Until We Crash: Carter's opening POV

Welcome to the #TuesdayTease

The other day I shared Jess’s opening POV for Until We Crash. Miss it? Find it HERE. Today I’m sharing the second half of chapter one: Carter Cooper!
If you’ve read the From The Wreckage series from the start, you’ll recall Carter from books one and two. There’s also a little conversation between Jess and Cassie in After The Fall which should have clued you in that this book would someday happen. Here it is if you’ve never read that story:

(Cassie POV)
“So tell me more about this crush you had. Maybe it’s time to make a move. Is he here at A&M?”
“Nah, he got a scholarship to Oregon. We haven’t spoken since graduation.”
“He’s a football player, too?” Not like this surprises me. I scoop my phone from my lap and search for Oregon’s team. “What’s his name? You know I need to see this guy.” 
“Oh gosh,” Jess moans. “You can’t tell Katie or Jules. Carter Cooper.”
“Carter. Cooper.” I repeat as the roster pops on my screen. “Why don’t they know about him?” 
“Oh they do. I mean, they don’t know I liked him, but they know Carter. He dated their best friend Tanya right before senior year. Actually, he was there with them the night of the tornado.”
My eyes settle on Carter. “Wow.” Tan skin, dark hair, light eyes. He has this exotic look about him. I understand the appeal.
Jess steals the phone from my hands.  “Yep, that’s him. My lady parts just cried a little,” she whines, handing my cell back.

And now you have all the history you need to go ahead and read on. I hope you love Carter as much as I do.

Until We Crash releases August 27, 2020
This is a STANDALONE New Adult ‘return to hometown’ sexy romance
Rated-R for language and sexual situations.

One
Carter

“Hey,” her muffled voice says as she nudges at my calf with the toe of her shoe. I yank out my earbuds and roll out from beneath the chassis of the pickup I’ve screwed around with all afternoon. “Coach Dolino called.”

“And?” I spare her a glance. Her hands land on her hips as she peers at me, an impression of our mother’s glare on her face. Damn, she’s good. She’s like an angry giant hovering over me. Unhappy with that image, I level the playing field by sitting up. The wrench resting on my stomach clatters to the garage floor, and she retreats a step.

“Carter.”

“Cha-a-ase.” I mimic her resigned tone while holding her glare. She is the only person who manages to string my name out that way. As usual, the first fold goes to Chase, and I smirk. A small victory for the big brother.

“Whatever.” She huffs, her eyes rolling as they tend to do whenever she speaks with me. “Why do I bother with you?”

I chuckle at her red-faced glowering and lift a brow. Good question. Why does she bother with me? Why does Coach? Why do Mom and Dad? I’d ask, but no matter the line of shit they feed me, nothing changes. What’s done is done.

“How is this place so quiet?” I change the topic while leaning sideways for a glimpse of the clock Chase is blocking while lording over me. “Wait, it’s after five? Did the guys head out without telling me?” I straddle the creeper and push to my feet. The awkward movement sends a knife-like slash of pain from my right knee down my leg, and I hiss at the jolt. Chase observes my clumsy maneuvering with pursed lips, but she’s smart and keeps her big mouth shut.

She ignores my question until I’m on two feet and stretching toward the ceiling, trying my damnedest to cover my discomfort. “The twins are hanging about, and Owen’s in the office on the phone.”

“Huh, okay.” My spine pops and cracks as I work the kinks out and survey the shop, taking in our current projects, “the rent,” as Owen prefers to call them. They are the jobs we do to keep the garage cash flow positive. The work we suffer through so we can afford our passion—restoring and customizing cars.

The Chevy I’m installing a lift kit on appears to be the last unfinished job of the day. The twins’ customized WRX sits in her bay shiny and ready for her owner to drool over in the morning—a day in advance. A win since fast turnaround time is vital for repeat business.

“Where’s the Z Owen was working on?” I ask Chase while walking toward the office.

“Finished. He’s on the phone with the paint shop.”

How did those three finish their shit without me noticing? Metal clinks behind me, and I check over my shoulder and find Chase straightening my workspace. Typical.

