Back To The Start Box Set: Five Full-Length Novels by Aly Martinez
Though, in the blink of an eye, that would change.
Along with my entire life.
“Oh fuck,” I breathed as the main house came into view on the top of the hill.
After throwing my car in park, I jumped on the radio at my shoulder. I could barely get the words out as I slung my door open and took off at a dead sprint.
“This is Officer Levitt! I need fire support at Park Hill immediately!”
And then I froze as a wave of adrenaline crashed into me like a tsunami.
An inferno roared in the night sky, but it was the small silhouette of a woman perched outside a third-floor window, smoke pouring out all around her, that knocked the breath out of me. My heart stopped, but my feet continued to pound against the pavement.
Jocelyn’s voice caught me. “What’s going on?”
“I need medical too!” I barked as I got closer. “The whole damn place is in flames and there’s a woman trapped!”
The woman’s long, black hair blew out behind her like a battered flag whipping in a storm. I couldn’t make out her face or her skin color or even guess at her age for the black soot covering her, but her fear was unmistakable.
And unforgettable.
“Hang on!” I yelled up to her.
“Oh my God!” she screamed before it turned into a fit of coughing. “Help me!”
“Hang on! Don’t let go!”
Frantically, I searched the perimeter for a way in, but it wasn’t only her house that was on fire. Flames were encompassing her. The yard and all the surrounding flowerbeds. Top to bottom. The first and second floors were completely engulfed, and if the sound of shattering windows was any indication, it was quickly making its way up to the third floor—to her.
“No! Don’t leave me!” she screamed, panic thick in her garbled voice, as I started around the side of the house.
A wall of heat stopped me in my tracks. Throwing an arm up, I did my best to block my face while scanning the building for any possible entry—or, in her case, exit.
But there wasn’t a surface of that house that wasn’t ablaze.
Except the roof.
Son of a bitch.
I spoke into the radio. “I need an ETA on fire.”
Jocelyn replied, “They’re on their way. Five minutes out.”
I didn’t have one minute, much less five.
Fuck.
My pulse quickened, sending blood thundering in my ears. I was a cop. I’d trained for chaos. I should have been able to come up with a solution for a situation like this, but they didn’t teach you how to conquer the impossible at the Academy.
And, as I took inventory of the flames dancing beneath her, I knew that was exactly what I was up against.
My gut wrenched as I helplessly sped back around the house. She appeared almost childlike, hovering barefoot on that narrow brick ledge, but her long-sleeve top and her loose-fitting pants clung to the body of a woman.
Jesus Christ! Where was that fucking fire truck?
“Is anyone else in the house?” I yelled up to her.
Not that I could have helped them, either. Short of running into a burning building, on what would surely be a suicide mission, there was not one thing I could do. And didn’t that little reality feel like a wrecking ball to the chest.
“No!” she cried, a loud sob lodging in her throat. It turned into more coughing, her body shaking violently with every heave.
I fisted my hands at my sides as my anxiety spiraled higher.
“Please. Do something!” she begged.
I ground my teeth together and once again glanced around as if a water hose and a ladder were going to suddenly appear out of nowhere. “Hang tight, okay? Fire trucks are on their way.”
“I can’t hold on much longer!” she cried.
“Yes, you can,” I demanded.
“I…I think I need to jump,” she coughed out.
I assessed the massive fire below her. I’d never be able to reach her before it swallowed her. But there was no way I’d be able to stand by and watch her burn.
No. If she jumped off that ledge, she was going to get us both killed.
“Don’t you dare,” I barked. “Don’t even think about it. Two minutes. They’ll be here.”
“I…I can’t.”
“Two minutes,” I repeated. “Hold—”
Suddenly, a window to her left exploded, shooting glass and flames in all directions.
I covered my face as she screamed in a paralyzing mixture of fear and agony. It cut me so deep that I knew I’d bear the scars for the rest of my life, and that had nothing to do with the glass and everything to do with the heavy weight of my failure already lingering in the smoke-filled air.
When I opened my eyes again, I caught a glimpse of orange flickering in the window behind her. Panic built in my chest.
“You need to move!” I yelled.
She shook her head and continued to cough and cry.
But it wasn’t an option. I couldn’t help her. Though I damn sure refused to watch her die.
“Please. Just listen to me.” I swallowed hard. “You can’t stay there.” I looked to the roof.
Sending her higher seemed wrong and went against everything I’d learned in my limited fire training. But fuck, my options were having her jump into a conflagration or scale up the side of a building in hopes of buying us the precious minutes needed for the fire department to arrive.
Drawing in a smoke-filled breath, I made a decision that would haunt me for the rest of my life. “You need to climb up to the roof.”
“I can’t!” she shrieked.
My stomach twisted, but I gentled my voice. “Look, I know you’re scared. But I’m right here. I’ll help guide you up, but, sweetheart, it’s bearing down on you. You gotta move, and I mean now.”
