Save Me Read online

  Save Me

  Brisa Starr

  Save Me

  Copyright © 2020 by Brisa Starr.

  ISBN: 978-0-9823722-4-1

  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.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book contains mature themes, strong language, and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers. All characters are 18+ years of age and all sexual acts are consensual.

  Also by Brisa Starr

  Lockdown Love

  Dr. Mitchell didn’t believe in love at first sight. Until he met her.

  His Secret

  If he tells her, he’ll lose her forever.

  COMING SOON

  Sweet as Pie - Coming August 2020

  Fake It (Young Series Book 1) - Coming August 2020

  Contents

  1. Ash

  2. Ash

  3. Luke

  4. Luke

  5. Luke

  6. Ash

  7. Ash

  8. Luke

  9. Ash

  10. Ash

  11. Luke

  12. Luke

  13. Ash

  14. Ash

  15. Luke

  16. Luke

  17. Ash

  18. Luke

  19. Luke

  20. Ash

  21. Luke

  22. Luke

  23. Ash

  24. Luke

  25. Luke

  26. Ash

  27. Luke

  28. Ash

  29. Luke

  30. Ash

  31. Luke

  Epilogue — Ash

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  Ash

  Oh. There he is. I watch him, spellbound, and my heart flutters as it ushers yellow butterflies into my belly. I wondered when he’d be back in town after I heard the news.

  I smile from the living room window of my house. “Damn, he still looks hot,” I mumble. Even though I haven’t seen Luke Firestone in ten years, I’d recognize that gorgeous, sandy-blond hair anywhere, long and shaggy on top like a surfer, and trimmed on the sides and in the back. He’s tall, must be 6'2", and I still like ogling those tree-trunk athletic legs and brick-hard shoulders.

  The yellow butterflies flap their wings more.

  Old habits die hard, I muse. I look at the floor, and I’m standing in the same spot as when I spied on Luke all throughout junior high and high school. I’m covered by the same sheer white curtain, now yellowed with age. Our house shares the same antiquity of the past ten years. Same pansy-blue sofa, same beige throw blanket, same rectangular cherry-wood coffee table.

  I called this spot by the window my I Spy Luke spot. I stood here so much, I wore a hole in the beige carpet of our living room, and Dad had to put a rug on top to cover it up.

  “OH!” I jump back behind my curtain, and my heart rate accelerates, shifting from third gear to sixth in the blink of an eye.

  Shit, did he see me?

  I peek back out.

  His back is to me.

  “Phew!” he didn’t.

  I wipe my brow with a giggle and watch him as he walks his sexy body back to his car with effortless grace. Sensing eyes on me from behind, I turn to see my cat, Honey. She’s watching me. “Don’t look at me like that.” I squint my eyes at her, and she turns around, scampering off to the kitchen.

  It’s been a long time, but Luke still has the same effect on me. Well, maybe a little different, seeing as the last time I saw him, I was only 16. He was 22. Now though? My girlie parts nod in appreciation. Yup. He still makes me warm and tingly.

  He looks better now than he did back then, and he was a heart-breaker in school. He was too old for me then, but that never stopped me from filling journal after journal about him with glitter pens, stickers, and hearts. I fantasized about running my fingers through his sandy blond hair, golden like warm summer wheat, and I imagined him looking at me with his beautiful green eyes, professing words of love. A girl can dream. I chuckle at my former adolescent self. Then I blush, because — ha! — I’m the same now! At least I’ve stopped using binoculars.

  I wonder how long he’ll be in town. I pull the curtain back to get a better view, and he’s getting a duffel bag out of his fancy, white Range Rover. Darn, if that’s all he brought, then he’s leaving soon.

  Then the soft, acrid smell of smoke hits my nostrils — my voyeuristic actions are burning my dinner! Yikes! I back up and turn around, but the sheer curtains I was using for cover catch in my running shoes as I turn. I crash to the ground, pulling the curtains down with me. “Ow! Shit!” I yell as I land on my knees.

