The Stillness Of You Read online

  THE STILLNESS OF YOU

  By Julie Bale

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2013 Julie Bale

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 9780988138544

  Cover art and design by Patricia Schmitt/Pickyme

  Copy editing by Rachel D’Amario

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in encouraging piracy of copyrighted materials in violation with the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For permission to use any part of the material in this book, contact me here:

  [email protected]

  Before

  No one expects to meet the person who will change your life on a Wednesday. Maybe a Friday or a Saturday, but not the one that’s halfway between work and freedom.

  No one expects it, but it does happen. It happened to me and he didn’t just change my life, he saved it.

  Chapter One

  Georgia

  Ben Lancaster walked into my life with no warning, just after three o’clock on a sunny afternoon. He’s lucky it happened in Old City, Philadelphia and not somewhere in Texas, because in Texas people have been shot for a lot less.

  In Texas you don’t just walk into someone’s house unannounced expecting a smile or a handshake. I know this because one of the guys at Oak Run, a hospital I’d stayed at, told me his uncle was in a federal penitentiary for doing just that. Some homeless man wandered into his house and the uncle blew him away with a shotgun.

  But on that particular afternoon I was standing in the corner of my brother’s loft, there where the lighting was perfect, staring at a blank canvas in front of me. To say I was having issues was an understatement, and the fact that I had been staring at the damn thing for nearly twenty minutes could have accounted for my late reflexes, because I didn’t hear him walk in. I didn’t hear anything until he spoke.

  “Hey, sorry to bother you but is Matt here? I was supposed to hook up with him.”

  His voice was low, hitting a timber that no guy had a right to hit. Especially when he’s standing in the middle of my brother’s loft and I’m looking back at him wearing nothing but my white boy briefs and a threadbare white tank top with no bra. The fact that he could probably see my nipples through the tank top didn’t bother me so much. It was more the idea that he had been staring at my ass before I turned around and let’s face it, half of my butt was hanging out.

  Sue me, but hey, I wasn’t expecting company.

  I think most normal girls would have screamed, but since I’d spent six months in the aforementioned Oak Run, I was used to strangers and besides, when you’ve stared into the belly of a monster not much scares you. But still, his surprised dark eyes settled on me and even more surprising, a curling heat pressed low in my belly.

  He wasn’t like any of the inmates at Oak Run. Hell the fuck no. He was leagues above them.

  I grabbed my robe from the floor where I’d flung it nearly half an hour earlier and shrugged into it, trying my best to act like it was no big deal to be caught in my gitch by some hot, random guy.

  “Who the hell are you?” The words shot out of my mouth as I stared across the open space. “Haven’t you heard you of a doorbell?”

  Oh. Right. The doorbell wasn’t working.

  “I’m sorry, the doorbell wasn’t…”

  “I know,” I interrupted rudely.

  His voice trailed off and silence fell between us as a smile gently lifted his mouth. “Matt told me to swing by and I just figured he would be here alone.” He shrugged and winked. “Though I did knock.”

  “You knocked.” Unbelievable. What the hell. Had I doubled up on my meds this morning? Taken klonopin instead of lithium? My eyebrow shot up. “And how did you make it past the doorman?”

  His smile widened and dimples appeared. Adorable dimples. Hot effing dimples. “Autograph?”

  Who the hell was he? I sure as hell didn’t need a name to answer that question.

  He was at least six foot four, with wide shoulders and an impressive chest that his black T-shirt did nothing to hide. Foo Fighters spread across his pectorals in white, and a wide, weathered leather belt didn’t do much to hold up the pair of worn and equally weathered jeans that covered his long legs. It was hot as sin out there but he wore boots, Docs by the look of it.

  He had thick dark hair the color of fresh espresso that was long, just touching the tops of his shoulders. It waved across his forehead and over slid over his ears. It was kind of messy, but it was the kind of messy look that a lot of guys spent a good amount of time trying to achieve. I somehow doubted this one wasted money on products or time in front of the mirror. He was too self-assured. It fell off him in invisible waves.

  His eyes were as dark as his brows, his chin and cheekbones strong and shadowed with stubble. His mouth had a sensual curve to it, one that should have looked out of place on such a masculine guy, but somehow it didn’t.

  I was guessing he was a few years older than my twenty, so I pegged him at maybe twenty-four?

  So, who was he? He could have been a model or an actor. He was that good looking.

  But he wasn’t. He was a guy who was seriously hot—and a hockey player for sure—probably one of my brother Matt’s newest acquisitions. And though there was something about him that was familiar, at the moment I couldn’t place it.

  “Let me guess,” I said carefully, studying him some more. The guy was muscular, but it was more of a lean and fast kind of strong. He wasn’t built like an enforcer. He was built for speed and scoring. “You’re a forward. I’m calling center.”

  “You’re good,” he answered, that hint of a smile still lingering. Along with the dimples.

