Crossed Lines Read online

  Crossed Lines

  Lana Sky

  Crossed Lines

  Crossed Lines By Lana Sky

  Copyright © 2019 by Lana Sky

  All rights reserved.

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  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Cover Design by The Illustrated Author Designs

  There are so many people to thank for helping make this book a reality. Firstly, thanks Rebecca and Keeva because without your encouragement I don’t think I would have been brave enough to finish it. Thanks to Erica and Mickey for editing this book with their amazing insight. And a special thanks to Shamooda for your lovely cheerleading, and to Charity for being awesome.

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  This book deals with sensitive subject matter and sexual content not suitable for readers under 18.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  A Word from the Author

  About the Author

  Also by Lana Sky

  Reunions suck when your adversary is too good-looking to truly hate. All I can do is sigh dejectedly as my fingers fly across the cracked screen of my cell phone, documenting my pity party with the most elegant prose I can come up with.

  :( I’m in trouble with a capital T.

  T for Thorny, my unwilling guardian.

  The last time we met like this was inside a lawyer’s office. This office to be exact, though another balding man mediated those negotiations—which is how he likes to refer to our current living situation.

  Negotiations.

  For this rodeo, I sit primly on a leather chair and sneak glances at him from across the table as Grandmama’s last will and testament lies between us. The old biddy didn’t have a hand in penning it herself—her writing was about as legible as chicken scratch.

  Still, we give her the due reverence required—the final say in micromanaging our lives. To commemorate this momentous occasion, Thorny stares from the windows, his arms crossed, while I keep texting Tiff from underneath the table.

  My life is over, I type.

  She sends me a frowny face, the extent of her emotional support.

  I don’t text back.

  “Is Mrs. Thorne joining us?” Mr. Lawyer asks Thorny who doesn’t answer.

  Elaine, his wife, isn’t here yet—go figure. She probably got lost on the way. What did my father call her, his pretty little sister? Ditzy.

  You’d have to be ditzy to marry a man like Thorny. He glowers at his wristwatch, counting the seconds down. In ten years, he hasn’t changed much, whereas I’ve sprouted boobs, shot up a few feet, and grown out my good-girl bangs.

  He just got older. Gruffer. Grumpier. Though maybe he’s always been this way? After all, it’s hard to discern much about a person when your only references are photographs and shitty childhood memories.

  He certainly looks older, Thorny. In that annoying way some people might find attractive. The silver in his hair brings out the navy in his eyes, and his face is all stern symmetry and chiseled jawlines—so stereotypically handsome that I could kick something. I bet his students deemed him bangable, a true PILF.

  “Do you have anything you want to say, Maryanne?” the lawyer asks me.

  Do I? Not particularly. Still, the occasion calls for a declaration of some kind to give Thorny a taste of what he’s in for.

  “I go by Juniper Berry now,” I announce while simultaneously powering my cell phone off. “Just Juniper Berry.”

  Thorny digs his nails into the armrests of his chair as Mr. Lawyer frowns and shuffles the paperwork in front of him. Every last detail of my life is scrawled on parchment for his perusal, and he mouths the name stamped on each one quietly to himself. M A R Y A N N E. “Juniper Berry?” he asks, looking up. “I’m assuming that’s a nickname?”

  I shrug. “Something like that. I’m planning on having it legally changed.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Lawyer frowns. “Well, I’m sure—”

  “Knock it off, Maryanne,” Thorny scolds from his corner.

  Oooh. Five seconds until my first lecture. That has to be a record, even for someone as ornery as he is. I file the score away for later—records are made to be broken, after all.

  “Sign,” Thorny tells me, nodding to a nearby pen. “We’re going to be late.”

  For what? I’d ruin my rebellious allure by asking out loud though. So I fold my hands over my lap instead and meet his gaze directly. Poor Thorny. His jaw clenches in disapproval. It’s like he’s pretending to be my father already, convinced he has the upper hand.

  “Mr. Bell?” I turn my attention to the lawyer and smile sweetly. “I think I’d like to hear the terms again.”

  “No.” Thorny sits forward. “I don’t think that’s necessary—”

  “Please?”

  The lawyer looks at me and clears his throat. I know his type. Rules and regulations win every time.

  “Um, well… It couldn’t hurt to go over them just one last time, I suppose?” He casts Thorny a wary glance but soldiers on. “You will reside with your aunt and uncle, Ms. Mayweather, until you reach the age of eighteen—”

  “In three months,” I interject.

  “Yes, well…” Mr. Lawyer shuffles his papers and clears his throat again. “Until that time, you will reside with your aunt and uncle—”

  “Technically, he is my step-uncle. Through marriage. Elaine is my only blood relative in this equation.”

  And, legally speaking, she doesn’t even have custody of me.