She choked on a mouthful of smoke as she attempted to look over her shoulder.
“You’re going to be fine. I swear to you,” I lied. “But you have to move.”
“I’m not going to make it!” She had to have yelled it in order for me to hear her, but her defeat slither over my skin like a whispered goodbye.
I took a long step forward, too focused on her to feel the heat singeing my skin. “Yes, you are!” I declared. “Move your ass up to the roof and we’ll both be out of here in time for breakfast.”
Her gaze landed on mine, tears forging paths down her soot-covered cheeks, her disbelief obvious even from yards away. “Are you sure?”
It was a ridiculous question. It wasn’t like I could make any guarantees. It was fire, for God’s sake. But that didn’t stop me from covering my heart with my palm and vowing, “I swear on my life you’re going to make it through this.”
Her hesitation was evident, but with one last sob, she inched her small body farther out onto the narrow ledge, reaching the tips of her shaking fingers out for the windowsill above her.
“Good girl,” I praised, a fraction of relief washing over me.
And then I sucked in a sharp breath as one of her shaking legs slipped out from under her.
“No!” I yelled.
On instinct, I rushed toward the flames, my arms stretched out in the air as though I could catch her.
A scalding heat blistered my face and forced me to stop, but the real pain was in my chest. I watched in horror for what felt like a lifetime as she fought to right herself, her dainty arms flailing like a wounded butterfly frantically trying to catch the wind.
But there was none to be found.
My heart lurched into my throat, and my breath seized in my lungs.
And then a deep, guttural sound tore through me, shredding me from the inside out, as I watched her fall.
I woke up in a cold sweat. It wasn’t exactly something new. I’d been dreaming of Butterfly for over four years. She always flew directly into the flames, screaming as I stood helpless to save her.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I cradled my head in my hands and tried to pretend I was
The distance while I was living in LA had helped. But, in the week since I’d been back in Illinois, I’d woken up every morning at that blazing house. I didn’t even have to be asleep for the memories to assault me.
I should have gone back to sleep. It was my first day at my new job, and the last thing I needed was to show up haggard and sleep-deprived. But, as I’d learned over the years, another fiery butterfly awaited me on the other side of REM. No way I was volunteering for that.
I pushed myself off the bed and tugged a T-shirt on, preparing to head down to the hotel gym with hopes that I could outrun the mental fog that had been hovering over me since I’d returned. There was a reason I’d thrown all of my shit in my car and driven as far as I could all those years ago.
Yet, somehow, I’d come full circle.
But I’d come back a different man.
At least that’s what I’d told myself as the deafening roar of doubt had overwhelmed me the moment I’d driven across the state line.
Regardless, it had been time to go home.
I’d been gone too long.
Or, as I’d decided as I’d passed the exit to Park County, not nearly long enough.
Chapter One
Rhion
I’d spent the morning pacing my apartment. With over four thousand square feet at my disposal, I’d definitely get my steps in for the day. But exercise wasn’t why I was wearing a path on the mahogany.
I was stuck and beginning to go stir-crazy.
I’d started another trip past my king-size bed when I abruptly stopped. “What the hell?” I breathed, leaning in close to the full-length mirror I’d finished antiquing a few weeks earlier. “No fucking way.”
Oh, but there was no way to deny it. There it was, in all of its wiry, gray glory, sticking straight up off the top of my head. The damn thing had to have been at least three inches long.
“Why!” I cried at my reflection.
I had another four years until I hit the dreaded milestone of thirty. That was when gray hairs were allowed to pop up. Not a minute sooner. Choosing to ignore the old wives’ tale, I plucked the bastard from my head. I definitely needed to call my stylist to come fix me up. On top of nature’s newest silver highlights, the teal on the tips of my long blond hair was growing dull.
Maybe a change would do me good. New hair. New ideas. Hell, at this point, it definitely couldn’t hurt.
After I grabbed my phone from my nightstand, I settled on my bed and typed out a text to my best friend.
Me: What about a stepbrother romance?
As usual, she replied immediately.
Brianna: Are you Penelope Ward?
Me: Well, no.
Brianna: Then no.
I groaned and stared up at the ceiling. I’d been brainstorming my newest book for what felt like forever, but writer’s block was a real bitch.
Me: I hate you.
Brianna: You love me. What about a male/male? You’ve never done one of those.
Me: Yeah, well. I’m not Ella Frank, either. So, ya know.
Brianna: Wow. I didn’t realize I got cryin’ Rhion this morning.
Me: Ugh. I hate it when you rhyme.
Brianna: No, you don’t, lyin’ Rhion. Lol
Me: Hilarious.
Brianna: Okay. So, seriously. What about a stepbrother male/male romance?
Me: Nah. I’m not into anal. I could never do two guys justice.
Brianna: You get me a date with Devon or Johnson and I’ll do all the research for you.
Me: I bet you would.
