Wrecked (Love Edy Book Three) Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Quote

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Wrecked

  Love Edy Book Three

  Wrecked

  Published by Razor’s Edge

  1st Printing

  Razor’s Edge: trade paperback, Feb 28, 2017 Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved worldwide Copyright © 2014 Shewanda Pugh

  ISBN-10: 0-692-84171-7

  ISBN-13: 978-0-692-84171-6

  Cover art by Regina Wamba

  Th is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book, its contents, and its characters are the sole property of Shewanda Pugh. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without written, express permission from the author. To do so without permission is punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  To illness. For showing me how kickass I really am.

  To Uncle John, for reminding me.

  Love is friendship that has caught fire. It is quiet understanding, mutual confidence, sharing and forgiving. It is loyalty through good and bad times. It settles for less than perfection and makes allowances for human weaknesses.

  -Ann Landers

  Chapter One

  On Hassan’s last day in the city, after all his bags had been packed, and he’d said goodbye to all his friends, his mother laid out a spread fit for a festival. There were samosas out the ass. Butter chicken, kofta curry, palak paneer, dal makhana, fish and lamb curries. All of it laid before Hassan on a table fit to collapse, as his mother sat across from him, watching him attack it. He’d tucked into a bit of fish and shoved a few samosas down before realizing he couldn’t stay away from the butter chicken any longer. While he made a business of eating, she made a business of watching, until she rose and brought him a mango lassi. It made him think of his girlfriend and how she adored that drink.

  “I am glad you are going away to college,” his mother had said in her accented, lilting English. It took on an oddly wistful tone. Hassan fed her a wary look.

  “Yeah?” he said after a moment of awkward silence. He turned to scrubbing a bit of chicken through the delicate sauce his mother always pulled off before speaking again. “Any reason in particular?” He had a feeling that what lay behind those studying green eyes of hers was something more than gratitude at seeing her kid get an education.

  “New experiences,” she said and picked at a dish cloth she’d carried from the sink, going so far as to pull free a few strands, “are teaching tools for us all. And I am determined to remain optimistic.”

  His chicken went down like a brick. The unsaid ‘despite’ of her words hung in the air as smog would: she was determined to remain optimistic despite him giving her every reason not to. That was what she didn’t say, was what stood between them. So, his lips parted, but then his jaw snapped together. He would get out of Boston ‘despite’ the bullshit. He had a new agenda ‘despite’ her efforts, and it didn’t include old dramas.

  Hassan looked down at his food, unsurprised at how undesirable it all looked now. It resembled blood money: her cheap bribe in payment for what was beyond price. Hassan shoved his plate away and sat back.

  Growing up, he’d been told that he looked so much like his mother. He could see it in the eyes, of course, wide pools of green flecked with glittering brass. There was the tone, too, a soft golden that contrasted with his father’s deeper coloring. But Hassan was kidding himself if he thought the similarities between him and his mother ended there. Echoes of his mother made up his face, while the build of his uncles comprised the body.

  Was that where their similarities ended, he and his mother’s? On days like this, when she persisted with the old shit, the dead shit, then yes, that was what he told himself. At the same time, he recognized that same persistence in the gym and on the practice field. He lived by her dogged determination.

  Maybe, if the two of them talked—talked and not screamed—Hassan could get her to see how very much Edy held his heart. She’d want his happiness, after all, right?

  “Mām,” Hassan said tentatively. “You know that Edy has always been my best friend, right?”

  His mom looked at him as if he’d gone cross-eyed. “Lawrence is your best friend.”

  See, this was the crap he was talking about. “You think I’m too dumb to know who I’m closest to?” English now. He was pissed and reverting back to his preference.

  “No, I think you’re too dumb to think with the right head. And she—she is giving you encouragement to think with the other.

  She got to her feet and started snatching plates, half spilling them and not caring.

  “There!” Hassan spat. “Finally, some truth. You think I’m stupid. And you think Edy’s…” He didn’t remember standing, but as he looked down at himself, unwilling to call Edy what she implied, he was obviously on his feet.

  “I say what I mean!” His mother half-heaved a platter of samosas onto the counter, and in doing so, sent at least half a dozen reeling.

  He glared at her. His mom glared back. And at the worst possible moment Hassan realized, that yes, he looked exactly like her. More so than even he realized.

  Hassan sighed. “I’m leaving, Mom. Why can’t you simply support my decisions? Why do you have to have your way all the time? And the way you treat Edy…” Edy didn’t cry about it anymore, but Hassan recognized the wistful look his girl took on anytime she saw his mother. She wanted what they had again.