  Nice move, Ash. Serves me right. I’m too old for this shit.

  “Are you alright, Ash?” My dad calls from his den where he’s watching TV.

  “Fine! Yup! I’m fine, Dad,” I call back.

  “Damn curtains,” I mutter, disentangling myself from them. I leave them in a heap on the floor as I run to the kitchen and take the pan off the burner. I throw a splash of water in it and stir the liver and onions, dislodging them from becoming a permanent fixture in the pan. Gross. Liver and onions. But Dad loves them, and they’re good for him, so I cook them for him.

  “Dad!” I call out as I turn on the fan over the electric stove. “Dinner will be ready in five minutes. I made your favorite.”

  I walk over and open the window by our ceramic kitchen sink to let out the smoke. Our kitchen is small but cozy, with white cupboards, a beige tile floor, and an avocado-green refrigerator. It could use an update, but I’m afraid that would rob me of the memories I surf when I’m in here.

  “Whadya make tonight?” Dad calls out from his recliner, his favorite place in the entire house. I might have to bury him in it someday.

  “Can’t you smell it?” I holler and scrunch up my face, as I plate the gross meal.

  “All I can tell from the tone of your voice is that you don’t like it. So it must be my favorite! Liver and onions!” He’s just being nice. The only thing I smell is smoke.

  I do a double take. Shit, is his smelling OK?

  Is this another thing to worry about?

  I holler back, “Get out of that damn chair and come get it.” I need to do something about all the time he spends sitting every day. His recliner has a permanent butt print, like I made in the carpet in my I Spy Luke spot. Too much time in one place.

  My dad joins me in the kitchen wearing his favorite olive drab cargo shorts, which he’s had since his teaching days at the local high school. They’re fraying at the edges, but they pair well with his white, thrift store bowling shirt. It looks good on him, though he doesn’t bowl. Maybe that’s it! I purse my lips and ponder the idea. Bowling could be an enjoyable activity for him.

  Come to think of it, he’s had that shirt on for several days.

  “Dad, it’s time to wash that shirt.”

  “I’ll do a load tonight. Put your hamper in the hall and I’ll even do yours, too,” he offers.

  He walks over to the sink to wash his hands. He’s a trim six feet to my average 5'6" height. Dad was always handsome, with sparkling sky-blue eyes and a goatee he’s sported for as long as I can remember, which is now mostly gray.

  Fortunately, I share his great metabolism — I can eat whatever I want, and my weight remains about the same. Unfortunately, he would use it to gorge on brownies till bedtime if I didn’t watch him like a hawk. He
knows he needs to watch his sugar, and it’s a tired discussion.

  “Smells delicious!” he says, his back to me at the sink as he turns off the water. He turns around and dries his hands on a threadbare pink dish towel, then smacks his lips. I smile back at him.

  “Have a seat, and mind your posture, Dad!” I snap in my fierce but loving tone, and he keeps nice and straight as he sits down. Another tired conversation between us — his posture. As a physical therapist, it drives me batty.

  I pile his plate full of the disgusting liver and onions and grab the chicken Caesar salad I made for myself. I add a scoop of salad to Dad’s plate, too. He needs greens.

  “I know, Ash. You don’t have to tell me. Every day. ‘Shoulders back, pecs out,’” he mimics me. He playfully pulls his shoulders back as he sits down, but he exaggerates so much, he almost falls back in his chair.

  “Dad!” I scream and almost drop the plates I’m carrying. “Be careful!”

  “Ash. Relax! Stop being an old hen. You worry about me too much.” He grabs a napkin and tucks it into his shirt collar as a bib. “You’re not allowed to do that so much.”

  “I have to. You’re all I’ve got,” I say, my voice firm. But he’s right. I’m on edge after seeing Luke, no doubt because of why he’s here. It’s a reminder.

