Untitled chapter 1
Alexandra ‘Alex’
“Oh, fuck! I’m so sorry,” I gasped, the words tumbling out in a panicked rush of embarrassment and concern. “I didn’t see you—are you okay?”
I lunged toward the gas station’s coffee station, snatched a fistful of cheap napkins, and began frantically dabbing at the stranger’s chest. A massive wave of scalding black coffee—which I had literally just capped and turned around with—was now bleeding through his shirt. I had spun around too fast, eyes glued to the floor, and smashed cup-first straight into a brick wall of muscle.
As I scrubbed at the damp fabric stretched tight over his chest, a pair of large, rough hands clamped around my wrists. He hauled my hands down, stopping me mid-dab. An incoherent grunt rumbled in his throat as he pushed me away—not entirely rough, but definitely not gentle.
My gaze traveled up, and my breath caught.
He had piercing dark brown eyes with little gold specks, a sharp jawline, and thick dark hair salted with gray at the temples. Heavy black ink crawled up his neck, with another jagged tattoo slicing over his eyebrow. He was almost handsome in a scary imposing sort of way. The kind of looks that screamed murderous gangster, but, handsome, nonetheless. But right now, the sheer intimidation factor outweighed his looks.
He shot me a venomous look, stepped past me, and paused at the exit just long enough to growl, “Watch where you’re going.”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered to his retreating back, the words dying in my throat as the glass door swung shut behind him.
I sighed, looking down. The floor was now just as covered in caffeine as his shirt. I started to crouch, but Oliver, the kid working the register, chuckled softly.
“Alex, don’t worry about it, I’ve got it,” Oliver said, brandishing a mop. “Go grab a refill. On the house.”
“Thanks, Oli.” I carefully poured a second cup, passed the register, and slipped a five-dollar bill onto the counter on my way out.
This was my post-jog ritual: a 99-cent cup of crappy black coffee and a slow walk home. It gave me a chance to trace the winding roads at the edge of town, heading up the hill toward my equally crappy little house. But it was my house. Rain or shine, I used the walk to take in the fresh air and let my mind wander. I’d moved here a little over a year, dumping a scary chunk of my savings into the fixer-upper.
I liked it here. A lot. And almost everyone was friendly—even the drug addicts and even some of the dealers, believe it or not. Gallipolis was a small Ohio River city, just a six-minute drive from West Virginia, and it carried the heavy weight of the Appalachian opioid crisis. Most people here were struggling, and almost everyone was touched by addiction, either fighting it themselves or watching someone they loved go under. Yet, despite the statistics, it felt safe. People looked out for one another, and I was rarely treated like an outsider.
They joked about me being a clumsy city girl, of course, but it was always good-natured. Having been on my own since I was fifteen, I was used to a solitary existence; even in a crowded city, I had spent most of my adult life alone. Moving to this small town was the best thing I ever did for my peace of mind.
My weekdays fell into a comforting rhythm: running at dawn, heading home to shower, working remotely, and logging off reliably at six p.m. Weekend mornings were for the woods, hiking the Gatewood Trail System while the morning was still fresh. In the evenings, I divided my time. Sometimes I’d sit in the backyard of my neighbors, Sarah and Heath—a couple in their sixties, Heath an ex-biker—playing cards and getting pleasantly drunk. Other times, I was with the circle of friends I’d lucked into during my first week here. I had been driving home from the shopping center a few miles from town when I saw two women, both around my age, their car stranded on the roadside. I offered them a ride and we struck up an instant connection.
While Vicky and Theresa thrived in the neon glow of the city’s nightlife, my comfort zone ended when the sun went down. I stuck to lunches and movie nights on the couch. On the rare occasions they convinced me to join them for a drink, I always ended up playing the third wheel to their hunting expeditions. The moment they coupled up with whatever man caught their eye, I’d slip out the back door.
Honestly, dating and romance felt like a language I never learned to speak. It’s not like I was all that appealing to the opposite sex any way. I was too tall, my hair too wild to tame, and I possessed a social awkwardness that usually manifested as accidental bluntness. And I was clumsy, not graceful at all. Still, my single status didn’t depress me. Men hadn’t been particularly kind to me in the past, and I liked the peace of my own company. Friendships came naturally, but romance was a completely different gear—one I’d never been able to shift into.
Walking up the hill toward my street, the slow hum of an engine caught my attention. A block back, a truck with dark, tinted windows was creeping along trailing my footsteps. I knew exactly where it was heading. The street I was passing led straight to an abandoned factory a mile down—a bleak graveyard of concrete where teenagers gathered to buy drugs and lose themselves. Wanting to check my surroundings without looking obvious, I caught the truck’s reflection in the mirror of a parked car. You can never be too careful. Sure enough, the truck swung into the turn and accelerated into the shadows.
By the time I reached my front door, my mind was fixed on that handsome, terrifying monster of a man. I only hoped I hadn’t burned him too badly. I also hoped I’d never see him again; if I did, he probably wouldn’t be very nice to me, not that I could blame him.
