Nomad: Opposites attract romance, page 1
NOMAD
A SCARRED HEARTS NOVEL
S.M. WEST
CONTENTS
Playlist
1. Nomad
2. Willow
3. Nomad
4. Willow
5. Logan
6. Logan
7. Willow
8. Logan
9. Logan
10. Willow
11. Logan
12. Willow
13. Willow
14. Logan
15. Logan
16. Willow
17. Willow
18. Logan
19. Logan
20. Willow
21. Logan
22. Willow
23. Logan
24. Logan
25. Willow
26. Logan
27. Logan
28. Willow
29. Logan
30. Willow
Epilogue
Also by S.M. West
About the Author
Nomad Copyright © 2022 by SM West
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, storylines, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, locales or any events or occurrences are purely coincidental.
This book is for your personal enjoyment only. Please respect the author’s work by not contributing to piracy and purchasing a copy for those you wish to share it with.
Edited: Happily Editing Anns
Cover Design: Bailey Cover Boutique
Cover Photo: Michelle Lancaster, @lanefotograf
Cover Model: Chase Mattson
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“Love cannot live where there is no trust.”
~ Edith Hamilton
PLAYLIST
Listen On Spotify
“Salvation” – The Strumbellas
“Back in Black” – AC/DC
“Heavy” – The Glorious Sons
“You” – Regard, Troye Sivan, Tate McRae
“Under Pressure” – Queen, David Bowie
“Falling for U” – Peachy!, mxmtoon
“Lean on” – Major Laser, MØ, DJ Snake
“Kiss” – Scout Niblett
NOMAD
Time to hit the road—four weeks in any one dump is too long. I slip my arm in the sleeve of my leather jacket and grab the handle to Roger’s trailer, closing the door behind me.
Click. The lock engages and I jiggle the knob, making sure it’s secure. Once, stupid teenagers helped themselves to my beer and food while I was at work. It took nearly three hours to clean up. Fortunately, the fuckers never got a dime or anything of value.
I don’t leave money out, especially when it isn’t my place, and as for photos or keepsakes…I don’t believe in that shit. It’s wasted space both in the world and inside your head.
At barely seven in the morning, the sun shines hot and buttery in the cloudless sky, but it’s already muggy, the air thick and heavy. I remove the padlock on the run-down shed. A slow smile coasts across my face, grateful the roof’s done on the house I’m assigned to build. At least inside, I’ll have shade and some relief from the scorching rays.
My phone rings, and I slide it from my pocket. Sometimes Gene calls—my friend and temporary boss—needing me to make a stop on the way to the site. I've been working with his construction company for the past several weeks since Roger hooked me up with the job.
Only, it isn’t Gene. It’s a four one six area code. Toronto. Shit. The city is my home and the last place I want to be, not with Clive getting out any day now.
Reluctantly, I answer, then wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear before I reach for the handlebars on my Harley. “Hello.”
A young woman replies, voice wavering. “Good morning. May I please speak to Mr. Cates?”
Mr. Cates? I don’t get that too often. Is she a telemarketer? Or one of those scams saying I owe taxes and better pay up before the police come for me.
I knock the kickstand into place with my boot, then turn back to the shed as my shoulders relax. Amusement more than annoyance settles in as I ready to laugh in her face before hanging up. “This is Logan.”
“Mr. Cates, it’s Meredith Lee with Maple Condominium Services. We’re calling about an incident that happened last night. Um…you may already be aware—”
I freeze, fingers grasping the padlock. “What are you talking about?”
“Um, Mr. Cates—”
“What happened?”
“Uh, someone set your loft on fire.”
“Jesus Christ. Did anyone get hurt?” My muscles tense, and each breath is a stab to my chest. The young couple from Minnesota spring to mind. “The Horvaths. Are they okay?”
When I’m away from home, I rent out my loft through an online vacation property app. The extra cash helps pay the bills and upkeep. For nearly two weeks, the Horvaths have been staying at my place.
“They’re fine. Thank goodness. They couldn’t get out of the unit but managed to get to the balcony, and the fire department got here fast.” She sounds professional though the slight tremble in her voice suggests she’s never had to deal with something like this before. “As per our insurance policy, they’re at a hotel for the next day or so, but that won’t be indefinite.”
Air rushes into my lungs, and relief loosens my limbs. “Holy…”
I pinch the thick gold band on my right hand, spinning the ring round and round, mirroring the questions of liability circling my mind. Who’s responsible for this?
“Was anyone else hurt?”