  I carry our food to the table. “Hey, Dad, I saw Luke across the street earlier.”

  Honey walks around my legs, reminding me of my tumble in the living room, and that she’s ready for her dinner, too.

  “Who?” My dad asks, and that familiar confusion wrinkles his face as he tries to make sense of what I’m saying. But this time, I’m calm. It’s understandable if he doesn’t remember Luke.

  “Luke, from across the street. He must be here for the funeral.”

  Dad rubs his goatee as he scans his memory.

  To help, I add, “Luke Firestone. It’s been ten years since he’s been here. Do you remember his dad died this week?” I walk to the pantry and get a can of sardines for Honey. It’s her lucky day.

  “I told you about that the other day,” I continue, sitting down at the table. “Mr. Firestone, Luke’s dad, had a heart attack, and so Luke must be here for the funeral.” I take a bite of my salad and luxuriate in the creamy garlicky dressing loaded with extra anchovies. Thank god I don’t have a date later.

  Who am I kidding? A date? I can’t even remember the last time I had one. Apart from the fact that men aren’t lining up at my door, I’m so busy with work and taking care of Dad... who has the time?

  My dad scratches his temple as memories surface through the fog. “Yeah, I think I might remember him. Was he the boy who was really good in soccer?”

  Relieved, I clap my hands. “Yes! Dad! You remember!”

  “He was always outside in his yard kicking a ball around. Wasn’t he usually with another boy though? What was his name?”

  My smile fades. “Yeah. There was another boy, too. His name was Jeremy.”

  I don’t want to delve into that gloomy part of Luke’s past, so I veer the topic a little. “I think we should go to the funeral. It would be nice to give our condolences to the Firestones, especially Luke’s mom and sister.”

  We’ve lived across the street from the Firestones my whole life. And although I don’t see Mrs. Firestone or Maggie, Luke’s sister, much, we sometimes bump into each other in town.

  “That’s a good idea. When is it?” he asks, taking a huge bite of his liver and onions. A lengthy piece of onion dangles from his mouth, and he slurps it up like it’s spaghetti. Ew.

  I stab a piece of chicken with lettuce. “I’m not sure, sometime this week, I expect. I’ll find out.”

  The conversation drifts to updating Dad about my work at the clinic, and the weather, neither of which changes much from day to day in the summer here. I finish my last bite of salad and swipe it through the remnants of my garlic dressing. “Alright, Dad, you’re on dish duty.”

  He moans and throws his head back like a fussy five-year-old.

  “Dad, don’t whine. And scrub them with the green scrubby side of the sponge this time,” I admonish and slug him in the shoulder playfully.

  “Can’t we go out to eat more? You know, where you pay to have that done?”

  “Hilarious, Dad. You know what I think about restaurants. They use canola oil and other crap that’ll…”

  “I know. I know. ‘We need nutritious brain food,’” he says, mimicking me on that, too.

  I’d be annoyed, but it’s a sign he’s remembering things, so I smile instead and relish the momentary relief.

  I get up from the table and head upstairs to take a shower. I look forward to curling up in bed with a book tonight. A relaxing ending to my day. My usual one, too… a no-frills life suits me fine.

  As I climb the stairs, I think about how I need to get my dad moving around more. At our last appointment, his neurologist told us that fighting dementia requires many things, from stress management, to vitamins, to eating a healthy diet, to finding a supportive community, to exercising. The synergy is powerful and can even reverse dementia.

  So, he can’t sit in that damn chair all day. I need to find things he can do, but what? Maybe I should attend that Alzheimer’s support group for caretakers I saw on the bulletin board at the library. I hesitate though. He doesn’t have an official Alzheimer’s diagnosis, and he’s not that bad. Not yet. That’s why I’m determined to do everything I can to reverse his dementia. Like I told him at dinner, he’s all I have.