  Thorny is my sole guardian by order of Grandmama. In her view, he made for the ideal candidate given his stable, local job—unlike Elaine who gallivanted all over the world at the whims of her editor. Not to mention the theory that Thorny, a stern professor, could knock some sense into me.

  Drunk on authority, he grits his teeth, his eyes flashing in that dangerous way that always makes Elaine flush. At family events. At Grandmama’s old, stupid parties. Whenever Thorny would touch his throat and narrow his gaze, Elaine would flinch. Then she’d jump to whatever command he would dish her way like a good puppy.

  “Step-uncle, I suppose,” Mr. Lawyer continues. “You will reside with them until you come of age and finish your schooling, upon which you will receive your full inheritance—”

  “Blood money,” I correct. “Specified by Grandmama, a portion of which will go to Thorny and Elaine as payment for being shackled with me. That is, when they don’t have me thrown into the psych ward. Did my uncle tell you all about my psycho-ness?” I tap my forehead. “Borderline personality disorder. According to my shrink, I’m unstable, a
chronic liar, and prone to volatile interpersonal relationships—”

  “That’s enough, Maryanne!” Thorny slams his fist onto the table, rattling the scattered pages.

  Oops. One slides off the table and onto my lap. Juliana Mayweather’s last will and testament in all of its bitter, passive-aggressive glory.

  “Can we go now?” I flick the will toward the lawyer, who eagerly tucks it into his neat stack. Those damn documents have ruled my life for over ten years. Can’t let one go astray. I might have to make my own choices, and then where would we be? Smiling, I turn to Thorny. “Can we leave? Huh, Daddy?”

  “That’s it.” Thorny snatches up his briefcase and stands. From this angle, the light glints off the blondish stubble streaking his chin and my stomach flips over. He couldn’t even bother to shave before coming to claim me. How disgustingly rugged.

  His students probably clutch their ovaries during every damn class.

  “Are you really going to start this now?” he demands.

  “What?” I flutter my eyelashes. “That’s what you are, isn’t it? My legal guardian—”

  “Get your things and let’s go.” He storms from the room, pushing past the startled brunette standing in the doorway. The receptionist, I assume.

  She blinks at the man marching down the hall and then shakes her head, turning to Mr. Lawyer. “There’s a call for you, sir,” she says.

  Mr. Lawyer sighs and extends a weathered hand for me to shake. “Well, good luck, Ms. Mayweather. Welcome back to Thornton.” He follows after Thorny, leaving me alone with his coveted stack of documents.

  For the hell of it, I tuck the whole damn file under my arm before stooping for the suitcase I discarded in the corner. My surly pout can’t be helped. This isn’t quite how I pictured my reunion with Thorny and Elaine, my parents in the eyes of the law.

  I always imagined more screaming and hysterics. Maybe a broken item or two I could throw for dramatic effect. Damn Thorny for always having to ruin my fun.

  A stuffy, important author such as him doesn’t have time for dramatics.

  Like a good parental figure, he’s already left the office, leaving me behind. Abandoned, I juggle my suitcase with one hand while keeping the file out of the lawyer’s view and shimmy through the door as best I can.

  Thorny is already storming toward a flashy sports car parked near the curb. A bright cherry red, it gleams amongst the dour vehicles of this seaside resort’s conservative upper crust. Thorny stands out in much the same way: a shiny tombstone in a grim yet exclusive graveyard.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for Mommy?” I call as I step from the shadow of the law offices into the glare of the midafternoon sun.

  He was an hour late to this session—of course—but Elaine isn’t in the passenger’s seat of his two-door. Neither is she skulking around any of the nearby buildings.

  Rather than answer, Thorny fixes me with one of those disapproving glares he could probably patent as a universal symbol for the unwilling guardian. “Get in.” He jerks his chin to the car and wrenches the drivers-side door open. “Now.”

  Pity. At least, this time, he came in person rather than have his accountant attend the meeting on his behalf. Though that man was a real hoot, easy to play with. I think I made him cry once.

  But not old Thorny. He’s a much tougher nut to crack.

  Resigned, I stuff my file into the side pocket of my suitcase. Then I carry the load to the car by myself and heft it into the trunk. After slamming it closed, I take my time slinking around to the passenger’s side. My fingers graze the glass as I observe the clouds painting the sky in a grim patchwork. One minute, it’s sweltering, fitting for the end of spring, but the next, it’s chilly and gray and boring.

  Like James Winston Thorne.

  Irritated, he raps on the glass, but I pretend not to hear as the sun returns. It’s blindingly bright, and I use my hand to form a visor. Oh, sunshine. I thought I’d never see it again. A week in a psych ward can do that to a girl, make her desperate and melancholy. Or so my psychiatrist says.