  “You want a mām who will endorse impulses and fawn over all you have become. I do not forget the old country nor who we are, as you do. I do not forget our obligations to family or our people. You will remember them as well. You’ll have no choice with me as your mother.”

  Hassan sighed. This was going nowhere. “I’ve got packing to do,” he said and bounded up to his room, slammed the door, and locked it.

  She wouldn’t get him down. She wouldn’t steal his final moments at home
or the edgy excitement he had as college finally approached.

  And with college came Edy.

  Hassan drew back his curtains for a glimpse of her through those ridiculous window bars. She had a suitcase on her bed and clothes piled all around. Neat. Orderly. Both things he wouldn’t bother with. He’d shoved clothes in suitcases and duffle bags, fully aware that he required more bags because he wouldn’t fold them. Inspired, Hassan grabbed his phone and shot Edy a text.

  WHAT A SLACKER. STILL PACKING?

  She paused in her work, read his message, and grinned large enough to show teeth in the next house over.

  BALLING UP DIRTY CLOTHES IS HARDLY PACKING, she responded.

  He burst out laughing.

  HEY. THEY’RE CLEAN.

  How did he end up on the offensive in this conversation?

  THE WHOLE BAG DOESN’T GO IN THE WASHING MACHINE, YOU KNOW.

  He rolled his eyes at that one.

  THAT WAS 10 YEARS AGO.

  Her message came quick: FEELS LIKE YESTERDAY.

  He smiled up at her and knew she meant it in more ways than one. A few steps later and she’d closed the space between them as best she could, having traveled over to her windowpane. At the start of their summer, when they’d been locked up in their respective prisons, they’d spend a lot of time sitting on the windowsills text messaging. Sometimes, though, they wouldn’t even bother with that, content in the small space they’d created. He got an idea one day. In his desk were a few dry-erase markers left over from a school project. He grabbed a couple and began doodling, not even sure what he’d create, only knowing he wanted it large enough for her to see. Knowing that Edy had the other half of the markers, he wasn’t surprised when she disappeared and returned with them. When she did, it was to see a half heart with a ragged inner edge. Inside, a stick figure sat on a window ledge. A flicker of emotion stole over her features at that, before she went to work drawing a half heart to match his, with its own stick figure inside.

  They left their doodlings up for the entire summer. The first time Hassan’s father saw what his son had drawn, he swallowed uncomfortably and left without speaking. His mother, on the other hand, glared at it, then peered beyond it, as if knowing Edy’s window would have the other half. When she returned the next day and washed it off, he drew another one before Edy could even wake and notice it was missing. That went on for about a week, before he heard shouting from his parents’ room one night. It caught his attention because they didn’t argue much, and when they did, his mother didn’t raise her voice at his dad. But this argument was pretty intense. Afterward, his mom didn’t spare a glance for the sketch on his window.

  Hassan hung out in his room with the television on ESPN. He texted with Edy here and there about a commentator’s random comment, but he didn’t tell her about the argument with his mom. Ronnie Bean dropped a message about being envious that Hassan was going to Louisiana and that he hoped one day to return home. The north was just too cold for him. Interspersed between the two were Lawrence’s practical texts about dormitory check-in time, meal plans, team correspondence, and what to expect when they got there.

  Downstairs, he heard his father come in. The yelling kicked off immediately: loud Punjabi that made him go for his Beats headphones and eye his pull-up rail. Maybe he could get a hundred in before bedtime. Maybe he could tire himself out and forget that the Pradhans and Phelps were a complete wreck.

  Maybe.

  One hundred and thirty-two. One hundred and thirty-two straight pull-ups before his father banged on the door. There was no mistaking a knock like that. Hassan jumped off the rail and let him in, expecting a fight like the one he’d heard.

  Once again, his father’s gaze traveled over to the window and the half heart and, just beyond it, Edy folding clothes and sliding them in her bag.

  A long while passed with his father watching her. When he looked away, it was to study Hassan with an expression that wasn’t quite clear. Uncertainty? But why?

  “Bētā, there are things I would change for you if I could. I hope you know that,” his dad said.

  Hassan hadn’t until then. Or maybe, he hadn’t believed it.

  “We will travel to Baton Rouge together,” his father said.

  Hassan raised a brow. “Who will?”

  “The Phelps and the Pradhans. We will travel as we should. Your mother has opted not to attend.”

  Hassan rolled his eyes, before reminding himself not to bother. This was progress after all. Even despite the news about his mom, he had a hard time hiding his excitement. This was making headway, right? This was something.

  “Nathan is important to me,” his father said. “As is Edy. We must… mend fences with them.” He stood there for a long time after, the air heavy between them, but it wasn’t awkward. Hassan understood. “Fold those clothes properly,” he said on his way out. “Don’t just throw them in.”

