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  Be Brave With Me

  A Finding Love in Green Springs Series Novel

  J.B. Havens

  CA Miconi

  Be Brave with Me

  A Finding Love in Green Springs Series Novel

  Copyright © 2019 J.B. Havens and CA Miconi

  All Rights Reserved.

  Be Brave with Me is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by: Cover Me Darling

  www.covermedarling.com

  Editing by Eve Arroyo

  www.evearroyo.com

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

  Contents

  Arms' Length

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  Also By J.B. Havens

  Authors’ Notes

  Connie and I would like to thank you for taking a chance on our new series! We hope you love Green Springs as much as we do. It’s a fictional place, but a special one.

  There is a funny story behind this book and how it came to be. Connie and I have been working together for several years; she’s my long-time editor and dear friend. I’ve been a client of Connie’s company, Lucky 13 Book Reviews and News, since the very beginning of my writing career. Connie’s super-editing powers have helped me turn out some great work and she’s pushed me to become a better writer. Now, the tables have turned and it’s my turn to push her!

  I found my old laptop, tucked away on the top shelf of my closet and, me being who I am, I had to see if it worked. It did! Surprise, surprise, I found a story saved in the documents. It was only about seven pages long and I didn’t remember where I was originally going with it. I’d been in a bit of a writing slump so I figured maybe this would spark my writer’s brain back on. I brought up the story to Connie, and fate stepped in. She told me she’d been thinking about doing a book for some time but wasn’t sure where to start, how would I like to have a co-author? Yes, please!

  Here we are, a couple months later, publishing our first book together. It’s been a true collaboration between us. I challenge you, dear reader, to find which parts I wrote and which parts Connie did. I bet you can’t!

  Turn the page or tap the screen, and come with us to Green Springs, Mississippi, where love lives and overcomes. Where fear gives way to hope and desire boils hot as the sun.

  -J.B. Havens

  As J.B. said, we’ve been friends and colleagues for several years and now I’m learning the craft of writing from her. I never dreamed I’d write or publish, until a trip to New Orleans a few months ago. I visited a psychic, who told me that I was a writer. I laughed and said, no I’m not, but I work with writers. She insisted she wasn’t wrong.

  A few days later, J.B. told me about the manuscript she’d dusted off and mentioned how busy she was and that romance was out of her comfort zone, but that this story needed to be finished. I took that as a sign and suggested a co-writer. When she asked who, I said me! And just like that, a collaboration was born! I look forward to continuing this journey and this series with J.B. and eventually writing on my own.

  Thank you, friend, for helping me realize a dream, and welcome, everyone, to Green Springs!

  -CA Miconi

  Arms' Length

  by: M. Parker

  How can you be so close

  That I could reach my hand

  Place it to your chest

  And prove you're truly here?

  How can you be so close

  That I can barely stand

  Crushed beneath the weight

  Of your shadow?

  Why greet me with the smile I lost?

  The lips that speak my name

  No longer hold the warmth

  I so badly need to hear

  The familiar space before you

  Circumferenced by your arms

  But for the lack of courage

  I would seize it for my own

  And in them I might lose myself

  Until the shaking stops

  Until the tears run dry

  Until my feet find footing

  Until the ache finally bleeds out

  How can you be so close

  And once again so out of reach,

  Those perfect arms so empty

  Only lacking me to fill them?

  How can you be so close

  And treat me like any other,

  As a day like any other

  And no more to expect?

  Please don't make me face you

  Please don't make me stay here.

  Prologue

  Meg

  I drive and drive, my left hand tight on the wheel, gripping and twisting, my right hand on the gear shift. The headlights of my Jeep Cherokee shine and bounce off the reflectors in the road. My thoughts are racing like spinning wheels. What have I done? Where am I going?

  I’ve left everything behind. Everyone. Not that there was all that much remaining anyway. I’d gotten rid of the house, my possessions, all of it—all of it except for his Jeep and the memories I couldn’t escape. This may have been the best decision of my life, but right now it feels like the worst. The pain is fierce, like a hand squeezing my heart. I reach down and turn up the music. The thumping bass drowns out my thoughts as I continue to drive, and I pass a sign telling me I’ve crossed the Mississippi state line.

