Secret North: Book 4 of The Wishes Series

  Secret North

  by G.J. Walker-Smith

  Kindle Edition

  © 2014 G.J. Walker-Smith

  Cover by Scarlett Rugers

  http://scarlettrugers.com

  Other Books by G.J. Walker-Smith

  Saving Wishes (Book One, The Wishes Series)

  Second Hearts (Book Two, The Wishes Series)

  Sand Jewels (Book 2.5, The Wishes Series)

  Storm Shells (Book Three, The Wishes Series)

  Contact the author:

  https://www.facebook.com/gjwalkersmith

  mailto:[email protected]

  http://www.gjwalkersmith.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied or reproduced without the written consent of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places or people, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Secret North

  By G.J. Walker-Smith

  Dedication

  For Paul, my Boy Wonder.

  Table Of Contents

  1. Story Of The Day

  2. Serial Killer

  3. Eviction

  4. The Wasp’s Nest

  5. Chocolate Cake Girl

  6. Chaperones

  7. Animal

  8. Baby Shoes

  9. Conquer And Keep

  10. Odd Numbers

  11. Trust

  12. Investigative Journalism

  13. Train Wreck

  14. Dumb Princesses

  15. The Couple Thing

  16. Small Talk

  17. Death Metal Girl

  18. Fairy Connections

  19. Crowd Pleaser

  20. Playthings

  21. Buyer’s Remorse

  22. Designer Wings

  23. Magic vs. Potential

  24. Special Favour

  25. Rose Coloured Glasses

  26. Social Experiment

  27. Secret North

  28. Keys To The Castle

  29. Killjoy

  30. Enigma

  31. Delivery

  32. Mystery Blonde

  33. Prickly Babies

  34. Black Plague

  35. Bait

  36. Love Notes

  37. Good deals

  38. Rejection

  39. Old Broads

  40. Outside The Box

  41. One Hit Wonders

  42. History

  43. Little Red Firecracker

  44. Passive Aggressive

  45. Happy Heart

  46. Frog Training

  47. Geriatric Gangsters

  48. Silent Words

  49. Changing Ways

  50. Pet Preferences

  51. A Ryan Person

  52. Quality Over Quantity

  53. Pomp And Ceremony

  54. Traitor

  55. Meaningful Smiles

  56. Fifty-eight Facets

  57. Loose Cannon

  58. Rich Or Poor

  59. Complicated Ramblings

  60. Light Bulb Moments

  61. Old Times

  62. Bucket Full Of Hope

  63. Harsh Reality

  64. Support

  65. Confessions

  66. One Day

  67. Thief

  68. Lois

  69. Crystal Clear

  70. Good Enough

  71. Naked And Singing

  72. Baby Bardot

  73. Sweet Nothings

  74. Bad Omens

  75. Stupid Men

  76. Following Rules

  77. Mitigating Damages

  78. Low Key

  79. Dead Ends

  80. Déjà Vu

  81. Secret ingredients

  1. STORY OF THE DAY

  Ryan

  There was nothing appealing about turning thirty. Putting the brakes on and staying twenty-nine obviously wasn’t an option. I woke up that morning to the horrible realisation that I was now Ryan Décarie, aged thirty.

  I was more than content to let the day slip by without mention, but my family had other ideas. I had voicemails waiting from all of them, even Grandma Nellie. I sat at the counter in the kitchen with the phone on speaker, half-eating breakfast while I played them back.

  “I bought you a gift but I can’t remember where I put it,” Nellie warbled. “I got you socks. Everyone needs good socks. And gin. Everyone needs good gin.”

  I set it down on the counter to listen to my mother’s message. “Happy birthday, my son!” Even from a distance, she was loud. “Don’t forget about dinner tonight, and don’t bring any wretched girls. I’d like it to be a pleasant evening.”

  I reached across and tapped the screen, skipping to the next message before she added any more stipulations.

  My father’s message was generic and short, but at least he’d called me. Adam’s message was short too, but only because Charli snatched the phone from him mid-sentence. The fairy-themed ramble I was expecting from her didn’t happen. “Happy birthday, Ryan,” she crowed. Bridget commandeered the phone then, and the morning brightened in an instant.

  I carried my bowl to the sink, listening to my funny little niece’s birthday message. “Happy, happy day, Ry!” she shouted. “In all the fairest land with the king’s horses.” She was losing me fast, but I was laughing. “Wishes in the pockets for you on Tuesdays with the little trees.”

  I rinsed my bowl, picked up the phone and walked to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Bridget’s message was showing no sign of ending. I listened to another minute of her mashing together every nursery rhyme she’d ever been told with the odd ‘happy, happy day’ thrown in.

  Eventually Adam called time. “He’ll be late for work, baby,” I heard him say. “Say goodbye.”

  “Bye, Ry,” chimed my favourite voice in the whole world. “Happy, happy day!”