  He was a seriously hot hockey player staring at the dip in my loosely belted robe, because his eyes definitely weren’t fixed on mine anymore.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Sorry, I…” He ran his hands through his hair and dragged his gaze up to my face, his ever growing smile showing off even white teeth. “This is Matt’s place, right?” He didn’t look sorry at all.

  I nodded. “He’s at work.”

  “Shit,” he murmured. “I’m sure he told me he was on vacation this week and to swing by as soon as I got into town.”

  “Technically he is on vacation, but he was called into the office because someone fucked up.”

  His words, not mine.

  Mr. Seriously Hot didn’t bat an eye at my F bomb. “Do you mind if I wait?”

  Irritated, I frowned. I needed to sketch. He didn’t understand that of course, but already the nerves inside me, the ones that hopped and jumped whenever they felt like it, were pulling something fierce. He was going to make things worse if he stayed.

  “Who are you exactly?” I asked again, crossing my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling more than a little vulnerable. I was in my underwear and a robe, and even though any one of my bikini’s showed a hell of a lot more that what I was currently wearing, it was still my underwear.

  Matt would be pissed if he walked in right now. It was almost like déjà vu, except I didn’t want to go back to where I’d been before. To the girl who was way too free and easy with her charms. The one who’d made a habit out of screwing several of his hockey players, more musicians than I could count, golfers, college guys—I wasn’t really fussy, and that had been my big
gest problem of all.

  No, I didn’t want to think about that. Not today. Not with Mr. Seriously Hot staring at me in my bathrobe.

  “Sorry,” he said quickly and moved toward me though he stopped when I took a step back. “I’m Ben Lancaster.”

  Ben Lancaster? Holy hell. The newest superstar to come out of Canada. I vaguely remember Matt saying something about a trade and that the Flyers had acquired him. I would have to have been living under a rock not to have heard the chatter about this guy, and let’s face it, I was as into hockey as my brother. I loved everything about the game and I knew his story. He’d been the youngest draft pick ever and though he could have been the youngest player to wear an NHL jersey, he’d shocked pretty much everyone by deciding to go to college first and get his education, before diving into the NHL.

  He had some serious skills and a lot of people, including my brother who was an assistant coach for the Flyers, felt he was the real deal – the future of their franchise.

  “And you’re here because…”

  “I’ve just signed with the Flyers and Matt offered to put me up until I can figure things out.” He shrugged. “Find a place of my own.”

  “Oh,” I managed to say. I wondered why Matt hadn’t told me Ben Lancaster would be staying with us, but then again he’d been pretty stressed lately. My situation was part of it, his nearly non-existent girlfriend was another part, and well, being the youngest coach on staff was stressful too.

  “You’re staying here,” I repeated like an idiot.

  Mr. Seriously Hot nodded but remained silent, though his dark eyes did a sweep again, falling away from my face and heading south.

  “Okay, then.”

  My voice brought him back to me and for one perfect moment when our eyes met, I felt his energy. It slid across the room and enveloped me whole. It set off all kinds of things inside me and for the first time in a long time, something stirred. Something hot. Something wicked and sensual.

  It was that something hot and wicked that scared me because guys like Ben Lancaster were off limits for me. First off, my brother would kill me if I ever got mixed up with one of his players again, and after everything I’d been through in the last six months, Matt was my anchor. I couldn’t screw up. Not again.

  And secondly? It would be tragic for me to ruin someone like Ben Lancaster, and that’s pretty much what I did. I ruined things. I ruined people.

  I was my mother’s daughter through and through.

  I was the girl no one should bring home to their parents. The hot mess every guy’s mom warned them about, and even though I was technically in treatment and on the mend, I knew the fire was still there. The hot fire currently buried beneath layers of medication. Sometimes when the noise got to be too much, I felt it pulling at me desperately, not content to rest.

  And it was so hard to push it back down. To bury it beneath the scars under my skin because sometimes it was the only thing that made me feel alive.

  But I did. I did it for my brother, Matt. I did it for my therapist, Seamus. And I suppose on some level I even did it for myself.

  I was all of that and more.

  And Ben Lancaster was off limits.

  “Okay,” I said again as I set my tools back onto the easel. “I’d better get dressed.”

  Chapter Two

  Georgia

  My cell phone buzzed and I glanced down. There was a text from Matt. ‘Shit, I’m sorry I forgot. Home in fifteen.’

  He would be at least another half an hour, if not longer. I was betting on the longer, because it was too close to rush hour and everyone and their freaking mother would be heading somewhere with the Fourth of July two days away.

  I glanced in the mirror and tucked a long strand of inky black hair behind my ear. Unlike my older brother Matt, who’d inherited our mother’s coloring, I was more like my dad. My hair was dark, my eyes a super light greenish-bluish color that some people found freaky, and my skin was pale. I was winter while Matt with his warm blue eyes and blond hair was summer, and go figure, summer was the one thing I always wanted to be.

  For a moment the picture of me in the mirror blurred.

  I have a vivid memory of my mother brushing out her long, blond hair, the strokes even and precise. It’s one I usually keep locked away but sometimes, I open that box, the one loaded down with memories, and I sit back and remember.