“Hey, go on, sis. There’s no overtime in your employment contract.” I wave my hand like she’s a bothersome fly before pushing through the glass doors to the reception area. She shoots me a scowl and continues messing with my tools. I let her be.

Owen’s voice floats my way as I walk around Chase’s desk and down the short hallway to our one office. “Yeah, Meteor Gray Metallic”—he hums in agreement with whatever is said on the other end of the line— “it’ll look sharp. Yup, I’ll drive her over if you’re willing to hang for twenty.”

I prop my shoulder against the doorframe.

“Hey, man,” he says when his call ends.

“Did I lose consciousness? How the hell did you three finish your jobs before me?”

Owen scratches his jaw and declines in his chair. “Beats me, you had the pansy job today.”

“The pansy job?” Installing a lift kit sounds simple, but there are a million things to consider when jacking up a truck beyond factory build. I sink into the chair opposite Owen’s desk and prop my boots on the edge. “You know damn well it takes a long time to re-gear and get a vehicle ready for lift. Shit is tedious as hell. I’d work on wing and hood installs all day every day.”

“Yeah, yeah, stop picking the short stick, and you’ll stop landing the pain in the ass jobs.” Owen shifts through the piles on his desk. Finding a notepad, he jots notes before ripping off the sheet and standing. “I’m gonna drive the Z over to Ace. You about done? We’re grabbing drinks and dinner at Bleachers.”

I consider the job. “Sure, I’ll meet you in an hour.”

***

Chase lingers in my workspace when I return to the garage. “What’s up?” I ask. She damn well has opinions to share or questions to ask if she’s hanging around.

Her gaze falls to the ground as she shrugs. Three years have passed, but she resembles the naive girl I left when I headed off to college at Oregon more than the college freshman she’ll be in the fall. My kid sister, who coaxed me into hiring her for a summer job at the garage over working at Mom’s boutique. Her reasoning for the request remains unclear, but I have a good idea why.

Snatching a screwdriver from the table, I speak over my shoulder. “You don’t need to keep me company, Chase, go hang out with your friends.”

She releases a little laugh. “Why would I want to hang out with my friends when you’re this pleasant?”

I ignore her jibe and go to work, adjusting the truck’s headlights, re-aiming them toward the ground to compensate for the new height. Without asking, Chase dims the garage lights while I verify I have the headlights right. I squat and nudge the housing one final time before replacing the covers.

“Did you take something for the pain?” My head snaps at Chase’s question. She cocks hers to the side. “You’re wincing.”

“I’m tired.”

“Bullshit.” She grabs the other headlight cover and screws it on for me. “Your surgery was only eight weeks ago, you’re pushing it.”

“C’mon, Chase.” I toss my screwdriver on the table. “If I wanted to hear nagging, I’d have stayed living at home.”

“Who’s nagging?”

“You are.” I turn and trip over the creeper I left hanging out beneath the truck, and my repaired knee protests at the odd movement as I stumble. “Dammit.” I hiss and catch my weight against the hood. Chase’s worried gasp burns my ears as curses fly from my mouth.

Dropping my head on the truck, I inhale. “I’m done.”

Chase touches my shoulder. “Carter?” Her concerned tone has my body folding in on itself.

“I’ll take something, okay?” I hate my weakness.

Her footsteps echo through the dim garage as she walks toward the office, where she stashed my painkillers in hopes I’ll pop them when needed. I push to my forearms and watch her through the glass door. She’s my self-appointed savior. That is why she’s working at the shop. Chase loved hanging out in the garage with Owen and me growing up. She loves the smell of rubber and grease, but she took a job with Mom at the boutique once she was fifteen. Chase hung around while I was home after my first injury last year, but her daily life remained unaltered. When I returned after the second surgery this past April, my sister dropped everything. The final weeks and weekends of Chase’s senior year, she kept me company by watching every action movie available. She drove me to therapy without asking about my feelings. She let me vent without casting judgment over my decisions. Chase was present. She is present. My pain in the ass baby sister, hell-bent on saving me from the depression my family, friends, and coaches fear will creep in. 

She returns with a water bottle and a giant pill. “I’m roasting a chicken for dinner tonight. Come eat with us.”

She’s aware tonight is Bleachers’ night: Thursday night baseball, sports trivia, and beer.