  Bridget Décarie was a four-year-old package of awesome. She seemed to have adjusted to life in the big city better than her parents, even her father who’d spent most of his life here. I put it down to the fact that the kid’s heritage was more complicated than a city roadmap. Bridget had no choice but to be adaptable. She was part French, part American, part Australian, part English and part fairy. Adam had brought his little family back to New York eight months earlier. I wasn’t entirely convinced that they belonged here, but I liked having them around – especially Bridget.

  Retaining the title of favourite uncle wasn’t really a coup considering her other uncle was just a few weeks old, but I always gave her my best anyway. In return, I was exposed to a whole new world. Hanging out usually involved afternoons at the park, something I’d never done pre-niece.

  Life at Bridget’s tempo was slow and easy, and I enjoyed the change in pace. The blondes I usually hung out with were fast and a different kind of easy. She was also ten times smarter than any of the girls I knew. If not for her, I would never have known that seahorses are the slowest moving fish. I liked to think the education was mutual. I was the one who broke it to her that seahorses don’t eat hay.

  Another thing Bridget taught me was to always look up at the sky when you first step outside. Her reason made so much sense that it scared me: “You can see the story of the day,” she explained.

  As soon as I stepped out of my building that morning, I looked to the sky.

  The story was bleak. It was warm and uncomfortably humid, and I could hear faint rolls of thunder over the busy traffic. It was terrible birthday weather, even for someone as unenthusiastic as me.

  The story of the day got better when the entertainment kicked in.

  I
was still standing on the stoop when a cab violently screeched to a halt outside my building. The back door flew open and a ramped-up brunette tumbled out, loudly demanding that the driver unload her luggage.

  I don’t pretend to know a lot about women’s fashion, but a tight black skirt and four inch heels didn’t seem sensible for someone gearing up for a fistfight. And that was exactly what I was expecting to see when the driver got out of the cab and fronted up to her on the sidewalk. It was a brave move on his part, considering he was a foot shorter than her.

  “Pay your fare!” he yelled, wagging his finger.

  “I lost my wallet!” she spat. “That’s why you’re kicking me out!”

  The driver marched to the back of his car, muttering in a language I couldn’t make out.

  I understood the rowdy brunette perfectly, and every one of the crude insults she hurled at him. He obviously understood too. He took a cardboard box out of the trunk and dumped it at her feet, sending the contents spilling across the pavement.

  Not one person stopped. They just stepped to the side to avoid the carnage and kept walking. I couldn’t have moved if I’d wanted to. I’d seen street performances before, but nothing like this, and certainly not right outside my building.

  “You pay!” he demanded.

  She threw her arms out wide. “No money, stupid!”

  Fearing that she was about to do him some real damage, I grabbed a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet, stepped into the line of fire and thrust it at the driver. Without saying a word, he snatched it and jumped back into his cab.

  A quick getaway in Midtown Manhattan was never going to happen. It took a full minute for him to break into the passing traffic and pull away. Angry Girl stood on the sidewalk, hurling insults at him the whole time. Her vocabulary was outstanding. She didn’t repeat herself once.

  Once he was gone, she started gathering her belongings off the ground. She didn’t acknowledge me or the fact that I’d just settled her fare. “You owe me twenty bucks,” I told her.

  Maintaining her crouched position on the pavement, she looked up at me.

  “I didn’t ask you to pay him,” she said, composing herself enough to speak. “I would’ve gladly beaten the crap out of him.”

  I crouched beside her, picked up the last of her bits and pieces and dumped them in the box she was gripping.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I stood up, extended my hand and helped her to her feet. Unsure of whether I should pick it up or not, I stared at the box on the ground. I knew exactly what I was looking at. If someone had tipped the contents of the top drawer of my desk into a box, it would’ve looked exactly the same – minus the Garfield pencil case. It was a last-day-on-the-job box, which had undoubtedly added to the day from hell she was having.

  “So, what’s your plan from here?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure, but it’s a solo plan,” she replied, crouching to pick up her box. “Your work here is done.”

  She was such a cranky bitch – and I’d missed her more than I’d realised.

  “You haven’t changed one bit, Bente Denison. You’re still mean.”

  “I doubt you have either,” she replied, balancing the box on her hip. “I’ll bet you’re still a pretty boy man-whore.”

  I grinned. “At least you think I’m still pretty.”

  She smiled at me for the first time in five years, and it was still spectacular. “To be honest Ryan, that’s all you’ve ever had going for you.”

  “Where are you headed?” I asked, taking no offense.

  “Nowhere,” she said glumly. “I’m heading nowhere.”

  I wasn’t quite sure how to console her. Bente had psychotic tendencies. One wrong word and she’d probably deck me – though she’d look good doing it. When she was smiling and happy, she was a very pretty girl. When she was angry and threatening bodily harm, she was freaking gorgeous.

  “Why don’t you come back to my apartment? I’ll call you a driver.”

  Bente squinted at me, weighing up my offer. “Where’s your apartment?” I pointed at the building behind her. “You live here?” she asked, turning to look. “In a city of eight million people, I get thrown out of a cab outside your door?”

  “What can I say? It must be your lucky day.”

