opening the door, I bolt out and head straight for the elevator around the corner, grateful he can’t see me from his door, if he even bothers.  I feel the angry tears welling up.  I’ve got to get away from him before they confess it all.  I slide into the elevator and keep my eyes steadfastly fixed on the floor.  I don’t think I’ve ever looked at the floor this hard before.  I want to look up.  God, do I want to look up and see if he’s even looking.  But I don’t, never wanting to give him the satisfaction, in the event he gives a shit.

“I don’t love you.  I’m sorry.”  

It’s all I hear as I descend, over and over again.  Four years, shot to hell.  As if the “I’m sorry” is supposed to make up for it all.

Moron.  

Yes, this finally proves it.  I’m a fucking moron.

 

 

chapter two

present day

Kellan  

Sitting on the wall, I pull the guitar over my knees.  Even though it’s been so long since I played this one, it falls easily onto my legs and into my hands.  Like an old leather glove that molds to my fingers.  And for now, it’s the only way I can feel connected to her.  I miss her so damn much.  Every day.  And I play to hear her again.  Her voice.  Her laugh.  Her love.

I manage to tune the strings up a bit and strum out an old familiar song.  The guitar’s hum feels refreshing against all the noise I have to face every day.  And that’s all it is.  Noise.  From every angle.  Every voice.  Every call.  Every message.  All wanting something.  It's pointless.  And I come here to shut it all out and stop giving a damn about everything.  The rock wall hurts my ass, and it's way too close to the edge, but it's my place.  Correction…it’s next to my place.  Because right now, some chick is sitting in my place.  

I don’t notice her.  I just keep looking forward.  Eyes fixed.  Playing some chords.  It’s ridiculous how much effort I take to not notice her.

She notices I’m not noticing.

“Your guitar is out of tune, you know,” she says.  And when I finally let myself look at her, she smiles.  Not a friendly smile.  More like a, You’re ruining my quiet with your noise kind of smile.

Screw.  This.

“I know.  It’s an old guitar.  I need to replace the strings,” I murmur, turning back to the guitar and ignoring her annoyance.

She stares back out at the view from the Palisades – Manhattan skyline to the right, tree-lined rock walls hugging the Hudson to the left, sun hovering behind us.  

“Can I ask you something?” she asks, breaking the deafening silence again.  Despite being annoyed, her voice is beautiful, mellifluous, unlike the harsh and demanding voices I normally have to deal with.  And I’d like to keep hearing it.

“Sure,” I reply, playing with the guitar strings to make them sound more harmonious.

“Is there a reason that you need to sit 10 feet from me when there are miles of stone walls to sit on?”  I inwardly laugh, but I don’t care that she’s annoyed because being up here is my sanctuary.  A place where I don’t have to care about anything.

I fold my arms over my guitar wondering where she got the nerve to ask such a question.  I look at her profile and take a deep breath.  “What’s your name?” I ask her.

She looks my way, and her eyes are more beautiful than her voice.  They’re a dark, deep blue.  They pierce me.  And it makes me uncomfortable deep in my chest, making it hard to find my next breath.  

“Can you please just answer the question?” she asks with half a smile and full of attitude.

She’s got some nerve.  I’ve got to put her in her place.  “Well, aside from the fact that you’re sitting in what is traditionally my spot, this particular section of wall has incredible acoustic reverberations given that it’s more of a cove than other sections.”  She looks at me stoically.  So I continue, “Because the guitar sounds better in this spot.”

She looks at me and raises an eyebrow as if to ask if I’m judging her IQ.  No, sweetheart.  Just making a point.  I can’t help but look at her eyes.  Her voice might sound annoyed, but her eyes look almost sad.  I wonder why.  She’s looking right at me in expectation, and we stare at one another for a few extra long moments.

I want to hear more of her voice.  

“Don’t believe me?” I ask.

She shakes her head no.

“Which part?  That it’s my spot or the acoustic architecture?”

She shrugs.  Let me hear your voice. 

“Just look behind you, at the rock that you’re leaning against.  What do you see?”

She hesitates at first, then turns around letting out a huff.  After she inspects the rock for a few long seconds, she turns back to me.  “Did you do this?”

“Yep.” I want to tell her that the smooth, black, shiny rock that has no place being behind her was brought up here by me when I was a kid.  I want to tell her that I took a lot of shit getting it here, hard work from me and my brothers.  And I still suffer the endless teasing for wanting it here, not to mention the countless hours I spent carving it.  And I want to tell her to get away from it because it’s something meant just for me.  But I don’t.  She looks like she might need a place to escape.  And there’s no better spot on the wall than where she is right now. 

