Riveted

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to Elma Mae Bruce.

  I am a changed person because your story and my story intersected, no matter how brief that chapter may have been. Your support as a reader meant the world to me as an author, but the impact you had on me as a person . . . well, that is unforgettable, and I will be forever grateful that I was able to share both your triumphs and disappointments as you fought the good fight. It is true what they say . . . not all heroes wear capes.

  We are all going to leave a legacy behind us when we go. Be it big or small, I hope that all of us take a moment, a minute, a split second to invest in making sure the one that we are building is one that we can be proud of, one that makes others smile and think fondly of us, because it’s so easy to forget the good when the bad seems to always be out front and center. Leave the lives you touch better off for having had you in them.

  Also FUCK YOU, cancer . . . you are literally the worst and we’re all pretty sick of your shit.

  EPIGRAPH

  If you’re going through hell, keep going.

  —Winston Churchill

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Dixie

  Chapter 2: Church

  Chapter 3: Dixie

  Chapter 4: Church

  Chapter 5: Dixie

  Chapter 6: Church

  Chapter 7: Dixie

  Chapter 8: Church

  Chapter 9: Dixie

  Chapter 10: Church

  Chapter 11: Dixie

  Chapter 12: Church

  Chapter 13: Dixie

  Chapter 14: Church

  Chapter 15: Dixie

  Chapter 16: Church

  Chapter 17: Dixie

  Chapter 18: Church

  Chapter 19: Dixie

  Chapter 20: Church

  Chapter 21: Dixie

  Chapter 22: Church

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Riveted Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Salvaged Prologue

  About the Author

  Also by Jay Crownover

  Credits

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  INTRODUCTION

  So I’m sure it’s no surprise that I consider myself kind of a badass (on occasion at least). Not much fazes me. I’m pretty willing and able to roll with the punches and I’ve always been a “take the bull by the horns and make him your bitch” kind of gal. That being said there are things that are bigger and badder than me, things that scare the ever-living stuffing out of me and I really didn’t stop to think about how I handled the fear, or rather didn’t handle it, until I started working on this book.

  If you follow me on social media at all I’m sure you know I have three dogs that I’m obsessed with. They are my best furry friends and my family. I love them unconditionally and fiercely. The boy Italian greyhound, Duce, (I know, I know, it isn’t spelled right, but even before writing books I was doing weird stuff with names) is getting older and last year he got sick . . . and I mean really sick. It was terrifying. It was heartbreaking and I handled it like shit. I broke down and turned into a tantrum-throwing idiot, which helped my dog and the situation zero percent. Quite frankly I didn’t know what to do or how to help him and that lack of control, no matter how much money I threw at the problem, turned me into a lunatic. I was terrified that I was going to lose him even though logically I knew he couldn’t stick around forever.

  Eventually I got him to an amazing veterinarian . . . shout-out to Northwest Animal Hospital here in Colorado Springs and Doctor Sudduth, who took great care of him, got him diagnosed, and promised that it wasn’t his time to go yet. Duce is still old, still sickly, but he’s on meds and kicking right along. The last year was a struggle but we spent it together at home for the most part, which means I owe my readers and everyone that supports my books even more than you will ever know.

  None of it changes the fact that I’m eventually going to have to say good-bye.

  It still scares me. It makes me tear up even thinking about it. It’s going to be one of the hardest things I’m ever going to have to do . . . but writing this book . . . focusing on how Church handles love and loss, how we have this stoic, tough-as-nails soldier that has been through hell and back, but has things bigger and badder than he is that he can’t get out from underneath, was eye-opening. No matter what kind of armor we wear, all of it has a chink, a dent that speaks to a battle we fought and lost.

  I know now that when the time comes I want to focus on the good, on the years we spent together, and all the wonderful memories my furry little guy gave to me. I don’t want any of that goodness and enduring love to be overshadowed by the pain of letting go. I need to be strong when the little guy can’t be . . . seriously, he’s only like seventeen pounds . . . so small to be poked, prodded, and medicated the way he is. He handles it like a boss though.☺

  I can’t lie and say I’m not still scared, terrified even. Every time I leave home for an event I spend most of my free time checking in on the old man. But I like to think that I now have the wherewithal to be there for my four-legged bestie the way he has always been there for me.

  So yeah . . . this entire book was kind of inspired by my sick dog . . . the good and the bad . . . Church and Dixie represent both sides of that . . . lol . . . I promise it will make sense when you read it.

  Welcome to my love and loss . . .

  Xoxo

  Jay

  Prologue

  My mom met her Prince Charming when she was a freshman in college and my dad leaned over and asked to borrow a pen so he could take notes. Rumpled, obviously hung-over but flashing a smile that promised a good time and with a twinkle in his eyes, he was impossible to resist. She always told me and my sister that it happened that fast. In a split second she knew he was the one for her.