  She laughed, and for a brief second the drama disappeared. “You’re still an egotistical jerk.”

  Calling her bluff, I took a backward step toward the door. “Just trying to be nice. Good seeing you, Bente.”

  I was almost at the steps when she called out to me. “Ryan, wait.”

  I killed my triumphant smile before turning back to face her.

  She dropped her head and cleared her throat. Being humble had never been easy for her. “I would appreciate your help.”

  I stepped back to her and took the box from her grip.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  “My pleasure.” And it was.

  2. SERIAL KILLER

  Bente

  It was five years since I’d last seen Ryan Décarie, and running into him now felt like a punishment. There was only so much a girl could endure. I’d been fired, lost my wallet, and somehow stumbled across the man who to this day I considered to be my biggest mistake. To top it all off, I looked like crap. I stared into his bathroom mirror, trying to work out how to pull myself together.

  Washing my face was a good start. I thought I’d done a decent job until I patted my face with one of the stark white towels hanging on the rail. I hung it back up, folding it over to hide the black streaks I’d left on it. I now owed him cab fare and dry-cleaning. Glancing around the bathroom gave me a quick reality check. It rivalled any swish hotel I’d ever seen: marble counter top, chrome fixtures and the biggest shower I’d ever seen. Confident that he could cover his own dry-cleaning expenses, I messed the towel up again and headed to the living room.

  Ryan was in the kitchen. “Feeling better?” he asked.

  “Much, thank you.”

  “I called for a car,” he told me. “It should be here within the hour.”

  “Awesome. Thanks.”

  We stood on opposite sides of the counter, separated by a large chunk of black granite and an awkward silence. There shouldn’t have been any silence. We hadn’t seen each other in years. We could’ve spent hours catching up, but neither of us said anything. I kept quiet because I was stubborn. I could only guess what his reasons were.

  Unable to look at him any longer, I wandered to the centre of the room, making no secret of the fact that I was checking it out.

  I’d never been to Ryan’s place before. I’d slept with the man twice, but had never scored an invitation to his home. I wasn’t sure if that made me a bigger whore than him, so I didn’t mention it.

  “Nice place.” I glanced back at him.

  He flashed me a crooked grin but didn’t reply.

  I wasn’t just being polite. His apartment was gorgeous. Rough exposed red brick walls were softened by honey coloured floorboards. Black leather couches dominated the centre of the room, matching the huge TV screen mounted on the wall. Big canvas prints strategically displayed on the other walls added colour. It was boyish, chic and untouchable, much like the owner, who was busying himself by making coffee.

  I continued sticky-beaking, and it wasn’t long before something caught my eye. The wooden toybox in the corner of the room looked so out of place that I couldn’t help checking it out. It was filled to the brim with dolls and almost all of them were broken. I picked up a particularly tortured-looking redhead. “Your doll collection has seen better days, Ryan.”

  “Technically they’re not mine,” he replied, grinning wryly. “I share them with my niece.”

  I levered myself onto a stool at the counter. “Is your niece a potential serial killer?” It wasn’t such an odd question considering the state of the doll I’d just laid on the counter. It was missing both arms and legs.

  “Bridget has trouble dressing t
hem,” he explained. “She wrenches their limbs off to get their clothes on. Sometimes they lose their heads too.”

  “So you’re the repair guy?”

  He put his hand to his heart. “Second only to her dad,” he said proudly. “I love hanging out with her.”

  I looked down to hide my confusion. I’d known Ryan a long time. He was selfish and self-serving. I’d never seen a hint of the type of man who’d find joy spending time with a four-year-old.

  “Have you met her?” he asked.

  “Of course.” I picked up the doll and began fussing with its scrappy hair. “She’s a cutie.”

  Ryan was right to be smitten. The little girl was as mad as a hatter, just like her mother, but somehow grounded like Adam, without the serious douchey parts.

  “Charli knows you’re back?”

  I nodded. “We’re friends. We talk all the time.”

  “She never told me you were back.”

  “Why would she tell you?”

  Ryan suddenly looked a little wounded. “I would’ve called if I’d known,” he said. “We were friends too.”

  “I used to work for you,” I clarified. “Sometimes I used to like you. The problem was, sometimes you used to like screwing me over.”

  I didn’t like where the conversation was headed. Ryan had treated me horribly in the past. I’d learned from it and moved on. Dredging it up again made absolutely no sense.

  “Is it too late to say sorry?” he asked.

  I wasn’t prepared for the question, so answering took time. My thoughtful stare seemed to unsettle him. He shifted from one foot to the other.

  “It’s never too late to apologise,” I said finally. “As long as you mean it.”

  “I do mean it,” he assured me.

  I wasn’t sure if I cared either way, despite the flutter that rippled through my chest as he spoke. “Apology accepted, then.”

  Ryan turned to finish the forgotten cups of coffee. “So are you planning to stay in New York for a while?” he asked over the hum of the coffee machine.

  “As long as I can find work again,” I replied. “I’ve only been back in town two weeks.”