She shakes her head with miniature nods, and I don’t know whether she believes me.  Truthfully, I don’t care, but I needed to prove that she’s the invader here.

“You don’t have to believe me—” and I look to her and pause to let her interrupt my sentence with her name.  But she remains silent.  “—this is the part where you give me your name, darling.”  She purses her lips and shakes her head no.  “Ok.  You don’t have to believe me, Girl with No Name, but it’s true.”  She surprises me with her genuine smile.  It’s wide and endearing, and it makes my blood run warm, something I haven’t felt in a long time.  I don’t think I like it.

I look back to my guitar and strum some chords and hear her take a deep breath.  

“I’ve always wondered how that got there,” she finally says.  

Always?  “You've noticed it before?” I ask her without looking at her.  But she’s starting a conversation, and I’ll encourage her voice.

I steal glances at her from my periphery and see her nod.  “I come up here about once a week.  This wall is one of my stops," she says looking back at the view.  I find it funny that she hasn't offered to move out of my spot.  Bold.  

“I’ve never seen you up here before,” I say to her, looking at her incredible eyes.  I’ve been coming up here regularly since I was four, with the exception of the last year.  Sulking in Europe made it hard to come to the wall.

“I found these trails about a year ago, but I only came across this spot about 6 months ago,” she says, looking down at the water.  “It’s my favorite spot.”

“It’s my spot,” I remind her and give half a smile.  The chuckle under her breath sounds so sweet.  Her voice, her eyes, her laugh — it’s all so mesmerizing.  She doesn't seem as guarded as she was a few moments ago. I can almost see her walls coming down.  I like that, too.  

There's a dichotomy in this view — the busy Manhattan life versus the quiet trees Upstate. And this girl looks at the scene as if it's speaking to her.  I love that she keeps looking at the water. Like she can really appreciate what it's saying to her, what its purpose is.  Only one other person I know was able to do that, aside from me.  It’s a gift.

I want to know more about her.  It’s been a long time since anything, anyone has intrigued me.  And the girl with the beautiful eyes and attitude of steel has caught my attention.  “How often do you run up here?”  She’s wearing workout clothes and sneakers.  And I figure she’s not dressed for a long car ride, so it must be for a run.  And I’m hoping to God that I run into her again.

She looks at me with hesitation, as if she’s weighing her next move.  Tell me?  Or lie?

“Or you could be on a road trip somewhere,” I rescue her decision. 

She chuckles to herself.  “No.  Not anytime soon.”  And I look to her expectantly like she did to me.  I raise an eyebrow as she did to solicit more information.  Her eyes are searching my face for something…sincerity, maybe?  Candor?  She gives a smile that isn't telling me to buzz off.  It makes my heart feel something warm and foreign.  What the hell is wrong with me?  “I try to run up here about once a week.  The trails aren't too hard, and I love the view.  Makes things seem….”  She trails off with her thought and looks to the river for answers. 

“Trivial?” I finish her sentence only because that's one of the reasons I come up here.

She gives half a smile and looks to her shoes.  “Manageable.  I was gonna say manageable.”

Just like that, I want to know everything.  “Does it help?” I ask her.

“Does what help?”

“Running?  Does it help to make things manageable?”

This girl looks back at me with those sad eyes and shy smile.  She gives a quick shrug, “The pavement is the only place where I get to be myself.  Do what I want, think what I want, be what I want.  Gives me a fresh perspective.”  Looking down at her sneakers, she smiles, probably at a memory.  “I could run for miles up here.” 

“Did you run for miles today?” I ask her.  Looking at me with a censorious brow, I elaborate, “Your sneakers look quite clean against these trails.”

She gives me half a smile, and I'll take every inch I can get.  I feel like I’ve broken through an invisible barrier.  She’s not being quite the bitch to me as she was a few moments ago.

“You ask a lot of question, you know,” she finally says, smiling.  “Why is that?”

I shrug because I don't care if I'm asking too many.  Up here, I feel free to do as I please.  I can see beyond the immediate demands of my work and my family and answer only to myself.  Something my mother always taught me.  Look past the first step, Kellan, and you'll see the staircase.  

“Does it bother you?” I ask, giving half a smile.

She chews over the question for a moment, looking at the water.  And I get the chance to steal some time to really look at her eyes.  They’re absolutely incredible.   Sad, yet lively.  Guarded, yet sincere.  It’s almost like she’s dealing with opposing emotions in them.  I feel lost in them.  And I’m surprised that I actually feel anything.  The last thing I really felt was complete and utter regret.  It’s shattering to the soul.  Somehow she’s shaking me out of that suffocating trance.

