Long Road Home

by Marie Meyer

Genres: Coming of Age; Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance

Synopsis

Sometimes getting lost is the only way to find your way home . . . I'm grateful for many things-my work, my apartment, my amazing friends. But after that night years ago, I'm left with an aching weight I can't escape. And it's keeping me from living and loving the way I desperately want. So when a ruggedly handsome cop pulls me over, I'm shocked by what just the sight of him does to me-stirring up feelings I didn't think were possible again. Cayden Sinclair is undoubtedly one of the good guys. A former Marine who's so sexy I can't seem to keep my hands to myself. But there are things I'm not ready to share, things that could change everything between us. Cayden deserves to have the life he's always wanted-which means walking away from him. But I don't know if I'll ever find the strength to let him go . . .

Release date: March 7, 2017

Publisher: Forever Yours

Print pages: 321

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

I swing my hip into the door, my hands overtaken by the giant garment bag containing the maid-of-honor dress my best friend chose for me. A bell sounds as I exit the bridal shop. Stepping onto the sidewalk, the warm breeze of an early June morning ruffles the plastic slung over my forearm. I speed-walk to my car, having exactly twenty-eight minutes to get to work. I am so late. There’s no way in hell a final fitting should have taken forty minutes. I love Dylen, but being her maid of honor is beginning to fuck with my life.

Digging my keys from my purse, I slide my thumb over the unlock button, and my car’s headlights wink in response. I yank the door open and snap the seat forward. Groping the interior wall of the car, my fingers brush over the plastic hook, and I tug it down, simultaneously losing the grip on my keys. They fall with a thunk onto the sidewalk.

“Shit! I don’t have time for this!” I cram the dress into the car, prop the hanger on the hook, and take a step backward. Bending over, I scoop the keys off the concrete just in time to hear a catcall. Really?

Standing, I whirl around. Two men in well-tailored suits, a few paces up the sidewalk, look over their shoulders and grin at me.

“Looking good, nursey. Loving the SpongeBob scrubs,” the shorter one says—probably the same one that let out the disgusting whistle. “I’d like to visit your Bikini Bottom.” The taller guy laughs and congratulates his buddy with a jab to the shoulder.

What morons.

Shaking my head, I give them the one-finger salute and round the car. “Oh, that’s original,” I shout, climbing into my car. If I wasn’t already so late, I would have thought of a better comeback, but then again, they aren’t worth my time. “Dicks,” I growl under my breath. With my mood in the toilet, I start the car and ease out of the parking space.

Traffic is light through town, and thankfully, the interstate isn’t backed up—an advantage to being late, I guess.

With the road wide open, I press my foot onto the accelerator and don’t let up. The speedometer inches its way toward seventy and doesn’t stop.

Cranking the volume on the radio, I let the sweet, sad lyrics of Tim McGraw and Taylor Swift’s newest collaboration rid me of my lingering irritation at the male gender, and I fly down the freeway.

I tap out the beat of the song on the steering wheel, and with the next line on the tip of my tongue, I swallow the words as my eyes are drawn to the rearview mirror.

Red and blue flashing lights.

I glance at my speedometer and back off the gas pedal. I’m not going that fast. My heart drops into the acidic pit of my stomach. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I groan, guiding my car to the shoulder. Maybe if I just get out of the way, he’ll go around me?

No such luck.

The cruiser slows to a halt several feet behind my car. Could this day get any worse? I did not have time for this. I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and try to slow my racing pulse. Eight years of being a licensed driver with a spotless record are about to go down the drain.

With a sigh, I turn off the radio, and reach for my glove box. I withdraw my registration, and then go for my purse, tugging my license from my wallet, anything to speed along the process. However, glancing in my rearview, I can tell the police officer has designs to make this take as long as possible. What the hell is he doing? Why is he just sitting in his cruiser?

For three long minutes, I sit and stare at the road, watching car after car happily speed toward their destination, before I hear a tap on my passenger-side window.

Startled by his sudden appearance, my heart jumps into my throat. “Oh, goodness!” I choke, my hands flying to my chest.

Shaking, I press the button and the window lowers.

“Good day, ma’am.” He nods, removing his sunglasses.

Hello, Green Eyes.

He’s young. My age at least. And hot. Doughnuts aren’t one of his staple foods. Maybe being pulled over isn’t so bad after all. “Hi,” I stutter. How I stumble on a one-syllable word, I don’t know, but I did nonetheless.

“In a hurry?” he asks in a deep, authoritative voice.

“I’m sorry, Officer, I didn’t think I was—”

“I clocked you at seventy-six,” he says, cutting me off. He stares unblinkingly, like he’s daring me to argue with his assessment.