  Chapter 1

  Meg

  It’s dawn. The sun is making its blazing appearance, blinding me. I put on my sunglasses as I pull into a small town. A sign welcomes me to Green Springs, which is not far from Tupelo. There are huge, red maple trees lining both sides of the road, planted at regular intervals in neat rows like soldiers, shading the wide sidewalks. The neighborhood is full of homes with big yards, swing sets, deep shaded porches. A normal, quiet town you could find just about anywhere in the South. As I pass the post office and a small grocery store, I see the entrance for Brewer’s Motel. Thank goodness, I need a shower and sleep. Time to regroup and decide where I’m headed.

  The motel is small, a long, narrow structure with only about ten rooms. While it’s dated
and slightly shabby, it appears to be clean. The hedges beside the faded, tan building are well trimmed. The windows in their peeling frames sparkle in the early dawn light. I see a hand-painted sign with an arrow pointing to the office.

  I park beside a small Toyota and turn off my Jeep. I glance around the vehicle at my pitiful possessions, a purse and a handful of clothes thrown into a gym bag, the only things I have left. So few signs of my life before—I’ve gone back to basics.

  Looking in the mirror, I notice the dark circles under my eyes and my hair standing on end. Well, at least I look like I feel: old and broken, haggard. I try, in vain, to smooth my hair down so I don’t look quite so much like someone who’s been rubbing her head on the carpet. My long, black hair, which used to be well-groomed and shiny with health, is now dull and limp. The dark circles under my normally bright green eyes make them look too large for my face. Even my skin is suffering. No longer smooth and even, it’s blotchy, pale, and rough to the touch. Regular meals would probably help, but I forget about food for days at a time. Heaving a deep sigh, I grab my bags and step out into the crisp dawn air.

  I walk into an office that smells of lemon furniture polish, hook my glasses on the front of my shirt, and set down my meager belongings by the door. Next to the entrance is a big bay window with a bench and homemade pillows. Directly in front of me is a small counter with a bell and some brochures. No one is manning the desk, although I can hear a TV or radio playing. There are tasteful prints here and there on the walls, pictures of boats sailing on vast oceans, and even a Monet Water Lilies print. Not much of a theme; the pictures seem to be chosen because someone liked them and not for their decorative value.

  I ring the bell and a short, older woman appears almost instantly. She has the same classic, bluish-white helmet of hair all old ladies seem to have. She’s wearing a dated, but good quality dress that’s held up well. She’s very bright and cheerful with a broad, welcoming smile. Her wrinkles tell the story of a lifetime of laughter.

  “How can I help you, hun?” she says in a chipper voice. I frown. The sun has been up for five seconds and she’s looking as cheerful as a bouquet of daisies. Never trust a morning person is a good policy for life. I realize I’m standing here frowning as I run an inner monologue, so I croak out a response.

  “A room please.” Geez, my throat is scratchy. Haven’t talked in a while. When did I last have anything to drink, for that matter?

  “How many nights, hun?” She has a classic southern drawl, sweet and lilting.

  “Just tonight,” I say as I hand over my credit card. At least I don’t have to worry about money. That’s the last thing I want to have to think about right now.

  “And would you like a single or double?” She smiles warmly, as if by looking at me she can see I’m broken and wants to fix me with hugs and cookies. She seems like the cookie-baking type of grandma.

  “A single will be fine, thank you.” Even if it is the ass crack of dawn, I can’t be rude to the old dear.

  She rattles on about TV and check-out times. She’s looking at me expectantly. I must have missed something.

  “Sorry, what? I’m very tired.” The woman must think I’m a total idiot.

  “What’s your name, child?”

  I shake my head. Of course, my name. “Meg. Meg Taylor,” I mutter.

  “Here you go, Meg. Room eight. It’s to your right. Please enjoy your stay and do let me know if you need anything,” she says kindly, handing me a key. It’s old fashioned. A real key with a heavy brass number eight attached.

  I thank her again, pick up my bags, and make my way out of the office and to the right. I notice with absentminded interest that there’s a large, black Chevy truck parked a few spaces from my Jeep, right in front of room seven. Looks like I have a neighbor.

  I open the door to my room and am greeted by pale yellow walls and a clean smell. Besides the low hum of the air conditioning, it’s quiet. The silence is a much-needed and welcome balm. It’s a standard room with a few homey touches. There is a bed, desk, TV, and lamp. The bedspread is a creamy yellow sort of color with large, white flowers. Running my hand along it, I see it’s soft and of good quality. There’s another Monet from the Water Lilies series on the wall above the bed. I’m sensing a theme here. Looks like the owners take pride in their little motel. The small, blue-tiled bathroom is straight ahead.

