My heart pounded against my chest, beating me up inside, crying for numbness, crying for me to bring it back to a level of comfort it missed.

I looked down at my wrist and saw one of those stupid ass plastic bracelets that read Powerful moments. Dr. Thompson had given it to me a few years back when I entered rehab. I could almost see his aged head of hair and kind eyes staring into mine, reminding me that I was stronger than my worst moments.

“Those times you feel lost and afraid and weak—those are your moments for a breakthrough. Hidden beneath those dark moments is your power. Take those weak moments and make them powerful. Make them matter, Jackson. Make them count.”

Dr. Thompson had me snap the bracelet against my wrist whenever I felt weak had or got the urge to use.

My wrist was currently red as hell.

Even so, I kept snapping it. It was a reminder that my next move would be real, just like the pain. The next choice I made would control my other choices down the line.

My choice couldn’t be drugs.

I didn’t use those to curb my emotions anymore.

I didn’t use those to make me feel empty inside.

I’d been clean for years, and I didn’t want that to change. Especially due to the people of Chester.

Doing my best to ignore the ignorant people around me, I glanced outside then paused when I saw a car flying through the one and only stoplight in town. By stoplight, I meant the flashing yellow light. The car moved recklessly, and a knot formed in my gut as I realized it had no plans of slowing down.

I groaned. “You’re going to crash,” I muttered to myself before releasing a heavy sigh and breaking out into a run toward the unstable vehicle. “You’re gonna fucking crash!”

4

Grace

I’m going to freaking crash!

“No, no, no!” I muttered to myself as I tried to control my uncontrollable car. Seconds before I’d pulled into Chester, my car had begun to hiccup, but I’d figured it would make it safely to my sister’s house before it gave out on me completely. That wasn’t the case.

I tried to hit the brakes, but the pedal went to the floor of the car and nothing happened.

“No, no, no,” I begged, feeling the vehicle start to shake.

I flew through the flashing yellow light at the intersection of Grate Street and Michigan, and I shouted as people scurried out of the way so I wouldn’t hit them. I hit the curb a few times, trying to maneuver the car a bit, but nothing was working. Taking a deep breath, I said a small prayer, but it seemed my link to God was a bit delayed at the moment.

Panic filled my heartbeats as I headed straight toward the auto shop at the end of downtown.

How ironic would that be? Crashing into an auto shop.

I reached for my phone that sat on the charger, only to realize the car hadn’t been charging at all and was completely dead. Just my luck.

“Take your foot off the brake. It’s already flooded,” a deep voice said, making me turn around to look out the driver’s window.

“It won’t stop!” I said, my voice shaky.

He was running right beside me, keeping up with the wild runaway vehicle. “No shit, Sherlock. Unlock your door and slide over to the passenger seat,” he ordered.

“But I can’t take my foot off the brake, I—”

“Move!” he ordered, sending chills down my spine.

I did as he said. The man quickly hopped into the moving vehicle, did some magic trick moves with the keys, and brought the car to a halt.

“Oh my gosh,” I said, my breaths heavy. “What did you do?”

“Put the damn car in park and turned off the ignition. It’s not brain surgery,” he said with such distaste on his tongue. He opened the driver’s side door and stepped out. “I’ll push you to the curb.”

“But…” I started, uncertain of what to do. “Do you need help?”

“If I did, I would’ve mentioned it,” he grumbled, obviously annoyed.

Well then.

The car began to move, and I kept glancing back, watching him push the four-thousand-pound vehicle. He looked as dark and broody as one could with his black crew neck T-shirt, dark black jeans, and black Chucks. A baseball cap hid his hair, but the ends curled under the edges. His brows were knit tightly, and his face was so stone cold I was certain he didn’t have a clue what it meant to smile. His biceps sat on biceps as he pushed with all his might, taking me to the side of the road. The moment I made it there, I hopped out.

I knew who he was—the whole town did—though, we’d never really interacted. He was Jackson Emery, the bad seed of Chester. Rumor had it he’d started the fires in the park during summer of 2013, and he had been the cause of more than a handful of divorces. He was known to sleep with his fair share of Chester women; there was no secret about that.