“That’s only eleven miles over,” I say, pleading my case.

“Exactly, ‘over’ being the applicative word. The speed limit isn’t a suggestion, miss.” He cocks his head and brings his hand up, fingers wagging impatiently. “License and registration.”

I pass the items over, and he clutches them between his giant thumb and forefinger.

He stands up to his full height, and I have to slouch in my seat to see him out the window. He squints his eyes in the sunlight, reading the information on my vehicle registration card. While he looks over my identification, my eyes fall to his nametag: C. Sinclair. I wonder what the “C” stands for. Am I allowed to ask? I try different names…Chris Sinclair? Cameron? Calvin?

My lips pull up at the corners. The only Calvin I know of is the one in the Calvin and Hobbes comics I read as a kid. This guy doesn’t look like a Calvin to me.

Officer Sinclair taps my license on the window frame and bends low to peer into my car. I shoot up in my seat, trying to conceal the smile on my face. I wouldn’t want him to think I thought this situation was funny. That might get me into more trouble. And there was no way I can tell him I was checking him out. Judging by his no-nonsense attitude, he would have no tolerance for that. “I’ll be right back, Ms. Daniels,” he grumbles, sounding irritated.

I watch him walk back to his car, his ass looking fine in my rearview. He may be Officer No Nonsense, but he is fun to look at.

Damn, look at his arms! I’d like to pin him to my Pinterest “arm porn” board. I can’t help it, I gawk, unapologetically. Jesus, their circumference is larger than my head’s. He’s so freaking hot.

I pull my eyes from the rearview and scoop my phone off the passenger seat and type out a text to the charge nurse, letting her know why I’m so late.

My eyes flick from the rearview mirror to my dashboard clock. What is he doing? It’s not like I have any outstanding warrants, or anything. I’ve never had so much as a parking ticket. Yet, he sits in his cruiser, typing away on his dashboard computer.

Five minutes later, he reappears at my window. “Okay, Ms. Daniels, we’re about finished.” With a flick of his wrist, he tosses back the cover of a small, thick book and begins scratching his pen across the paper. “I need a signature right here.” He taps the paper with the pen, where he wants me to sign. Flipping the pad around, he holds it through the window.

Leaning over the passenger seat, I take the pen and scribble my name next to the “X” he’s drawn. “There,” I say, handing his pen back.

Without a word, he snatches it and rips the yellow paper off the top of the pad. “Slow down, Ms. Daniels.” He holds the ticket between his big fingers, waiting for me to take it.

I mourn the death of my perfect driving record. Scowling, I pluck the ticket from his hand and look up at him.

He pierces me with his green eyes, but still no congenial smile. No hint of humor in his demeanor. Zero bedside manner; it’s a good thing he isn’t a doctor. But, he’s got the badass cop thing going for him.

“Thanks,” I whisper, embarrassed that I got caught breaking the law.

Officer Sinclair steps away from my car but doesn’t make a move to return to his cruiser. I put up the window, toss the ticket and my forms of identification onto the passenger seat, and then put the car in drive.

Remembering excerpts from Rules of the Road, I turn off my hazards and signal, waiting for the opportune moment to merge back onto the interstate. Each move I make, I feel Officer Sinclair’s scrutinizing gaze, watching me…evaluating me. Why is he just standing there? Back to your car, mister, nothing to see here. I’m a law-abiding citizen.

Once I’m on the road, picking up speed—but careful not to exceed sixty-five—I sneak a peek in my rearview. He has his door open and is climbing inside.

I fumble with the settings on the cruise control and take my foot off the accelerator. At least this way, I won’t run the risk of my heavy foot getting me into trouble again.

In my haste to get away from Officer Sinclair, I neglected to look at the ticket. How much do I owe the lovely state of Missouri for my disobedience?

Picking up the small, unassuming paper from the seat, I scan my eyes over the scribbled writing, looking for a dollar sign. Then I see it: $108.00.

One hundred and eight dollars? For eleven miles over? That’s highway robbery. Literally! Shit! After shelling out a hundred and fifty bucks for my maid-of-honor dress, and footing the bill for Dylen’s bachelorette party tonight, I’m flat broke. Looks like I’ll be checking into a Starbucks rehabilitation program and breaking out the Folgers.

Great. The perfect beginning to a twelve-hour shift.

CHAPTER TWO

Leaving the station, I pull my phone from my back pocket and fire off a text to Bull. Still heading to the Whiskey House?

It’s been almost a year since I’ve meet up with the guys from my former squad. It’ll be nice to see those jackasses. I can’t believe they’re deploying in a month, and I won’t be with them this time.