“No drinking on pain meds,” Chase says after I swallow my pill. I curse under my breath. “C’mon, Mom and Dad will be happy to see your grumpy face. You need to stop by; they miss seeing you.”

During my first two years of college, they were lucky to see me a few hours a month. Since my injury, we have weekly visits. I stretch my neck and think.

I could hang out with the guys without drinking, but my knee aches and sitting on my ass and doing nothing sounds appealing.

“Fine, but you’re running interference. No talk about school, football, or my future.”

Judging by her eager agreement, I’ve ignored my family since moving out of the house last month

ADD UNTIL WE CRASH TO YOUR TBR
PREORDER ON AMAZON

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Until We Crash: The First line & more

I’m a sucker for great first lines in novels. They should set the tone, shouldn’t they? If it’s a character speaking/internal thoughts, you should get a feel for that character. If it’s more of a narrative, you should walk away from the opening lines having an idea of the story’s theme. Or, that’s what I attempt conveying with every opening I write.

The opening paragraph for Until We Crash came to me a long time ago. In fact, I was so happy with it, and it took me forever to finish the chapter. It presents a picture of Jess you may not recognize from earlier From The Wreckage novels, but it’s exactly where she is at this point in her life. Remember Until We Crash takes place about two years after the last FTW book, After The Fall. Our beloved characters are entering their final year of college. This is an exciting time. Are you ready?

Until We Crash releases August 27, 2020
This is a STANDALONE New Adult ‘return to hometown’ sexy romance
Rated-R for language and sexual situations.

Check out the opening line for Until We Crash, and read on for the rest of Jess’s opening POV

ONE
JESS

There’s a strangling bitterness that creeps into my bruised and suffocating soul at having to save him over and over. It takes the shape of an impenetrable wall, adding height and depth with every bailout. After ten years, it’s an unmovable tower. No matter, I stretch to the tips of my aching toes and claw to the top—hoping this is the last time. This time he’ll notice how hard I’m climbing for him, and he’ll wise up. He never does. I rescue him, and when I’m done, I’m alone and bitter and hopeless. My battered heart cries out; I’m trying to fix him. Will anyone help fix me?

The question plays across my mind the way an inclement weather warning scrolls over my favorite television show—at the most inopportune time. I should be on a beach or at the lake with friends. Nope, I’m wandering into the land of beer and desperation for the umpteenth time. I enter, squinting and adjusting to the feeble lighting as the aroma hits my nose. Hell, bottle the stench and I’d own the perfume of every bar I’ve dragged Dad out of over the years. On the opposite side of the chipped red doors, the sunshine is abundant on this early June afternoon. Within these walls, is another world. There are no windows reminding patrons what they’re missing on the other side; there are only dusty fixtures hanging over scratched wooden tables and dank walls. Unlike the bars around A&M’s campus, the music flowing out of this jukebox is old-school country—a little Tammy Wynette “Stand by your Man.” How poetic.

This is my summer vacation—returning to Rossview and following around a man who cannot pull his shit together. Ten to one, I’ll lose the one job I found because he’s unable to hack sobriety for an hour, forget the time it requires to work an entire shift.

“He’s in the corner, darlin’.” Eddie waves from behind the bar.

Yea, we’re on a first-name basis. There are a handful of bars in Rossview, and Dad is intimate with them all. “You could refuse him service, Eddie.” 

“And have a repeat of last year’s incident?” Eddie sniffs. “Sorry, he pays, he drinks.” 

Maintaining a grown man’s sobriety is not the responsibility of Eddie or any other bar owner. My head shakes with disappointment as I offer up thanks. 

“You called, so that’s something,” I say, steering toward the lump of a human hunched over a glass of amber liquid. 

Dad. 

My shoes suction to the floor with each step. Another lovely trait Dad’s favorite haunts have in common. Sticky floors, sticky air, and—come sundown—sticky morals. At this hour, though, the television in the corner flickers in and out, re-airing a football game as Tammy’s song ends and Hank comes to life. Yep, there is a tear in my beer, Hank. 