  It was a sweet story. One that my parents shared with us often, both still sharing private smiles and eyes still twinkling, but neither one of us gave it much thought until my younger sister met her very own prince before she was old enough to drive. It was during a hard time for my family, hard for all of us, but especially for her. She’d always been the baby, been spoiled and treated like a princess. When the attention was yanked off of her in a really ugly way, she was lost and let the family tragedy consume her. Lost in grief and confusion she somehow managed to sign herself up for auto shop instead of an extracurricular that actually made sense for my very girlie, very feminine younger sibling. She spent five minutes in that noisy, greasy garage, but she spent years and years leaning on and loving the quiet, enigmatic auburn-haired boy she met in those five minutes. He saved her and even though she was way too young to know anything about anything, she had the same story that my mother did . . . she just knew he was the one for her.

  It happened fast in my family. We fell hard and we didn’t get up once we fell. We stayed down and we loved hard and deep. I also learned as I watched all my friends, the men I worked with, the women that I considered sisters of the heart, that when it was right for anyone it happened fast and that they did indeed just know. They knew when it was right. They knew when it was going to last. They knew when it was worth fighting for. They knew when they had found the person that might not necessarily be perfect, but that was without a doubt perfect for them. They just knew.

  So I waited, admittedly impatiently and anxiously, for my shot, for my turn to fall. I waited through my family healing, for them to come back with a love that was even stronger. I waited through my sister screwing up and desperately trying to repair her perfect. I waited and watched so many weddings and babies that weren’t mine. I waited through d
anger and drama. I waited through one bad date and one failed relationship after another. I waited through nights alone and nights spent with the occasional someone I knew wasn’t the one for me. I waited and waited as good men fell for even better women, all the while wondering when it would be my turn. I waited and watched love that was easy and love that was hard, telling myself I was far more prepared for my fall than anyone else around me was. I wanted it so bad I could taste it . . . but the more I waited the more certain I became that I was never going to fall.

  I would be lying if I said that I didn’t think Dash Churchill was something special the second he walked into the bar where I worked—all coiled tension, sexy swagger, and with a swirling, threatening cloud of attitude hanging over him that would dim even the brightest summer days. I had eyes and I had a vagina, so all the things that I thought were special were the things those parts of my anatomy couldn’t miss. Long limbed, with a body that looked like it was ripped from the cover of Men’s Health magazine, bronze skin, unforgettable eyes, and a mouth that even though it was constantly frowning brought to mind every single dirty, sexy thing a pair of lips like that was capable of doing. I liked the way he looked . . . a lot . . . but I couldn’t say I much liked him. He was sullen, distant, uncommunicative and there was an air about him that marked in no uncertain terms that he was dangerous and volatile. He came across as a very unhappy individual, and no amount of rest, relaxation, and good friends seemed to shake that dark shroud of discontentment that hung over him. His amazing eyes flashed warnings that I was smart enough to heed. I liked my days spent basking in the sun, not dancing in the rain.

  I was friendly to Church because I was friendly to everyone. The first month or so we had an uneasy working relationship that involved me dancing around him while every other single and not-so-single woman that came into the bar where we worked did their best to catch his eye. It worked out well for me and seemingly for him, so I went back to waiting for my perfect, my fairy tale, my heroic knight, my unmatched hero. He had to be out there somewhere and I was starting to think if he wasn’t looking for me I needed to start looking for him. My patience was wearing thin and my typically affable attitude was starting to get just as gloomy and gray as the one that hung over Church.

  But then it happened and I just knew. I knew like I had never known anything as clearly and as unquestionably in my whole life. I knew with a rightness that shot through my soul and made my heart flip over in my chest.

  I was trying to cash out a group of overly intoxicated and obnoxiously difficult young men. It wasn’t anything new. I’d been a cocktail waitress for a long time and knew how to handle myself and the customers. This drunken group was no better or worse than any other one I’d had to deal with in all my years slinging drinks and working the floor, but they were loud and the things they were saying were easily heard throughout the bar. Some of it wasn’t so bad. They liked my hair (curly and strawberry blond—who didn’t like my damn hair?) and they liked the way my shirt fit tight and snug across my chest. I was a solid D cup, so again who didn’t like my tits? But they also had a lot to say about my ass. Apparently it was too big for my small frame, and they didn’t love my freckles. That red hair was authentic and as real as it could be, so there wasn’t much I could do about the colored specks that dotted the bridge of my nose and brushed the curve of my cheeks.

  I had pretty thick skin, you had to when you worked in a bar and liquor loosened tongues, so I was ready to brush the entire conversation off and snatch the credit card off the table when I felt a hand on my lower back and a storm not just brewing off in the distance but collecting and gathering, ready to unleash hell at my back.

  “You good, Dixie?” The question made me freeze and it wasn’t because it was asked into my ear with an unmistakable slow and very southern drawl. It wasn’t because he was so close I could feel every line of muscle in his massive body and both the heat of his skin and the chill of his icy anger pressing into my back.

  No, I froze, riveted to the spot and stunned stupid, because in twenty-six years no one had ever bothered to ask me if I was good. They always assumed I was.

  I was the girl that could handle myself and everyone else around me.