“It usually does bother me, getting asked questions.  But for some reason, yours don’t.”  Another shy smile.  And I melt a little.  “Actually, I kind of like it.”

I want to ask her what she likes in particular, but I don’t want to push my luck.  She’s talking, seemingly candidly.  And I'd like to keep it that way.  So I just look to her and wait for her to make the next move.

She shrugs quickly and laughs a little.  “Maybe I don't mind your questions.”  Is she getting playful?

“What’s your name?” I can't help myself.  

She laughs.  She laughs!  But she shakes her head no.  I’m still not getting her name.  Try something else, Bale.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” I ask, not really knowing where that question came from.  Must be the lack of giving a crap.

Girl with No Name looks to the ground.  Actually, I think she’s looking at her sneakers.  Why the hell is she caring about her sneakers so much?  

Another shy smile.  And I love that she's not looking at me with daggers.  “I just bought these sneakers.  I buy a new pair every 6 months.  I love my sneakers...more than any other of my shoes.”  

Evasion.  It’s like she knows the way to get me hooked.  No name.  No info on the boyfriend front.  She’s got a lot to hide, this girl.  

I start strumming the notes of another song quietly so she doesn't stop talking.  Her voice is mesmerizing; her eyes are hypnotic.  I feel like I'm getting lost in her spell.  And I’m causing her spell with the playing, almost distracting her.  “Why do you love your sneakers best?”  I really can’t help myself with the questions.

Another look over the skyline, then she looks back at me.  She still hasn’t answered my question, but she’s talking more.  Yet I feel like she’s hesitant because she doesn’t want to give too much away to a total stranger.  I admire that…her prudence.  

“Oh don't leave me hanging now, Girl with No Name, not when things starts getting interesting.  I promise not to give anything away, unless I get a good price for it, of course.”

“Are things getting interesting?” she asks, squinting her eyes playfully.

“You won’t give me your name.  You won’t tell me if you have a boyfriend.  But I know more about your sneakers than I want.  Yeah, I’d say it’s interesting.”  I chuckle at my brevity.  

Her laughter is more intoxicating than anything else.  “I like that you're so honest,” she says.  I’ll never tell her that my heart skips a beat when she said that to me.  

She takes a deep breath to steel herself.  “You know the phrase ‘wearing different hats’?  How people adopt a certain personality or responsibility based on the hats they wear?”  I nod my head.  “Well, I feel that way about my shoes.  I wear all different kinds of shoes for all different purposes.  There are some I like and some I hate, but I love these.  My running shoes are the only ones that allow me to be me, free of everyone else.  I put these on, and nothing else matters.”  

“And she answers again with her shoes,” I reply, which makes her shoulders dance a little while laughing.  And I feel ten feet tall.

After a few silent moments, she looks to the river then back at me.  “I don’t want you to know my name.”

What’s this?  

“Why not?” I fold my arms over my guitar again and give her my complete attention.

She stares back, as if she’s challenging me.  Try it, darling.  

My girl shakes her head and looks to the water.  Did I just refer to her as “my girl”?  

“I won’t Google you, if that’s what’s concerning you.”  The quick dart of her eyes confirms my suspicion.  

“How do I know you won’t?”

“Because I’m telling you I won’t.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You shouldn’t.  You don’t even know me.  But if there’s any place you could believe any one person — it’s me, up here at the wall.”

She cocks her head slightly, silently asking for more.  All you need to do is ask. 

Now it’s my turn to contemplate my answer.  I don’t really care about my phrasing, whether she’ll like it or not.  But I care about keeping those sad eyes happy, for some damn reason.  I’ll never tell her my whole truth, but I want to know more about her.  For that to happen, I know I’ve got to give an inch.

I look to her and smile.  “This place is like your running shoes.  The wall is my place to be me.  And up here, I can be me.  If I have a question, I’ll ask it.  If you have a question, I’ll answer it.  As you said, I’m pretty honest up here.  If I say I won’t do something, then I sure as hell won’t.”

Her eyes linger on me a fraction longer than expected, and I realize she grabbed the “up here” part of that explanation.  Yes, up here.  I don’t give a damn up here.  She’s making me give a damn up here.  Out there is a whole different story.  I have to care too much about bullshit; none of it matters.  Up here is where things matter.  Up here is where she is.

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself.  “I don’t want you to know my name because then all of this...shatters and becomes real.  You’ll know who I am.  I’ll know who you are.  Your questions will….”

Will what?  “Will what?”  Where is she going with this?

“I like that you ask questions,” she says, looking down at her sneakers.  “But I like more why you ask them.”

Oh, please.  Tell me more.  