Weary faces turn my way, and I tug at my skimpy work uniform. I’m a college girl and former cheerleader—I’m comfortable showing my body off, but the twenty steps across this bar put me on display. The mid-afternoon drinkers are factory workers coming off the first shift. They stop by with their buddies, have a beer, and return to their wives and kids before repeating the process. The life is one I understand well—unchanging and straightforward—but today they’ve won a free show with their liquor: Jessica Womick and her curves.

“What an exhibitionist. Like her mother.” Even if unsaid, I imagine the thoughts run through the mind of every man present.

I near the corner and Dad’s bent form. “Dad?” I struggle for a smooth voice.

He grunts into the table.

“Dad?” I inch in. A second unintelligible grunt greets me. Sweat dampens the small of my back as I poke his rounded shoulder. “Dad, time to go.”

He lifts his head, and unfocused eyes stare past me. “Jess?”

Maintaining an even tone and treating him like an adult is difficult as I hunch at his side and say, “Let’s go.”

When I was a child, he was a vibrant hulk of a man with thick, dark hair and smiling eyes. He would throw me on his shoulders and parade me around our hometown. He was a man who was proud of himself and the life he’d built. He worked for his girls—for Mom and me. Things changed. We moved to Rossview, and the factory underwent layoffs. They cut hours and brought in automation. Money became tight, and our home became loud. 

The hulk disappeared. The pride fell. The daily grind of a life filled with backbreaking work chipped at him, but Mom’s betrayal left the husk of a man I see today. 

He straightens in the chair and wraps one hand around his liquid savior while extending the other toward me. “I needed fresh air.” His words slur as he pats my head.

I manage a sympathetic pat of my own. Offering compassion is challenging after years of excuses. Impossible when his right hand lifts toward his lips for another drink. 

“Stop, Dad. Come on.” I reach for his glass.

My attempt is in vain. He blocks my arm while angling himself toward the wall and tossing the last shot of whatever poison he’s drowning in today back in one gulp. The worst part of his drinking? He’s an alcohol whore. He throws down anything he gets his hands on. Whatever sends him to the place of incoherence the fastest is his new best friend. His empty glass hits the table with a thud. With nothing left to guzzle, he stands on wobbly legs and throws a hand out as if saying, ‘After you.’ It’s the second-worst part of his drinking. He’s a happy drunk for the most part. Hell, he doesn’t even fight when I cut him off nowadays.

Eddie offers his assistance as I stumble to the door under Dad’s weight, but I refuse. This is a familiar rodeo, pal. I’m adept at the job. I release my hold on his side and sling my arm around him, digging my keys from my waistband as we exit. He wanders with the change in my grip.

“Dad”—the keys fall to the gravel drive as Dad ricochets off a parked pickup truck like a pinball— “my car. The red one,” I say through gritted teeth, kicking the keys.

“Red?” he mutters. “Red. Red. Red.”

Settling him into my vehicle is a two-person job, and by the time he’s buckled in and I’ve closed the passenger door, my boobs swim in sweat. I inhale a deep breath and lean my hip against the car. He isn’t three-sheets-to-the-wind wasted today, which is a good thing. When Eddie called with the news of Dad’s arrival, he said he’d serve whatever Dad’s measly dollars could afford. Eddie could tell Dad drank before he arrived. This means he bought alcohol at the grocery store, consumed it, and returned, where they likely refused him for being impaired. It wouldn’t be the first time.

A dense thump against the car window prods me into action. I round the vehicle and climb in, giving Dad a cursory glance before I crank the engine. He’s leaning against the glass, eyes closed, body slack. Great, he passed out. Heading home should be uneventful.

* * *

The drive from Rossview’s bars to the ranch-style house we moved into the summer before my freshman year of high school is minimal. The proximity is what keeps Dad knee-deep in liquor. I suppose I’m grateful he doesn’t drive drunk, but his having easy access to alcohol derails my cause. Driving to the back of the house, I park nearest to the door as I can get. Our neighbors are at work, but it’s summer, and people talk. All I need is one kid getting an eyeful of me chaperoning Dad from my beat-up Acura to the front door, and the do-gooders will arrive in swarms. The Womick name is a permanent fixture in the rumor mill these days. I’ve been at work for three days, and the looks of pity from my new co-workers have already started.