  Locking the door behind me, I toss my stuff on the bed and head for the lavatory. The too bright florescent lights show me just how awful I really look. I switch the lights back off. There are little bottles of shampoo and a tiny bar of soap; they’ll do. I turn on the water and strip as it heats. I trace my fingers over the small scar low on my belly. The thin line is itchy and tight, even after so many months. Shaking loose the thoughts, I step into the hot shower and tilt my head forward to let the water pour down my head and back.

  After my shower, I dress in a tank and shorts and collapse on the bed. I’m vaguely aware I’m hungry. Finally, I fall into a fitful sleep.

  My hands feel warm and sticky. I frown at the strange sensation. Slowly, I look down at them, they’re dripping with something red. Big drops splattering on the floor, hitting my bare feet, so hot at first, then quickly cooling. I smear it around with my fingertips, trying to figure out what it is. It smells like old pennies. I become aware of something warm running down the inside of my legs. Looking down, I see more red soaking my nightgown like someone threw paint on me. With a start, I realize I’m bleeding heavily. I begin to scream over and over again as fast as I can draw breath. “Noooo!”

  Chapter 2

  Drew

  Sirens blared in the distance, the sounds growing louder, closer, and more terrifying with each second. Otherwise, it was eerily quiet. Too quiet. Drew stirred and moaned. His head was pounding, and he tried to get his bearings. Why was he upside down? Where was Abby?

  The last thing he remembered was leaving the celebratory dinner with his girlfriend and high school sweetheart. Their families had taken them out to toast the bright futures ahead for them both. He was off to Tennessee College on a full football scholarship; Abby was set to begin nursing classes at the local community college while earning good money as a model with a small local agency.

  The sirens stopped and he heard shouting. “Hey! Can you hear me? Are you okay?” Footsteps approached, the sound of crunching glass under heavy boots.

  A beam of light flashed across his face, momentarily blinding him. “Hello?”

  “Hang on, son. Let’s figure out how to get you out of here. How bad are you hurt?”

  “Help my girlfriend first.” He ignored the strange burning sensation on his left leg; he looked down and saw it was twisted out the open window and trapped under the door.

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Yes, get her out first.” He shifted, looking over to where Abby should be. The seat was empty. A streak of blood smeared across the upholstery and the contents of her purse spilled all around him were the only evidence of her.

  “There’s no one else here.”

  “I was driving Abby home. Abby? Abby!”

  “Let’s take care of you, and my coworkers will find Abby.”

  As Drew was extricated from the overturned vehicle, stabilized with meds, and rushed to the ambulance, he was babbling. “Did you find Abby? How is she? Can I see her?”

  Before the paramedic could answer, Drew heard screams and crying.

  “Noooooo!”

  Drew sat up in bed and caught his breath. Sweat dampened his forehead and tears ran down his rough face. Phantom pains shot through his lower left leg. The leg that was no longer there. Grimacing, he realized he hadn’t had that nightmare in years.

  As the fog of sleep cleared from his mind the screams didn’t dissipate. They weren’t a dream; they were real. And they were coming from next door.

  He slid his legs off the bed, reaching for his prosthetic. He slipped on the sock that had a pin on the end. The pin slid home into his leg and cli
cked into place. His left shoe was still on the leg, so he only had to step into his right shoe. Jerking on a shirt and shorts, he ran out the door toward the direction of the screams.

  Chapter 3

  Meg

  I startle awake, sweat soaked sheets sticking to my skin in a nasty, uncomfortable way. Throwing the covers off, I stand and stumble to the bathroom in a fog of half sleep and remembered trauma. I splash cold water on my face, letting it trickle down my back and chest, cooling the sweat there. It takes me a moment to become aware of a pounding noise coming from beyond the bathroom. As the nightmare finally disappears from my mind, I realize the pounding is someone at the door.

  “What the ever-loving hell?”

  Glancing down at my sleeping attire of shorts and tank top, I decide if whoever at the door has a problem with what I’m wearing, it’s their own damn fault. The clock reads ten p.m. in bright red numbers. I realize I’ve been asleep for over twelve hours.