Never Ever: Damaged Hero, page 1
Never Ever
Damaged Hero
Kelly Moore
Edited by
Kerry Genova
Illustrated by
Dark Water Covers
Never Ever
Copyright © 2023 by Kelly Moore
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
1. Noa
2. Ever
3. Noa
4. Noa
5. Ever
6. Noa
7. Ever
8. Noa
9. Ever
10. Noa
11. Ever
12. Noa
13. Noa
14. Ever
15. Noa
16. Ever
17. Noa
18. Ever
19. Noa
20. Ever
21. Noa
22. Ever
23. Noa
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1
Noa
The day is as stormy as I feel on the inside. People hustle and bustle around me throughout the subway station as if I were nonexistent, which has been my state of mind for the past two years of my life. Do they sense it? Or are they so wrapped up in their own world that no one else matters?
As the train halts on the platform, I squeeze inside like cattle being herded through a small gate. The bench seats fill up quickly, and I opt to grab onto the leather hand loops dangling from the ceiling. Once the doors close, the stagnate air fills with a mix of perfume and cologne, along with some scent I’d rather not think about. As I read the posters and bright advertisements pinned along the top of the walls, I notice no one makes eye contact. Heads are buried in phones, eyes closed, listening to the music in their earbuds, watching videos, reading books, or pretty much whatever it takes to kill time until they reach their destination.
A voice comes over the speaker, announcing the next stop, and the train bolts forward. I tighten my grip so as not to get in someone else’s space. A hard task considering we’re within inches of one another. A lady in the back wearing a pirate hat garners my attention when she starts speaking in a loud voice about the end of days, telling anyone who will listen that she has a spaceship in her backyard that will save us all.
Thus one of the many reasons why I dislike New York City so much. I’ve never been a fan of big cities, and right about now, I want to flee back to Essex and never leave the comfort of my home. In fact, stay buried in my bed. Peace and quiet have been my sanctuary when I’ve needed it the most.
I flinch when a cold, small hand touches mine. I look down to see a tiny girl with round eyes the color of an ocean in the Caribbean. Either that, or I’m imagining the shade of blue because it brings me warmth in the dampness of this day. She traces her fingertips over my silver ring that’s become too loose this past year. She stops spinning it to take a closer look at the heart-shaped ring with a diamond in the middle of it. It was a gift from my late husband. The thought of him lodges a lump in my throat.
“It’s so pretty.” Her lashes bat against her soft cheeks when she peers at me with a wide smile baring missing teeth.
“Thank you. It’s very special to me,” I respond, returning her grin.
“Leave the lady alone,” the woman standing next to her, who I assume is her mother, says.
“It’s alright. She wasn’t bothering me,” I assure her.
A child is something that Drake and I never got around to, and now that he’s gone, the possibility of me having a son or daughter died with him. He was too focused on his career and kept putting me off. I agreed because my career as a food critic blogger had me traveling more than I was home, and if I’m truly honest with myself, I felt the timing wasn’t right either.
The girl’s hand drifts away from mine and into her mother’s when I notice how tattered her clothes are, and her shoes appear worn and too large for her feet. The zipper on the woman’s purse is hanging on by a thread, and stains cover the sleeves of her shirt. I feel privileged in comparison and want to help them. It’s just another thing I dislike about the city. It’s a place with extreme wealth as much as poverty, and it breaks my heart to see a child in need.
Without being too obvious, I fumble to open my wallet in my purse and pull out what cash I have on hand. When the doors open, her attention is drawn away from me, and I slip the money into the opening of her bag and quickly follow a couple out of the train to a busy street in Manhattan.
Tugging my jacket closed and covering my head with the hood of my raincoat, I play a child’s game of leapfrog, dodging the puddles of water on the sidewalk. I wait for the crosswalk to give the all clear to move with the crowd of people. The freshly baked bread in a bakery smells heavenly, and a line of people are squeezing their way inside. It’s new since the last time I visited this neighborhood. As I make my way down the block, several stores are boarded up with signs posting what’s coming next and barricaded by plastic sheets marking a construction zone. There’s a restaurant in every nook and cranny, crammed into small spaces. Food vendors are tucked in narrow alleyways. A man mashing his head against his shoulder to hold his phone profusely apologizes to me when he bumps into me without breaking his pace.
I never understood why Drake wanted to open a restaurant in downtown Manhattan with all the competition, but it had always been his dream, so this is where it all started. He got a sweet deal on a prime piece of real estate and spent every dime he’d saved and then some into purchasing it. He borrowed enough money to remodel the century-old tall brick building, bringing it back to life but keeping it as authentic as possible.