  In my mind she sits at her vanity, hidden inside the large walk-in closet of our million dollar Cherry Hill home, and stares at herself in the mirror, her delicate hands holding the large brush. She would start at the top of her head near the crown and pull the brush down slowly, once, twice, and then a third time before she would move on to the next piece.

  She would sit there for long periods of time and I, as a little girl, would bring my dolls into the closet and watch her until I got bored. I’d play with my dolls, sometimes for hours, while she stared at herself and brushed her hair.

  Sometimes she would cry and sometimes she would sing. Sometimes she would say nothing at all, not even when the shadows crept in from her bedroom. Matt never came into our secret room, it was always just me and Mom. On those nights my dad would come home from work, his eyes tired, and his smile sad. He’d pull me from her side and take me downstairs to eat.

  Not even then would she say a word.

  Funny the things you remember.

  With a sigh I tossed my cell back onto the dresser and decided I couldn’t hide in my room any longer.

  Ben was standing in front of the floor to ceiling windows that ran the length of my brother’s loft, gazing down onto the street below. My brother’s place was in the heart of Old City and everything we needed was within walking distance. Shops, pubs, parks. It was beautiful and trendy. It was everything a guy like Ben Lancaster would be looking for and I’m sure he would end up buying some swanky bachelor pad. They all did.

  I noticed a large duffel bag near the door, along with a knapsack and a soft shell computer case. He turned around, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans.

  “Hey,” he said softly. “I didn’t get your name.”

  “Georgia,” I answered.

  “Georgia.”

  I nodded. It was a summer name ironically.

  “Yep. As in the peach. As in the state. As in my mom must have been on drugs when I was born because Georgia is just…”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Is just?”

  I shrugged. “Not me.”

  He nodded toward the canvases propped along the wall to his right. Unlike the one on the easel, these ones weren’t empty. They were filled with dark images, open mouths and wide eyes. They were good, but they weren’t for the faint of heart.

  “Those yours?”

  I nodded.

  “So is that what you do? You’re an artist?”

  I wasn’t about to tell Ben Lancaster that I wasn’t much of anything. Art was just something I did to fill in the holes that blanketed my life like shrapnel. Sometimes it worked but other times I was left leaking all over place. An injured soul back from some war that no one would ever understand unless you’ve been there.

  “It’s just a hobby.”

  “A hobby,” he repeated, his dark eyes never leaving mine. “It looks like more than a hobby to me. You’re really good.”

  I moved away because the guy was too intense. Too fucking intense.

  “Matt sent me a text. He’ll be home soon.”

  “Good.” He paused. “So, are you a hockey fan?”

  “It’s kind of hard not to be.” I was a big fan of the game and there had been a time when I had been a big fan of several of the hockey players—they were always around. Again, not information I was willing to share.

  Silence fell into the loft and for a few seconds it was an uncomfortable silence, broken by a cleared throat—me—and a shifting of feet—Ben.

  A few heartbeats passed and then the door flew open, thank God.

  My brother Matt strolled into the loft, a wide grin o
n his face when he spied Ben across the room. “Lancaster,” he said. “Man, I’m sorry. Totally slipped my mind that you’d be hanging here for a few days until you get settled.”

  I watched as they greeted each other and it was obvious they had more than a passing acquaintance. Not surprising, at thirty-two, Matt was one of the youngest coaches in the league and he knew a lot of players from when he’d started out as a scout.

  There was the shaking of hands, the slaps on the back and the general ‘guy-greeting’ I’d seen a million times before. It was like they wanted to hug each other silly, but it didn’t pass the ‘guy code,’ so the shaking and slapping sufficed.

  Matt glanced back at me, his smile in place, but I saw the worry in his eyes. I’d been living with him for three months now and I hadn’t spent much time with anyone other than him and my therapist, Seamus. I had certainly steered clear of anyone male and hot.

  Now, I’m sure if our houseguest was the little old lady on the first floor—the one who hoarded magazines like they were gold—he wouldn’t think twice. But this was a guy. This was a hot guy. And this was a hot guy who happened to be one of the brightest hockey players in the league.

  I saw the worry in Matt’s eyes and he had every right to be. I’d done a lot of stupid things in the last few years but I was better now. He knew I was better. They’d figured things out. I was taking my meds and my life was a bowl of sunshine and roses.

  Okay, that was a huge exaggeration. I was a twenty year old orphaned, college dropout, who had spent six months in what everyone liked to call a hospital, but what was in fact, a fancy, expensive mental institution. I’d been poked, prodded, observed and had been analyzed and talked to death. I’d been diagnosed.

  I’d done my therapy, I’d taken my meds like a good girl and now I was out.

  So, yeah, it wasn’t sunshine and roses but I wasn’t locked up. I wasn’t looking at life through a cloud of confusion and so what if sometimes things felt fuzzy. So what if fuzzy was only marginally better than the dark, chaotic mess I’d been before.