I shift into park and cut the engine. “Dad? We’re home.”

His even breaths are soft, and I lean my head against the headrest with a sigh. The sun is on a mission to incinerate the earth, or I’d roll down the windows and let him sleep this off. His waking up in a pool of his sweat would be a daughter’s justice. The thought is fleeting. I need the car to return to work, and as angry as I am with him, finding the strength to hate him and stop taking care of him isn’t happening. Not today.

STAY TUNED FOR CARTER’S OPENING POV NEXT TUESDAY
ADD UNTIL WE CRASH TO YOUR TBR
PREORDER ON AMAZON

Please, feel free to click that SHARE button down on the right-hand corner, and tell everyone about UWC.

Tyalbrook 3 Preorder and sneak peek

We have a release date! The Prophecy of Tyalbrook: Never Without You will release Friday, November 1, 2019!
We’re finalizing the synopsis but if you’ve read one and two then you know three brings us Skye and Xander’s conclusion. <<—-obvious much? I swear I do a better job telling the story than I do writing blog posts ;)

Here is a universal link to preorder from Amazon, B&N, and Smashwords: https://books2read.com/Tyalbrook3 *Applebooks and Kobo should be live soon!

AND here is a sneak peek…

“When everything is crazy, when people are dying, prophecies are being told, friends are becoming enemies and enemies are becoming friends—this is our beacon.”

That pledge, made hours ago, played on a mental loop as I lay beside the man who spoke it. The dagger he handed me months ago rested near my hip as I traced the etchings along the hilt and my eyes drank in Xander’s sleeping form.

After weeks of separation followed by weeks of believing he was dead, he’d returned to me. His features weren’t nearly so haunted while he slept. The mellow light of the candles and lanterns in my room cast a warm glow over the bed. I savored this moment of togetherness, our first since he and Mother walked into this castle two days ago and shocked us all. Two ghosts back from the dead.

With a long exhale, I pressed my palm over my heart. When Xander and I were near each other for long periods of time, the pulse signifying our bond slowed in my chest to a steady purr, the vibration reminiscent of the rumbled purr Janelle’s old tabby cat made when I stroked her back.

I purred.

The notion brought a trembling smile to my lips as tears dampened my eyes. I missed that old cat. I missed the tiny house I shared with Janelle and Rex. Rex. Another name on the ever-expanding list of lives lost because of a prophecy. And Janelle, the one true friend I had before coming to Tyalbrook. Contemplating her fate filled my chest with an aching pang. I’ve held onto hope, preferring to think her safe and sound back home, but somehow I knew that wasn’t the case. I feared for her the way I feared for Amandalyn. The way I feared for everyone in Tyalbrook. They were pawns in a madman’s scheme. And for what? For power? For me? No one knew, which made what was to come all the more dangerous.

Xander stirred and reached across the bed, tangling his fingers deep into my hair as he tugged my face his way. “Have you had your fill?” he mumbled beneath a yawn.

I tucked his dagger between the folds of my bedding and shifted toward him. “My fill?”

“You were staring. I felt your eyes on me. I’m a Guardian. I’m trained to know this stuff.”

His teasing grin warmed the blood running through my veins. “You could not feel my eyes on you.” I propped up on my elbow, taking his hand, still tangled in my hair, with me.

“You’re right,” he conceded. “I was staring at you first.”

My breath lodged in my throat as his heavy-lidded electric blue eyes pinned my own. Oh, how I’d missed him. He grinned and released my gaze, and I blew out the air trapped in my lungs. His strong fingers delved deeper into my hair, massaging my scalp, as he twisted his upper body toward the lone window in my room. His forehead furrowed.

“It’s dark out.”

“Yes.” My gaze followed his to the unshuttered window. “You fell asleep on me. I was a bit offended by it, to be honest.”

When he entered my room hours ago, the sun rode high in the sky. It was past twilight now. Supper came and went with us locked in there. Not that I was complaining. My eyes touched on his profile and I lapped up the opportunity to study him this way. The depth of my feelings astonished me after the past months of separation. I’d forgotten the strength of the connection between us. How could I have forgotten?

©️Michele G. Miller, 2019