  I was the girl that never asked for help.

  I was the girl that always smiled even when that smile hurt my face.

  I was the girl that always had an ear to bend or a shoulder to lean on for a friend even when I really didn’t have time.

  I was the girl that everyone ran to with a problem because I would drop everything to help fix it even if it was unfixable.

  I was the girl that never let anything or anyone drag her down and fought to keep everyone else up with her.

  I was the girl that everyone always assumed was good . . . so they never asked . . . but he had and the world stopped.

  I gripped my pen and struggled to clear my throat. “I’m good, Church.” My voice was barely a breath of sound and I felt his touch press even deeper into my lower back.

  “You sure?” No, I wasn’t sure. I was as far from good as I had ever been and I had no clue what to do about it.

  I gave a jerky nod and blew out a breath, which had him taking a step away from me. I looked at him over my shoulder and he returned the look. There was no warmth in his fantastic eyes. There was no change in the harsh expression on his face. There was no knowledge that he had fundamentally changed my life in the span of a few terse words.

  He was simply doing his job, making sure everything in the bar was okay and that the staff was safe. Meanwhile I was shoved unwillingly into the kind of love that had my arms flailing, my legs kicking, while a-scream-ripped-from-my-lungs in love with him. Of course I did that all silently and in my head as he walked away from me, because I might have now known he was it for me, but it was evident Church didn’t have a clue.

  No one had ever given me any idea how to handle it when the right one came along, but you weren’t the right one for him.

  There is no such thing as darkness; only a failure to see.

  —Malcolm Muggeridge

  Chapter 1

  Dixie

  Um . . . I had a lovely evening.” No, I hadn’t. It was awful. It would go down as the worst first date in the history of first dates, which was something considering my recent run as the awful-first-date queen. But it wasn’t in my nature to say so. All I wanted to do was say good-night and go hide in my bedroom with a glass of wine and my dog for the rest of the evening.

  “Aren’t you going to invite us in for a drink?”

  I fought to hold back a cringe and looked over the shoulder of the very cute but painfully shy young man I had accepted the date with after several weeks of online chatting. I’d met him through one of the dating apps I had signed up for when I decided I was done waiting for my perfect to realize that I was perfect for him.

  My terrible luck in love had held true and this date, with this cute boy . . . and his mother, the person who had asked about coming in for a drink since my actual date seemed incapable of speech. Yep, it solidified the fact that I was bound to end up alone. That beautiful blinding thing that everyone important in my life that I loved seemed to find with such ease was clearly not in the cards for me. I wanted a fantasy but every day was faced with the fact that all I was getting was cold, hard and very lonely reality.

  I sighed and reached up to push some of my wayward, strawberry-colored curls out of my face. I was annoyed that not only had I clearly been cat-fished—there was no way the son was the one running his dating profile, not if he couldn’t string two words together, and not if he couldn’t look at me without blushing and trembling nervously—but by the fact that I had wasted a perfectly cute outfit, killer hair, and a face full of flawless makeup on this sham of a date. I was typically a very low-maintenance kind of girl, so pulling myself together like this took time and effort that I would never have expended if I had known it was all for a woman with crazy eyes and a psychotic interest in finding her grown child a
suitable mate. Honestly, I was surprised the woman hadn’t asked for blood and urine samples before the appetizers arrived. She’d grilled me like I was a POW for the entire date and when my answers didn’t meet her expectations I could feel her disappointment wafting from across the table.

  Anyone else would have gotten up the instant their date showed up with parental supervision. They would have chalked it up as a loss and deleted the guy off the app. I, unfortunately, wasn’t wired that way. Nope, I was predisposed to believe every situation, no matter how bad, had a silver lining. I thought maybe my date would loosen up and tried to reason that it was actually kind of sweet he was so close to his mom. I figured after dinner and the interrogation I would be vetted enough that maybe he would want to do something without our eagle-eyed chaperone. I thought his shy demeanor made him seem vulnerable and that he was even more adorable in person than he was in his profile picture.

  It didn’t get better.

  It got worse, and I quickly realized the lining was never going to be silver because it was made out of lead, and I was sinking with it to the bottom of the bad-date ocean. I tried to think of a polite way to get out of the rest of the evening but the woman wouldn’t give me a minute to breathe. She even went as far as to follow me to the bathroom so I couldn’t send out an SOS call to one of my friends for a convenient escape. It was brutal, but I powered through, thinking once they followed me home and saw me to the door in an old-fashioned but still over-the-top gesture that it would be over. I had a boatload of nosy neighbors and a big dog in my apartment, so I didn’t fret too much about him knowing where I lived (the mom was a different story).

  I was wrong.

  I shifted my weight on my feet and bit back a sigh. I should have known she was going to be persistent, but I was done playing nice for her when it was clear her son was so beaten down that he was too scared to make a move or even speak for himself. She was a tyrant and I wasn’t going to subject myself to her vile company anymore. As soon as I slipped inside my apartment I was going to delete all the dating apps I had on my phone.