I pause at the entrance of The Italian Oven. I used to feel so much pride every time I walked into the place and saw my husband in all his glory mingling with the customers, laughing, and enjoying a toast. Today, all I feel is a deep, saddening loss, and I wish I didn’t have to be here.
One step inside, and the marvelous scent of Italian herbs has my mouth watering. It looks exactly like it did two years ago. The same maître d' and bartender who Drake employed as soon as the restaurant opened five years ago are working, and they’ve since married.
Bruno’s smile lights up from behind the bar as soon as he recognizes me. “Noa!” he bellows in his Italian accent, drowning out voices in the high-ceiling, open room.
Gia confines me in a hug before her husband can snare me in his wide-open hairy arms. “Sofia told me you were coming for a visit. It’s so good to see you.”
“My sister never could keep a secret.” I laugh. “And it’s not exactly a visit.”
“How long are you in town for?” Bruno kisses both of my cheeks.
“Hopefully not long.” My smile fades, recalling why I left New York. “Sofia said she needed me here in person to go over some issue and insisted she couldn’t discuss it over the phone, so however long that takes.”
“We’d love to have you over for a glass of wine or two.” Gia tucks her arm around Bruno’s waist. “I want to hear all about your life in Massachusetts.”
“Trust me, it’s completely boring.”
“That’s exactly why you need to move back to Manhattan.” Sofia’s soprano voice rings out loud enough for everyone to hear as she runs toward me, engulfing me in her arms. “You should have told me when you were coming. I could’ve sent someone to pick you up at the airport.”
“I had to do it last minute, or I would’ve talked myself out of it. You made it seem very important that I be here, so here I am.”
“Just wanting my sister to come for a visit wasn’t enough?” she snorts, releasing me. “Let me take your jacket.” She tugs my arms out, and I couldn’t stop her even if I wanted to.
“I’ll pour you a glass of your favorite wine.” Bruno steps away, walking back over to the bar.
“We’ll catch up later,” Gia sings and sways her hips to greet a couple waiting at the door.
“Business appears to be great,” I say, looking around at all the customers sitting at tables and on barstools.
“It’s picked up a bit since the downturn in the economy. We used to have a waiting list out for a month. Now it’s only a week.”
“You’ve done a great job keeping the restaurant afloat. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all your hard work.”
She laces her arm with mine, and we walk in front of the large brick pizza oven. “You can thank me by moving back and helping me run this place.”
“You know I can’t do that. I’ve been thinking more and more about selling it.”
“Oh, sweetie, just give yourself more time. I don’t want you to have regrets about selling it. There are so many good memories here, and Drake lived and breathed every inch of this restaurant.”
Sometimes I think he loved it more than he did me. He’d spend every waking hour of every day in this place. The last year he was alive, we barely spent any time together with our opposite schedules. I had to beg him to take a vacation with me to St. Lucia. The first two days, he couldn’t get off the phone. He was so angry at me when I tossed his cell phone into the blue waters.
It was worth it, though, because the next three days I spent in his arms. It was lik
We thought it would take ten years to save enough to make his dreams come true, but tragically, his parents were killed in a car accident. Being an only child, he inherited their insurance policy, and combined with what he had saved, it left him enough to pay for a good portion of this property.
“It houses lots of bad ones too,” I say softly, finally working my way through my thoughts.
Bruno hands both of us a glass of wine. “I opened a new bottle, and it’s all yours.”
“Thanks.” I sip and relish the flavor. I haven’t had a glass of it since Drake’s funeral.
“I’ve got a few things I need to take care of, and then I’ll join you for some appetizers.” Sofia tips her glass to mine. “We’ll talk business later,” she adds as if she read my mind, knowing I’d want all the details this instant.
As much as I love my sister and have missed her, I’d like to get back home as soon as possible.
“I took the liberty of ordering your favorite food items.” Bruno points to a high-top table nestled in the bar area.
“You’re too good to me.” I smile. “And I’m starving, so thank you.”
“Enjoy.” He walks to the table and pulls out the chair for me before he skates off to tend the bar.
I look around, taking in the customers. An older couple sits in the corner holding hands and appears to be celebrating some occasion. A large table of women laughing and enjoying their food crowd the center of the room. A table of men wearing suits catches my attention. The older gentleman at the table has salt-and-pepper hair and deep wrinkles around his brown eyes. One of the men looks irritated; his jaw is rocking back and forth, looking like he’s talking under his breath as the toe of his polished shoe taps the tile floor.