She gets my silent cue.  “You seem genuinely interested in the answer, without an agenda.”  

What the hell does that mean?  

Looking back at the river, she’s weighing her options for response.  “I would just like it if other people spoke with such honesty as you do,” she says, looking quite sad.

Holy cow.  I feel like she’s the one penetrating me.  I can’t let her get too deep, though.  There are some things a guy’s gotta keep to himself.

I nod my head in understanding.  “Do you have any shoes that you hate?” I ask, still tuning the strings.

She smiles and nods her head yes.  I love that I make her smile.  I vow to get at least two more genuine smiles from her before I let her run away.

I look at her with expectation, as she’s done to me.  I may be playing her game, but it’s helping to learn more about her. 

“My waders.”

And she makes me laugh the loudest I’ve laughed in a very long time.  My stomach dances at her answer.  This girl has waders.  I didn't peg her for a fisherman.

“I knew it.  You’re a keen fly fisherman.  How many years now?” I say, still laughing.

Her laughing with me creates an incredible feeling inside.  I want more of it.  And I keep going because there’s no holding me back while I’m up here at the wall.

“No…” and she waits a moment.  I think she’s waiting for my name, but I’m going to make her work for it.  She rolls her eyes quickly.  “I’m not a fisherman,” she continues.  “I had to wear them as a favor to my parents, and I just kept them.”

“What kind of favor requires you to wear waders?” I ask, still chuckling with her.

Her fading smile makes me regret the question immediately, but it’s already out there.  I wish I didn’t ask it.  She looks incredibly sad, and I’ll give myself a world of shit later for making her feel that way.  I need to watch myself.  The absolute last thing I want to do is scare my girl off.  My girl.  I said it again.  Get a grip, Bale.  You don’t even know her name.

“Nevermind.  You don’t need to answer that.”  She looks me directly in the eyes and cuts me to my knees.  I feel like I’ve provoked a bad memory for her.  Those sad eyes are struggling to hold on to the quiet that helps her manage her life.  Make her smile.

“Do you want to know my name?” I ask her.  Please say yes. 

Looking straight through me, she pauses. And makes my heart stop. This moment feels suspended, and I can either fall or fly based on what she says. 

“Yes.”  I fly!  “But please don't tell me.  Otherwise I might not think about you during the rest of my run.”  I fall.  But her sweet smile softens the landing.

“You plan to think about me during the rest of your run?” I ask, raising an eyebrow playfully.

“Don’t you?” she charges back.

“I’m not running, remember?” I say, as I strum the guitar strings and smile.

She smiles back.  Mission accomplished.

“But yes.  I plan to think of you for the rest of today and most of tomorrow,” I lie.  I’ll think about her until I see her again.

She works magic.  And I haven't felt this grounded in a very long time.

“Well, then, I think that’s my cue.”  Her standing makes me start to panic.  

“Where are you going?” I ask her.

“How can you think about me if I’m sitting right here in front of you?”  She’s playful again.  I need to get her name.

I spin my legs around the other side of the wall away from the river.  I don’t want her to go.  “Please, before you go…give me your name.”  I’m pleading with my eyes.

She takes a deep breath and considers it.  “If I give you my name, then the magic of the wall will be broken.  No more ‘not giving a crap’.  You'll know who I am. And you'll know why I'm up here. Let's just leave it as it is.”

Suddenly it hits me.  “You want to be anonymous.”

Another smile, confirming my statement.

“Well, what should I call you when I tell this story to my roommate?” I smile at her.  I sure as hell will be telling Jager about this.

Her laughter is infectious.  “I’m sure you can think of something creative and appropriate.”

Oh, sweetheart.  You don’t want to know what I’ll call you.

She wants to remain a mystery. I can respect that. I spent last year in hiding, remaining a mystery.  But I don't want to let her go. I want to know all about her. Especially how the hell she can get under my skin like she does…those eyes, that voice, her laugh. I want more.  Much, much more.

“I want to see you again,” I say, panicking.  Who cares if I'm "throwing myself out there," as Reid would put it.

Her eyes light up.  “That’s not up to me, now is it?”

I squint my eyes at her silently asking her what she means.  “Of course it is.  Just give me your name.”

Lifting her shoe on to the wall to retie her laces, she smiles and says, “Maybe another day.  For today, let’s leave this—,” she points her finger back and forth between us, “—as it is.” 

She gives me a quick smile and hits the trail. 

How the hell did she do that?  This girl, my girl, my mystery girl has me wanting, feeling, thinking, needing.  As I watch her blonde hair and stark white sneakers disappear around the bend, all I can think is, I must see her again.