Page 1 of Safe in Clua

ONE

Laia

If something seems too good to be true, kick back and enjoy until it blows up in your face.

Words to live by, according to my dad. Probably a good thing he didn’t see quite how spectacularly things did blow up in my face.

Arms wrapped around my middle, I rest my hip against the door frame and tilt my head onto the whitewashed wood. Regardless, right now, his words have never been more apt.

I have a garden. And decking. And nothing but a low wooden fence separating them from the most picture-perfect beach I’ve ever seen.

The warm breeze pulls a curl from its knot on top of my head and, in the confines of my sneakers, my toes wiggle, begging to be released and sunk into the pristine white sand.

Paradise. It’s the only word to describe this place. Clear turquoise water rolls against the postcard-perfect shore, just yards from where I stand.

There must be some mistake, there’s no way this place is meant for me.

“Peaceful, isn’t it?”

“It really is.” I chew the inside of my cheek as I turn to my new landlord—savior—hero-in-a-pink-mumu. “The last place Women’s Aid fixed me up with was a basement Studio in Arizona with no AC and a family of cockroaches under the fridge.”

Women’s Aid. An organization for women with nowhere else to turn, that helps them escape a life that’s become too dangerous. That sets them up with a new place, away from the danger, the violence, the pain.

Not an organization I ever thought I’d have on speed dial, far else have to use.

But here I am—new life number two, thanks to them.

I take in the sparkling clean kitchen we’re standing in. It might be dated, but it’s a massive step up.

Butcher-block worktops wrap the whole room. And the oven—I could fit at least four pie tins in that thing. That thought alone stops me up, picks at some forgotten scab I’d almost convinced myself had healed.

It’s been years since I baked. Years since I even let myself think about baking.

Rubbing my thumb over the gold pendant around my neck, I meet Mrs. Devon’s powder-blue stare. “I have the money for the rent.”

Her thin lips lift into a smile. “Women’s Aid can take care of that until you’re on your feet, Laia. That’s what they do.” The stack of silver bangles on her wrist jingle as she lifts her hand to the pure-white braid that hangs over her shoulder.

“No. It’s enough that they found me this place. I can pay my way.” I’m not rich by a long shot but I have savings, and if all else fails I have the inheritance my parents left me. The one secret I had the sense to keep from Damon even before things went south between us. That’s way more than a lot of women in my position.

“Okay then.” Mrs. Devon nods, her gaze dropping to my twisting fingers. “You’ll be safe here in Clua, I promise.”

My eyes sting with exhaustion, relief, fear, and a whole host of other emotions I have no intention of dwelling on today. It’s hard to believe that only twenty-four hours ago I walked into my tiny studio apartment back in Arcsville, Arizona, weighed down with groceries and caught the terrifyingly familiar scent of aftershave. Sweet. Musky. Unmistakable. I can still feel the bags slipping from my arms. Hear the glass jars breaking against the white tile floors as my world tilted, the fear I’d been living with for the last year shocking me numb.

I hollow my cheeks in a useless effort to stop my chin from wobbling.

He’d been there. In my house. Amongst my things. My stomach folds into itself like one of those origami swans. I blow out slowly and shake my head. Or maybe he hadn’t been there at all. Maybe the smell had been nothing more than a memory triggered by a stupid prank call I’d received at work that afternoon.

The jingling sounds again, seconds before fingers cover my hand where it’s gripping the neck of my travel-grubby tank top. My heart thumps. I step back, away from Mrs. Devon’s touch.

She doesn’t even frown. Not one crease adds to the fine lines that paint the rich dark skin of her face and not for the first time I wonder what her story is, how she got involved with Women’s Aid, with helping women like me. Part of me wants to ask, but another part, a bigger part, isn’t sure I have the capacity to take on her story on top of the disaster that is my own. So, I don’t ask, I just force a smile. It’s brittle and watery, but she returns it like she just … understands.

“This place is yours for as long as you need it. My son has just relocated to Hawaii with work.” Her smile falters. “There’s a fancy new hotel opened just outside Clua town. I’ve spoken to the owner and, if you want it, you have a trial for a receptionist job the day after tomorrow.”

I can only imagine what my face must do in my struggle to keep from breaking into ugly gratitude sobs. “A job on top of all this?”

“This island is small.” Her hand moves to touch me again, but she drops it before it makes contact. “It’s not what you know around here, it’s who.”