  It’s why he prescribed me enough tranquilizers to fell a horse, with a daily dose of Prozac for good measure. Thorny’s one condition for bringing me home was no more of her nonsense. I heard him shout as much from the conference room where he and my treatment team met to discuss my most recent “cry for attention,” as he put it.

  “We think a change of scenery would be good for Maryanne,” dear Dr. Fuckface, my lead practitioner, said. “We’re worried about her mental state.”

  Thorny merely scoffed. “The cuts weren’t anywhere near her veins. She’s playing you all for fools.”

  “Maryanne,” he says now. An electric hum accompanies the feeling of glass sliding against my fingertips. He’s rolled the window down—just far enough to snarl. “You have two seconds to get in the damn car.”

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  “Coming!” I reach for the handle just as the car engine revs to life. That’s one thing about Thorny: he’s not like the others. No. He has no tolerance for “nonsense.”

  He’ll leave me behind in a heartbeat.

  Again.

  I take my time pulling the door open, even as he taps the gas pedal, warning he could take off at any minute. Vroom. Vroooom. Vrrr…

  Just as the car begins to drift forward, I plop down onto the leather seat. Smirking, I let the door close on its own, but an alarm squeals when Thorny starts to drive. It’s still open.

  “Whoops.” I make a show of yanking on the handle, closing the door fully. “I’m so used to being the unwanted baggage you shuffle around that I forgot what it feels like to sit inside of an actual car with you, Daddy.”

  He says nothing, scowling at the windshield.

  The sun is hiding again, but the clouds have grown thicker. Darker. Rain could erupt at any second—the perfect metaphor for what I do to Thorny’s figurative parade.

  Pour. Pour. Pour on it.

  “It seems like you and Elaine have done well for yourselves,” I say to strike up small talk like a good daughter. The fancy car. All those vacations to Italy. The beautiful mansion in the hills.

  They’re spending their share of my inheritance before the check is even in the mail.

  “So…” I bite my lip and kick my feet against the immaculate plastic mat beneath them. “Which prison are you sending me to now? Our Lady of Sorrow? Saint Mary’s? Windsor?” I extend my hand and tick every school off one finger at a time. “Oh, that’s right, Daddy. I’ve been expelled from them all.”

  Still nothing. He’s determined to ignore me today, old Thorny. His eyes scour the road, and he’s gripping the steering wheel like hell. God, he makes it too easy sometimes, because one trick never fails to break his stoic-ass façade.

  Rebellion.

  I force a sigh and reach over to flick the dials of the radio. He had it on already with the volume down low—some classical music channel spewing out Mozart. Within seconds, angry rock blares from the speakers instead.

  “Enough.” Thorny bats my hand away with one of his and turns the radio off altogether. “If we are going to do this, then you trust and believe that there will be ground rules—”

  “So,” I say over him while eyeing my pink nails. “Since I’ve been kicked out of every school on this side of the country, does that mean I get to go to yours?”

  Walden Academy. The coveted, prestigious school for girls that Thorny has all but nailed himself on a cross to ensure I’m not accepted into. No matter which well-meaning nurse, headmistress, or lawyer broached the topic, Thorny would deny them with some terse, polite version of “over my dead body.”

  “Ground rules,” he says, grating the words off his teeth. “You have one chance, Maryanne.”

  “Just one?” I parrot, cocking my eyebrow. “Usually, I’m given at least three strikes—”

  “I’m not your Aunt Lily,” he says, naming one of his three sisters. Throughout the years, he’s bribed them all
into taking me in, using the various states they live in as an excuse to send me to the furthest schools. California. New York. Anywhere away from Maine. “Or Caroline. Or Marcia. Or your grandmother. You so much as put a toe out of line and I’ll rescind my guardianship in a heartbeat and make you a ward of the state.”

  So serious. He even looks it, glowering over the steering wheel, not taking his eyes from the road once. He has them all fooled, Thorny. They probably believe he took me in truly out of responsibility—and not for the massive payday waiting at the end of this rainbow.

  “But, Daddy,” I say softly, “if I’m a ward of the state, then you and Mommy can’t collect off my inheritance like the poor, pathetic paupers you are.”

  “Enough!”

  I’m thrown forward as the car stops short alongside a country road. We’ve left the town already.

  “One million dollars,” Thorny says, deadly soft. “That’s how much we stand to gain from you. And if you think you’re worth the hassle…” He laughs. “You’ve been in the psych ward for too damn long. The moment you pull one of your stunts, you’re done.”

  A smattering of raindrops lands on the windshield, giving his little tirade a bit of dramatic flair. Ironic, considering that Thorny is so damn stiff that no actor alive could portray the right level of apathy. They’d need a surgically grafted scowl and years of hostile tension to pull it off.

  “Stunts?” I ask innocently. “Like what?”