My gaze shifts to the other man who’s staring back at me with mesmerizingly intense emerald-green eyes, the color of which I’ve never seen before. His jet-black hair is neatly groomed over the collar of his pressed shirt, and he has a jawline that would have any woman longing to be in his arms. Any woman but me, that is. I’ve succumbed to my widow status at the ripe old age of thirty-two. I have no intention of entertaining the idea of being in another man’s arms, but lord I miss having sex.
His chair screeches across the tile when he stands and excuses himself, and I’m taken off guard when he slowly, with loads of confidence, strides in my direction. I find the way his body moves very sexy, and it stirs my libido.
Moving my head from side to side, I look to see if there is anyone else around me he might be marching toward. When he reaches my table, he stops and gazes at me with a sexy grin. “I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve walked through these doors.” I straighten my spine to feebly match his broad shoulders nearly bursting from his expensive GQ-style suit that probably cost more than my car. A strand of hair falls haphazardly on his forehead, and for some reason, it makes me smile. I stick out my hand. “Noa Sutton,” I introduce myself.
He squints. “Sutton,” he repeats my last name. “Any relationship to the man that used to own this joint?”
My smile fades, and my heart thuds with ache. “He’s my late husband.” I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to that term.
“I’m so sorry.” Instead of shaking my hand, he shoves it deep into his pocket. “I love The Italian Oven. It’s my favorite place to eat in Manhattan. I come here at least once a month, if not more.”
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“Ever Christianson.”
“That’s very unusual.” I grin.
“I get that a lot.” His smile is panty-melting gorgeous. “Have dinner with me.”
“Seems to me you already have a dinner date or two.”
“None as beautiful as you.”
“This seat is taken,” Bruno abruptly interrupts us, crossing his arms over his chest in a protective stance.
Ever’s gaze darts between the two of us, and his teeth dig into his bottom lip. “It was very nice to meet you, Noa,” he says, walking backward.
“What’s got you so hot and bothered?” I touch Bruno’s arm.
“He comes in here once a month with those two men who are no good. I don’t know what they do, but Drake always broke out in a sweat when they would dine here. He’s only been coming with them this past year, but if he’s keeping company with those two, I’d advise you to steer clear.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, but you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not interested. As soon as my sister gets to the point of why I’m here, I’ll be gone.” I glance around him back to the table of men and see the corner of Ever’s mouth lift, then shift his gaze to the older gentleman whose face is scrunched in a scowl, and he’s talking with his hands.
“I know you loved your husband, but you need a life of your own. Holing up in Essex away from the people that love you can’t be good for your soul.”
I reach out and squeeze his hand. “I’m doing just fine.” Fine. I repeat the word in my head. Most days, I’m barely getting by. I haven’t traveled since Drake was murdered other than to leave New York and go back home where I felt safe.
Sipping my wine between bites of stuffed mushrooms, I sweep my gaze around the restaurant, but it keeps landing back on Ever Christianson. He’s wickedly handsome when he smiles at me but equally as menacing when his jaw locks in place, listening to the older man.
Sofia pulls out the adjacent chair and joins me. “This is the first time I’ve gotten to sit down all day.” She sighs and pops a mushroom in her mouth.
“These are as good as I recall.” I lick my fingertips. “Drake’s grandmother sure knew how to cook, and I’m glad she shared her recipes.”
“I remember the blog you wrote about these babies. I was drooling over them just reading about them in the article, but I do recollect you got accused of nepotism over it.”
“Yeah, until I shoved a mushroom into the asshole’s mouth. It shut him right up, and he ordered the appetizer every time he showed his face in here. Her lasagna is to die for too,” I hum.
“You didn’t come here to be a food critic,” she snorts.
“Why am I here?” I tap the rim of my wineglass with my latte-colored fingernails.
“We can wait and discuss it later.” She tries to wave me off.
“Now is as good of a time as any. If we get done soon enough, I could catch the redeye out of town.”
“I’ve missed you so much. Why can’t you just hang around for a few days? I’ll even schedule some time off if you’ll stick around. We could take in a show or two.”
“You know how much this place hurts.” My lip quivers, and I blink back tears before they can spill out.
“Noa,” she says my name softly. “You didn’t die when Drake did, but you act like it. You’ve always been so full of life. I hate seeing you like this. New York didn’t kill your husband. Bad men did.”
“Men that have never paid the price,” I mutter.
“Drake would want you to move on, and so do I.”
“Can you please just tell me why I’m here?”
She huffs and stands. “Alright, follow me.”
We weave our way to the back of the restaurant to what used to be Drake’s old office. He was hardly ever in it because he always wanted his face seen by the clients.
Sofia unlocks a filing cabinet and rubs her forehead. “I don’t know how much you know about the financing of this place, but there’s a large amount of monies due in two weeks.”