“No. No. But there’s significant damage to your loft and the hallway. We need to speak with you in greater detail about next steps as soon as possible. I understand that this hour may not be convenient, but I would like to arrange a time for a call with you and our management team today.”
“Um…” I scan Roger’s small, neglected yard and the peeling paint on the mobile home, far away from the fire and mess.
I’ve got to get to work and speak to my insurance company before any call. Do I need a lawyer? They could deal with this for me.
“Mr. Cates?” Her agitated voice draws me from the fog of questions and things I have to do. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah. I’m out of town right now, and I’ll have to move things around. Can I text you at this number?”
“Uh, I suppose.” She’s hesitant, and my guess is her employer wants me to pick up most, if not all, of the repair costs.
I need more information before I have that conversation, and I must make sure the Horvaths are okay. Something else niggles at me, an undercurrent of anxiety.
Why my loft? Was this random vandalism? I don’t like the timing. Not with Clive breathing down my neck.
“Meredith, do you know who did this? Did you get anything from the security cameras? Have you had similar incidents before?” I press my lips together, tempering the urge to unload all my questions at once.
“Nothing like this has ever happened before.” She’s defensive as if fearing I’m looking to shift blame. “And as for the investigation, you’ll have to talk to the police. I’ll text you the contact details.”
The cops? I don’t want to talk to them if I don’t have to.
“Mr. Cates, we can’t stress enough how important it is for us to do this today.”
“Understood.” I can already imagine the paperwork they’ll have me fill out to cover their asses.
The same goes for my insurance company, and on top of this, I’ll have bigger problems if this wasn’t random.
“I’ll text you shortly with possible times we can talk.”
“Mr. Ca—” I cut her off, ending the call.
Right now, I have no more to say. I check my phone and notice several missed calls from during the night. I switch off my phone while I sleep. It makes for a stress-free night, but in a case like this, it was a bad decision.
I have three missed calls from the Horvaths, one from another Toronto number I don’t recognize, and of course, voicemails. Acid burns my gut as I play the messages.
After a staticky beep, Mr. Horvath's frantic voice crosses the line. “Logan, it's James Horvath. Something...happened. I need you to call me back.”
Another beep, another message from him. “Logan, where are you? Someone set fire to your place with us inside. Call me back now!”
The third message is more of the same, with him growing increasingly agitated and a woman violently sobbing in the background. His wife, most likely. Her gut-wrenching wails send a shiver down my spine.
I swallow hard against the bile rising in my throat, then move on to the next message. A woman.
“Mr. Cates, this is Detective Cordon with the Toronto Police Department.”
The bottom falls out of my stomach. I have to talk to the cops.
“Please call me back at your earliest convenience to discuss the arson of your loft. You can reach me at...” She rattles off her number, but I've stopped listening.
Fuck me. Arson.
I don’t like any of this. I left because of Clive’s threats. Could this be related?
Dread bands my chest, the sensation reminiscent of when I left Toronto. In those early days, Willow, Kit, Nick, and Caro kept calling and texting. Where was I? Did I leave the city? And if so, why didn’t I say goodbye?
Eventually, I turned my phone off.
Nick and Kit, my best friends, knew better than to expect a goodbye. Caro, Nick’s younger sister and in some ways, mine too, should have as well. But no matter how many times I bail without notice, she still demands an explanation.
Then there’s Willow…I miss her. She deserves better than what I did to her.
Against my better judgement, I have to go home. I quickly text Roger.
Me: Something came up. Heading north. Trailer's locked.
Roger and I go way back. When he isn’t working, he’s one of a few guys I hit the road with, touring the US on our bikes. Right now, he’s on an oil rig somewhere and was more than grateful to have someone looking out for his place.
But I don’t commit. My plans can change at a moment’s notice. Roger knows this and so does Gene, who gets my next text.
Me: I’m hitting the road but will swing by the site to grab my last paycheck.
I mount the bike and remove my helmet from the handlebar when my phone vibrates with a text.
Unknown: This is a message from C. Are things hot enough for you? Do I have your attention now? Don’t ignore me, Logan. This is what happens when you do and things will only get hotter if you don’t cooperate. For both you AND your friends. I’ll contact you this morning, accept the call.
No doubt now, Clive’s responsible for the loft fire. Dammit.
With the phone in my jacket and helmet on, I ride to the construction site where Gene, an older man who reminds me of Ed Asner, waits for me outside the site office.
Always one to get to the point, he hands me my paycheck, and we shake hands. “Sad to see you go, but if you’re ever back this way and looking for work, just say the word.”
“Thanks.” I slide the check into my jacket pocket and hand Gene the trailer keys. “Please give these to Roger.”