  I turn on the shower to let it warm up while I take off my pink scrubs. As I step under the water, I sigh with relaxation as it hits my shoulders and runs down my body. My thoughts turn to Luke and my body responds. It tingles. I wonder what kissing him would be like. What would it feel like to have his muscular arms around me? A warm shiver tickles my toes as I close my eyes and think all things Luke.

  I step out of the shower and wrap a fluffy, blue towel around my torso. I brush my teeth and dry off before slipping on my periwinkle silk nightgown, its material cool against my warm skin. My love life might be as dry as the Gobi desert, but I still do girlie things, like get pedicures, read romance novels, and wear sexy lingerie and nightgowns. Even if I am by myself.

  I grab one of my steamy novels and slide into bed, eager to let my mind escape into happily-ever-after hotness. The silkiness of my nightgown slides against the sheets and makes me feel sexy.

  I open my book and think of Luke again. I imagine him as the character in the novel, and I’m the heroine. I chuckle. It’s like I’m still sixteen years old. Which reminds me... I have to fix that curtain, so I can resume my peeping habit.

  I set the alarm on my phone and read in bed until my eyes are too tired to stay open. Within minutes, I fall into a lovely sleep, full of sexy Luke dreams, running my hands through his lovely, rich, golden hair.

  The sunlight streams through my bedroom window and wakes me early. Time to run! I pop out of my comfy bed like a bunny and grab my smartwatch. I throw off my nightgown and put in my ear buds. As Katy Perry sings to me, I leave my bed a mess and pull on my red running shorts and grab a matching tank top. After putting on my socks and sneakers, I hop over to the bathroom and brush my teeth while doing my twenty-five morning squats at the same time. I like to habit-stack, and since I’m just standing there while brushing my teeth, I might as well get in some squats at the same time. Then I head downstairs.

  I love summer in Prescott, Arizona, especially in the morning, before it gets too hot. It’s a great temperature for running, and it makes me feel like a rock star, master of my day, when I get an early start like this. I step onto the front porch and stretch my neck side-to-side, rolling my shoulders, when movement across the street catches my attention.

  Luke!

  My eyes go wide. All I see are beefy arms and chiseled-rock legs. My pulse quickens, and I haven’t even started my run yet.

  Where is he going this early?

  He gets into his car and pulls out of
the driveway.

  Once he’s gone, I do fifteen jumping jacks and start my run. Hm — that was a nice jolt to my system first thing in the morning. I smile.

  The breeze tickles my face, and my feet hit the pavement in a measured tempo. As I start my three-mile run, I go through my mental checklist of things to do today. I hold my smartwatch up to my mouth and say, “Hey Siri, add a reminder to order Dad’s supplements.” Siri confirms my reminder, and I add another one about going to the office supply store for purple highlighters and pink Post-it notes.

  Thirty minutes later, my run winds back to my street, and I notice Luke’s car is still gone. I turn off the app on my watch that I use to time my workout, and I review my running stats while my heart rate slows.

  Then I go into the house and make strong, black coffee. While it’s brewing, I set out the ingredients for Dad’s breakfast, my version of Bulletproof Coffee, and I separate his supplements for today. I set out the laminated, neon green note cards I made for him, showing which dish of pills to take with each meal.

  When the coffee’s done brewing, I pour myself a giant mug and then get out the blender to make Dad’s breakfast. I blend ice with heavy whipping cream, MCT oil, collagen protein powder, and bright yellow turmeric powder for his brain. I transfer the creamy, yellow-brown concoction into a glass mason jar and set it in the fridge until he’s awake.

  I take my brain-energizing java upstairs and get ready for the day. After I shower and blow-dry my long brown hair with blond highlights, I pull it into a ponytail with a black hair tie. I put on mascara and peach blush for my cheeks and lips. Then, I put on my comfortable cotton scrubs — gotta love a job with a comfy uniform. I have an entire rainbow of colors in my closet. My life comprises scrubs, running clothes, and silk nightgowns… and that’s it. Today, I choose magenta pink scrubs.