Brianna: So, what are you up to today?
Me: I’m writing all the words!
Brianna: On a book you don’t even know the plot to?
Me: Yeah. That one.
Brianna: Right. Well, call me if you need a break.
I tossed my phone onto the bed and buried my face in my hands. Why was writing so stressful? Maybe because I didn’t know the first thing about love, considering that my only serious boyfriend was a fictional character. Meh. Minor details.
When my phone rang, I scooped it up fully expecting it to be Brianna with another lackluster plot attempt. However, my chin jerked to the side when I saw Katie’s name on the screen.
I answered immediately. “Is everything okay?”
“Why do you always assume something is wrong when I call?”
I uncrossed my legs and rose off the bed. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because your mother is the boogeyman.”
“I prefer sorceress of evil.”
“That too. And also because, the majority of the times when you call me, it’s because something’s wrong.”
“Not always!” she defended.
She was full of shit. Katie Spencer called me approximately three times a year. Usually, once around Christmas, when her mother, my former Cinderella-style stepmother, would lose her fucking mind about not being able to afford her yearly holiday vacation to the Hamptons. She’d terrorize Katie until I’d offer her the keys to my dad’s old house. I’d never even received a thank-you for my generosity. That is if you didn’t include the missing silver I had to replace each time my stepmom left.
Then Katie would call me again when her mother would flip out over my father’s untimely death and check herself into a ridiculously expensive rehab center (read: spa), leaving Katie scrounging for a way to pay the bill. Though she did this knowing Katie would call me to cover it. Margaret Spencer was all too happy to allow her daughter to do her dirty work.
Margaret didn’t care that I was grieving as well. It must have slipped her mind that I had been only twenty-two years old when my dad had had a heart attack in the middle of my celebratory college graduation dinner. A private dinner for which he had rented out an entire restaurant for the evening. This was also the dinner where I had been forced to perform CPR until a bodyguard dragged me off his lifeless body to make way for the paramedics.
No, as far as Margaret was concerned, that was pishposh. She’d lost the love of her life. Never mind the fact that they’d gotten a divorce nearly six years before he passed away. What she’d really lost was her cash cow. Meanwhile, I was left to grieve the greatest father who had ever lived and the only parent I’d ever known.
My father, being a decent man and one who valued his time too much to spend it fighting with a woman over money, had kept Margaret—and thus Katie—in the lifestyle she had become accustomed to during the whopping three years they had been wed. It was something he’d done for all of his ex-wives—all five of them.
And lastly, Katie would always call in March, usually about three weeks before her birthday. A friendly reminder that she still existed. How else would I know where to send her gifts?
I should have hated her. But I didn’t. I’d always wanted a sister, but after my mother had died, my father had refused to date women with kids. Don’t get me wrong. He’d loved me and my brother. But he’d had no desire to raise anyone else’s child or have any more of his own. It was his one rule when it came to relationships. That is until Margaret Spencer came along. I’d never understood his pull to her, but then again, I’d never questioned it. I was just so damn excited to finally have a sister, the step part being completely inconsequential as far as I was concerned.
And, when I met Katie, I fell in love instantly. She wasn’t like her wicked witch of a mother. She was sweet, albeit a little quiet for my taste, but we got along well. Her mother never approved of me though. I played softball and rode horses. Generally any sport that involved dirt. Margaret preferred Katie to wear designer dresses while rubbing elbows with high society.
My dad, however, encouraged my creativity and athletic endeavors. He once walked out on a multimillion-dollar deal because my team had advanced in a softball tournament. And, more times than I could count, he sat in a folding chair, dressed to the nine
I was a daddy’s girl to the core. And I missed him. Daily.
“Look, Mom is—” Katie started.
I quickly stopped her. “I don’t have the money anymore, Katie. You know that. I haven’t written a book in over three months.”
“Oh, come on, Rhion. You could call Mr. Higgins.”
I could. But I promised I wouldn’t anymore.
Guilt seeped into my stomach as I whispered, “I’m sorry, honey.”
“Rhion,” she begged. “Her car… I mean, she—”
“No.” Closing my eyes, I sucked in a painful breath. “I told you last time I couldn’t help anymore. I just don’t have the money.”
“That’s not true and you know it. You could easily—”
I flopped back onto my bed and stared up at the ceiling. “Is this all you called for?”
She went silent. I could picture her perfectly painted red lips pursing in frustration.
“No,” she gritted out.
I smiled weakly. “Okay, then, so what’s new with you?”
“Oh, not much. Just trying to figure out how to deal with mommy dearest.”
My smile fell and I switched the phone to my other ear as I rolled to my side. Propping my elbow on the bed, I supported my head in my hand. “You know I’d help if I could.”
Her voice softened, but her words might as well have been razor blades. “I’m not sure you would anymore. It feels a lot like you’ve forgotten about your family. But, unlike you, Rhion, I don’t have the ability to turn my back on her.”