Shaking my head in disbelief, I unlock my Ford F-150, toss my gym bag across the seat, and slide behind the wheel. Pulling the door closed, my phone beeps. I glance down at the incoming message. Hells yeah. See ya in a few.

I could use a bourbon. Every person I pulled over today was a prick. The day I get promoted to SWAT cannot come soon enough. Nothing pisses me off more than when people try to argue their way out of ticket they’ve earned, and today was no exception, save one. There was that woman I pulled over.

What was her name? I put the key in the ignition and turn over the engine. The truck rumbles to life as my brain picks through names that aren’t quite right. Remmy? Renee? I shake my head. No, that’s not it.

Renata?

“Renata.” I try the name out on my tongue. Yeah. That’s right.

I remember now. Those dark eyes of hers…damn sexy. I haven’t been able to get her face out of my head since she crossed my path this morning.

It’s not like I wanted to give her a ticket, but I have to set a precedent at the station: that I’m not willing to compromise the law for any reason. I want that damn promotion.

Too bad though, it would have been nice to send her off with a warning. Thank God she didn’t get the waterworks going, I wouldn’t have been able to go through with it. Yet, a part of me enjoyed giving her that ticket. Getting her riled up, under her skin. I could tell she was pissed…the flush in her cheeks, the sass in her voice…shit, she was hot.

A block from my apartment, my phone beeps again. I steal a quick glance at the passenger seat, searching the illuminated screen to see who’s texting me. When my eyes catch sight of Mom my heart kicks into second gear. She had another round of chemo today. Something’s wrong.

I press my foot down on the accelerator, ignoring the speed limit. I refuse to text and drive, so speeding is the lesser of two evils. I need to get home…I need to make sure she’s all right.

My phone beeps again, knowing that I ignored it the first time.

Pulling into my driveway faster than I intend, my tires screech. I kill the engine, grab my phone off the seat, and punch in my passcode, opening Mom’s message. Call me please. Urgent.

Thinking the worst, I find her name in my contacts and wait for the call to connect.

Ring….ring…ring…

“Come on, Mom. Pick up.” I tap out a nervous beat on the steering wheel as I listen to more ringing.

I wait another thirty seconds and her voicemail kicks on.

I cease tapping and ball my hand into a fist, slamming it down in frustration. “Dammit, Mom! Answer the phone.”

Wasting no time, I redial.

Ring…ring…ring…ring…

“Hello?” she croaks.

“Mom”—relief floods my body at the sound of her voice—“what’s wrong?”

“Cayden,” she whispers. I can sense a similar relief in her voice, now that she’s gotten ahold of me.

“You okay?”

“Cayden,” she repeats, breathing heavily. I know she’s trying to muster the strength to finish her sentence, so I give her time, careful not to interrupt. Chemo treatments kick her ass. “I’m sorry, hon’. I need…help…tonight,” she wheezes.

I squeeze my fist tighter, hating the cancer that’s fucking with her life. Two years ago, it took my dad away from us, and now it’s doing a damn fine job of sending my mom down the same path.

I refuse to lose another parent to cancer. I won’t let her give up. “I’ll be there right away.”

“I’m sorry, Cayden.”

It breaks my heart hearing her sound so weak. My mom is the strongest woman I know. She ran marathons, competed in decathlons, hiked some of the most difficult mountains; she’s always taken care of herself. She doesn’t deserve what’s happening to her.

“Mom, you don’t need to apologize. I told you that I would help you fight this.” I’ve never backed down from a war. I promised my dad that I would take care of his Katy. Mom is the reason I’m not leading my squad back into the desert. She needs me here, helping her wage the battle for her life. Fucking cancer will not win this war…not against Katherine Sinclair.

She coughs. “Thank you, Cayden.”

“I’m on my way, Mom. Get some rest.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

The line goes quiet. I drop my head against the headrest and stare up at the truck’s ceiling, letting out a long breath. I need to call Bull.

Shit.

I lift my head off the back of the seat and fumble with my phone, pulling up his name. Again, I listen to it ring.

“Big Daddy! Where the hell are you, man?” Bull answers over the background noise of the Whiskey House.

“Hey, Bull. Sorry, I’m not gonna make it.”

“Man, the ass you’re blowing us off for better be good,” he says, laughing. I can hear Vince and Taz in the background, too.

“Nah, nothing like that. It’s my mom, she had a round of chemo today and it’s kicking her ass. She needs some help.”

“Sorry, big guy. I didn’t mean…” He trails off. I can hear the apology in his tone.

“Forget about it. No worries. When do you guys leave for the sandbox?”