Jackson Emery wore his trouble on his sleeve like it was his full-time job.

“Thank you for that. You didn’t have to help me,” I told him, giving him a smile.

He didn’t make eye contact at all, just grumbled. “Didn’t look like you were gonna help yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t drive a shit car. It’s obviously a death trap,” he replied dryly.

No smile.

No smirk.

No sarcastic, funny undertones.

“I beg your pardon?” I asked, somewhat shocked by his words.

His facial expression remained unwelcoming, and his top lip twitched. Removing his hat from his head, he held it against his black shirt while one hand raked through his hair. With a lingering sound of detestation in his voice, he said, “You could’ve killed someone, driving like an idiot like that.”

“I didn’t know it would break down,” I told him, feeling knots in my stomach.

When his cold stare finally met mine, chills ran down my spine. His eyes were so intense, so dark they almost seemed hollow. At first, his gaze appeared confused by my entire existence, and then he looked intrigued, as if he recognized me from a dream within a dream. I knew it wasn’t the time to be deciphering the facial expressions of Jackson Emery, but in all honesty, I couldn’t help it. I’d encountered with many individuals throughout my lifetime, but I’d never seen one so hauntingly dark. His confusing look bewildered me. His intriguing look gave me anxiety.

“You’re one of those Harris people?” he asked. It was weird being called a Harris after so many years of being a Braun.

By the way he said my last name as if I were covered in Ebola, he obviously wasn’t my family’s biggest fan, so I wasn’t certain how to reply.

“Yes.”

He grimaced. “Didn’t know I was dealing with one of Chester’s royalty. I guess I shouldn’t be shocked by your stupidity then.”

“That’s not very nice,” I said softly.

“Yeah, well, I’m not a very nice guy.”

“I know you, too,” I said, nodding his way. “You’re Mike Emery’s kid, Jackson.”

He had to be at least five years younger than I was, but with the wrinkles around his frown and his five-o’clock shadow, he appeared older.

“Trust me, sweetheart, just because you know my name doesn’t mean you know me.” He swiped his hand beneath his nose. “You don’t know anything about me.”

I’d never been called sweetheart in such a demeaning tone.

“You don’t know anything about me either, but it seems you have your own judgments on my family.”

“With good reason.”

“And what reason is that?”

He blinked, and once again, the cold, isolated stare returned. He placed his cap back on his head before he parted his lips again. “Your car’s a piece of shit. You could’ve really hurt someone today.”

“I didn’t know.”

“There’s no way a car in this bad of shape didn’t give you any signs.”

Well…he wasn’t wrong about that.

As he spoke, intense annoyance painted his words. “You knew it was pretty bad off. You made a choice, and it was stupid,” he replied. “Don’t worry, though, I’m sure your daddy will buy you a new one soon enough.”

The nerve of this guy. He sure did live up to the fables I’d heard about him.

“I bought this car on my own,” I said, somewhat annoyed. It had been the first grown-up purchase I’d ever made in my life, and she’d been through the good and bad days with me. My pink Rosie. It was one of the only things I could claim I’d done on my own, other than my teaching degree, though, even with that, my parents had helped pay. Jackson didn’t have a clue how much that car meant to me, how much doing something for myself meant, so screw him for judging me. “Just because my family has money doesn’t mean I do.”

“That’s the type of shit rich kids say to make themselves feel somewhat human.”

“Are you always such an asshole?” I asked, placing my hands on my hips.

“Oh, the Bible girl cusses. You better repent,” he barked, popping open the hood of the car.

“What are you doing?” I asked, but he ignored me as he began fumbling around.

“What does it look like I’m doing? Trying to fix the shit you let break.” Smoke seeped from the engine, and he pulled and pushed things around as I studied his every movement.

“Just be careful. I don’t want it worse off than—”

He tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow. “Trust me, you can’t get worse off than this. I found the problem.”

“What is it?”