“Will do. Safe ride.”
I saunter back to my bike, eager to drive north but first things first, Clive. No way I want to take a call on the side of a highway, so I drive to a nearby diner to wait.
“Table for one?” The middle-aged hostess barely cracks a smile.
“Yeah.” I follow her to a booth, and she hands me a menu.
“Your server will be right over.” She’s gone before I can shrug out of my jacket.
I place my phone on the table and run a hand through my wind-blown hair. Clive’s call will most probably be like all the others, and at the thought, I’m already weary and frustrated. I hadn’t seen or heard from him in years until his call seven months ago.
“Uncle Clive.” My tone is cold, and regret at accepting the collect call seeps into my bones. “How's your extra two years treating you? Imagine, you could have been free by now.”
Yeah, I’m baiting him, but my mother never trusted him, and he’s a bully. I want him to know nothing’s changed. I still don’t like him.
His bark of laughter is neither amused nor cool. “That pansy-ass fucker deserved it for calling me out the way he did for the armed robbery.” I can picture the ugly glee on his face at almost killing another inmate. “The added time was worth it.”
“Clive, what do you want?”
“Mo’s locket. It’s important. Bring it to me.”
“What?” Dread festers inside me.
My mother gave the necklace to me on her deathbed and stressed never to give it to her brother. What does he want with it?
“You have it.” He talks slowly like I’m unable to understand otherwise. “I want it.”
“I don’t.” I’m not giving him the locket. I deliberately hid it away and haven’t seen it in years, though I know where it is.
“Yes, you do. Don’t fucking lie to me. Gary told me you have it.”
“He’s nothing but a fuckup, and if I were you, I wouldn’t believe anything he has to say.” I fail to hide my disgust for my father.
“Easy, boy. He ain’t so bad. I ran into him a year ago. The poor schmuck thinks he was a shit father but said you’d be okay because you had the locket.”
He is a shit father; his incarceration is proof of that. Those two losers are the only family I have left. Family, yeah right, if you can call them that.
Desperate to get rid of him, I lie. “I, uh, I lost it.”
His voice drops, now more ominous. “Don’t lie to me.”
“Back off,” I snarl, fists clenched. “I was only ten years old. Cancer robbed me of my mom, and some stupid locket wasn’t any kind of substitute.”
I beat back my anguish, mouth mashed closed as I cringe at how I allowed him a glimpse at how the loss of her still haunts me. Always will.
“Motherfucker. Find it. I’ll be in touch.”
A thirty-something woman with Vera on her name tag nears the table, cutting into my thoughts. “What can I get you, hon?” In a lemon-yellow restaurant uniform, she’s ready to take my order, pencil and pad in hand.
“Uh, I’ll, um, have a coffee, black, steak and eggs.” I close the menu, handing it to her. “Medium rare.”
“I’ll be right back with the coffee.” She shoves the note pad into her apron.
Vera walks away, and my mind goes to the storage facility I visited after Clive’s first call. It’s where I store stuff I don’t like to think about. The necklace was in a box and had been since my mother’s funeral.
A mug of coffee appears in front of me, and I dip my chin in appreciation. The waitress smiles and moves on as if sensing I want to be alone.
The locket held a picture of my parents on their wedding day, and my chest clenches at the image of Mom in a simple white dress. No lace or sequins but no less beautiful. And Dad in the only suit he owned. They were happy. In love.
I tighten my grip on the cup, still wishing for things I can’t have. My mother alive. My parents in love. My father sober.
Behind the wedding picture I found a set of twelve digits engraved on the silver. I’d never bothered to look at the locket before or even consider my mother’s final words to me.
Mom’s bony hand presses something into my outstretched palm. “Logan, baby, take this.”
I gulp back my fear, not at my mother but at death. Death has a wretched smell, a chilling presence, and it’s here in the room with us, wrapping itself around her frail frame, lying in the hospital bed.
“Keep it safe. This is for your future.” She curls an arm around my shoulder, and I quiver at her comfort, never wanting her to let me go. “The locket is important. Inside…a message…your father will show you. And whatever you do, don’t tell Uncle Clive I gave you the locket.” She shudders, sweat beading on her forehead. “He can never have it. Do you understand me?”
Are the numbers the message? Does my father know their meaning? Fuck that.
He’s never said a word to me about the locket, and I never want to see him again. He should have died with my mother.
My meal arrives, and Vera utters something cheerful, but I’m too deep in the darkness of my memories to mutter anything more than thanks. I pick up my knife and fork and eat without tasting the food.