  Chapter Two

  Wyatt woke with a chill on his back and shoulders. He creaked an eye open, then another and the sight of night’s creep into the sky disoriented him as he peered through one massive window pane. The curtains had been swept away and tied. A grubby and fattened pigeon pecked at the bird feeder he’d erected just yesterday. Or had it been the day before?

  “Please,” she said. “The day’s so beautiful. Would you like to go out?”

  As if he could deny that voice. As if he wasn’t halfway up already for that voice. But then disappointment slammed him full on in the chest, jerking him back so that he gawped at a ‘he’ instead of a ‘she.’

  “Mr. Green. Please. Your grandfather requires you at dinner.”

  There was that goddamned manservant who followed him around, à la Downton Abbey-style. He found shit to do like wiping down new Jordans after one wear or assembling a collection of cufflinks to Wyatt’s liking. Not that he’d known what cufflinks were before.

  Wyatt rose, made sure to glare at him, and stepped out onto his private terrace to light a cigarette under the encroaching moonlight. Where had the day gone? He could only faintly care about things, he found.

  His grandfather had nearly developed apoplexy the day he’d returned from California with a half-a-pack a day smoking habit. The old man had sputtered, jowls wiggly in a moment of indignity, before informing Wyatt that if he wished to commit slow suicide on cheap cigarettes then it was his right to do so, but away from the European tapestries.

  “Supper waits, Mr. Green,” Geoffrey prompted, as if he couldn’t leave him alone. And yes, that was his actual name. It was as if his parents meant to prepare him for a life of exceptional service and dignity from birth.

  Yes, Wyatt had actually slept the day away. He preferred it whenever possible. Better that than waking to a gilded cage and empty days.

  Silence ensued, the full kind that meant someone else shared your breathing space and that both of you were waiting for something to happen.

  “Geoffrey—”

  “Sir, your grandfather insists today.” He said it like an apology.

  More silence. It was fine by Wyatt.

  “Sir? A delicate point has arisen that I need to address with you before dinner.”

  There was always a delicate point that needed addressing. On day one it had been the dress code: white button up shirts and long sleeves, jackets preferred at the table. Every day. Every meal. On the first night that Wyatt sat across from his grandfather at a candlelit dinner, he decided there wouldn’t be a second.

  But Granddad had his woolly ways. So, when Wyatt settled for a meal of cigarettes and watching birds drop loads from his new verandah, he got a personal visit from his grandfather.

  He hoped to never get one again.

  He was the tallest old man Wyatt had ever seen. A stupid thought, he knew, as if people collapsed in on themselves with age—but it was always the thought he had. So, when his grandfather had stepped into Wyatt’s bedroom, he stubbed out his cigarette and stood, mouth fumbling with half-formed excuses. Hell, he hadn’t exp
ected to make any at all—he hadn’t expected the old man to care much about his absence. After all, he’d just spent months in a treatment facility. Wyatt hadn’t been at dinner then, either.

  “Wyatt, you haven’t been trained much in the way of social graces living with that oaf, Roland Green. What my daughter learned under my roof, she quickly unlearned under his tutelage. However,” he held up a long, slender finger before Wyatt’s nose, “you are no young lady I can merely cart off to finishing school. We must work with the material we have.” At this, Wyatt’s grandfather twisted his mouth disagreeably. “You are blood and therefore deserve a chance. But make no mistake of it.” He wagged the finger that continued to hang in Wyatt’s face. “Should you find my rules beneath you, I will stop checks and tie you up in court. I will disinherit you as I have my daughter. And it will be far easier for me to disinherit a street kid than my youngest child.”

  Wyatt knew better than to cross his grandfather. But he wasn’t afraid of him. He was just an old man, after all. An old man who had given him several million dollars. Theirs had been a business transaction, an agreement, not a reunion. Wyatt could live with that.

  “I’ll take supper, yeah, but no more of your delicate points,” Wyatt said, returning to the present and his personal assistant. That evening he preferred to be blindsided with whatever his grandfather had in mind. After all, the best that could happen was that Edy Phelps wasn’t downstairs. And the worst that could happen was that Edy Phelps wasn’t downstairs.

  Wyatt took a shower and managed to get a good long whack off to an image that only sort of turned out to be Edy by the end. And who could blame him? God, that girl turned into a real figure eight in the end. If only he’d had all the facts at the start of the race, like, back when his greying underwear dropped onto his ripped-up Converses. What kind of choices would he have made then, if he had known that he’d fall in love, get shot, and get a second-place participation trophy for playing The Love Edy Game? He suspected he’d have made the same dumb moves.