“The twentieth.” The serious, all-business Marine replaces the joking, good-natured Bull.

“I will make it point to see you guys before you leave, you have my word.” I run a hand over my fresh military cut, the stubble scratching against my palm.

“I know, man. Now, go take care of your mom, she needs you.”

“Thanks. Tell Vin and Taz I’m sorry.”

“Will do.”

I silently pound my fist against the steering wheel. “Later, man.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

Pulling the phone away from my ear, I disconnect the call, and bury the disappointment of not seeing my boys tonight. I’ve got to stay focused on Mom, she’s my priority now.

I grab my bag, swing open the door, and climb down. I make quick work of unlocking my house and jog down the hall to my bedroom.

Unpacking my gym back, I pull out my holster and unlatch my revolver, pulling the lockbox from my bottom drawer. I don’t take any chances when it comes to my firearm; when it’s not with me, it’s locked away. Working in the city, I’ve seen one too many accidental shootings. Most of them involving kids. Those are the worst calls.

Placing the sealed box back into the drawer, I pull out a pair of mesh basketball shorts and a Green Bay Packers T-shirt. I strip out of my gym clothes, slide on the shorts and T-shirt, slip on a pair of athletic sandals, and grab my wallet and keys from my pants pocket before I’m heading back down the stairs and out the door.

*  *  *

I knock on Mom’s door and give her two or three seconds to answer before I’m fingering through the keys on my key ring. Unlocking the door, I push it open. “Mom?” I call. The house is quiet and dark. I step inside and close the door, saying her name again, louder this time. “Mom.”

“Cayden?”

My name, weak and garbled, floats from somewhere upstairs.

Hitting the stairs, I go in search of her. Usually, after a chemo day she likes resting on couch in the living room, but tonight, she must have moved back to her room.

I give a few taps on the door and push it open. Following the muffled groans into the master bathroom, Mom’s kneeling beside the toilet. I rush to her, scooping her sparse, shoulder length salt-and-pepper hair into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. “Aw, Mom, why didn’t Lacey stay with you until I got here?”

Lacey Andrews, Mom’s neighbor and best friend. When I can’t take Mom to her chemo appointments, Lacey steps up. Having been neighbors for so many years, they’ve been through a lot together, from raising kids to losing their husbands around the same time. I know it’s killing Lacey seeing Mom like this, but her friendship, and the fact that she’s willing to help out when I can’t, keeps Mom fighting. Mom, more than anything, doesn’t want to let Lacey or me down. That’s why she puts up such a good fight.

“Lace had to get home; Parker was coming over with the baby.”

I twist her hair at the nape of her neck, so that it will stay put while I go in search of a washcloth. As I stand, a large clump of Mom’s hair remains in my hand. Cancer, a weapon of mass destruction. And there’s fuck all I can do against this enemy. “How long ago did she leave?” I ask, wrapping Mom’s hair in a tissue and tossing it into the waste can.

“Not too long,” she answers weakly.

Pulling open the closet beside the vanity, I grab a washcloth and run it under the cold water. Once it’s thoroughly soaked, I ring it out and crouch down beside her, dabbing, wiping away beads of sweat on her forehead and cheeks. She leans into the washcloth, the hint of a smile at her lips. “Thank you,” she mutters.

“Any time.” I smile back and toss the washcloth into the sink, hook-shot style. “Here”—I put my arms at her waist—“let’s get you into bed.”

With a labored grunt, she braces herself against my arms and lifts her tired body off the bathroom floor.

“Why don’t you let me carry you?” I bend my knees, ready to sweep her into my arms, but she shakes her head.

“No, Cayd. I can walk.”

I roll my eyes. She’s always been so damned independent. It took both me and Lacey to convince Mom that she would need help once chemo started—she was positive she’d be able to drive herself to and from appointments.

Mom shuffles toward the bed, and I keep my hands at her waist, giving her something strong to cling to. Reaching for the comforter on her antique four-poster, she pulls back the cover and climbs between the sheets.

Out of breath from the short walk from the bathroom to her bed, she ekes out a feeble, “Thanks, hon’.” Even at her lowest, my mom has a class that sets her apart from all other women.

I nod and pull the covers up to her chin. The humongous bed swallows her. For the first time, I can see the toll cancer is taking on her body. The hell chemo is putting her through. She’s sallow, her skin is pale, thin, almost see-through. The sparkle in her eyes has been replaced by dark shadows. It’s the worst fucking thing in the world watching someone you love being consumed by something so evil and unforgiving.

I let out the breath I’m holding and run a hand over my buzzed head. “What can I get you? Do you need anything?”

She looks up at me, and I can’t read the expression on. . .