The island’s small all right, I hadn’t even known it existed until the tinny voice on the other end of the phone told me to get myself to some back-of-beyond Mexican port and board the first ferry leaving for Clua. That a Mrs. Devon would be waiting on the other side.

I nod—I think, tiredness seeping into my bones from the top of my head down to the tips of my toes. I’d be lying if I said I’d made Arcsville my home this last year, but still, there’s something to be said about the familiar. The thought of starting over again, even in paradise, feels pretty insurmountable right about now.

I’ll do it, though. I don’t have a choice.

Half an hour later, I’ve been shown around and settled in and I’m on my own again, doors and windows locked up tight.

The sun’s barely set, but my eyelids droop heavily. It’s been a long, long couple of days. I flop down onto the larger of two weird flesh-colored sofas in the living room, the worn cushions hugging me in, and I finally let my eyes drift closed.

A sofa that hugs.

This place might not be meant for me—but this sofa definitely is.

It’s almost, almost enough to stop the sharp sting of disappointment of having to leave the one luxury I let myself dip into my inheritance to buy in the year I spent in Arizona. Two weeks—just two weeks of owning the comfiest, prettiest sage green sofa I’d ever seen. It wasn’t much. But it was mine. A tiny step toward actually living and not just existing in flight mode, ready to run at any second.

Sighing, I wiggle my butt deeper into the cushions. There’s no point on dwelling on things you can’t change, baby girl.

This sofa will do. This house will more than do. I got away. That’s the only thing that matters.

Something scratches at my lower back just as I let my eyes drift closed again.

I lift up off the sofa with a groan and reach into the pocket of my jean-shorts to pull out the leaflet I picked up on the ferry last night. Stifling a yawn with the back of my hand, I turn the creased paper to read the other side.

Fern Bay Farmer’s Market.

I stare at the glossy photos of fruit and veg stalls, skimming over the other advertisements. A beach-side bar, Clua’s first five-star hotel, then back to the red letters of the market’s advert and the array of fruit stacked prettily on an angled table. My thumb automatically lifts to my mouth, my teeth finding the ragged corner of my nail as my gaze flicks in the direction of the kitchen.

The want, no, the need to roll my sleeves up and bake something from scratch sparks for the second time tonight.

Surely Clua has some sort of public transport that would get me there.

The bubbling of excitement that takes off in my belly is almost as unexpected as the need itself. I used to be good at baking. Really good at it.

Do you really believe you’re good enough, Laia? Come on now, don’t go making a fool of yourself, woman.

My bubbling excitement fizzles then sinks like flat soda. Eyes squeezed tight, I shake my head to rid my mind of my ex, Damon’s shitty words, my fist clenching tight around the glossy flyer.

He was wrong. But what if he wasn’t?

I puff out my cheeks and uncurl my fingers from the flyer, torn between cowering in the comfort zone he put me in, and trying for more. Trying for the life I could have had if I’d never met him.

I brush my thumb over the advert and swallow down the doubt.

New life, new Laia.

I’ve got this.

I survived the night. Just.

Nightmares are never fun.

Nightmares about Damon, even less so.

A half-drunk mug of coffee warming my palms, I swallow back a yawn, lean my hip against the kitchen counter and gaze out the French doors when a note stuck to the outside of the glass catches my attention.

I push myself from the worktop, scanning the backyard uneasily before I unlock the door and peel the note free, rubbing my thumb across the mark the tape left behind.

My son’s old truck is in the garage. Use it. Explore. (Left for town. Right for Fern Bay. There’s a market on today) Mrs. D.

She must have come while I was getting dressed. This can’t be for real.

The urge to bake has me glancing back into the kitchen to the oven. There’s nothing stopping me.

How can I not take this as a sign?

I drum my fingers against my chin and read the note again. Definitely a sign. Today is going to be a good day—no, a great day. I’m gonna make sure of it.

The sight that awaits me in the garage is almost enough to have me doubting my great day conviction before it’s even started.

Old truck. Not an understatement. I clutch my pendant and tilt my head. It’s huge. With a bulbous front and boxy back, the color of rust—at least I hope that’s the paint color—it looks not unlike something from the old western movies my dad used to make me watch.

Never judge a book, baby girl.

Dad’s words have me straightening, breathing in deep, and squaring my shoulders. I’ve got this. Vintage is never a bad thing.

After a ridiculous battle to open the driver’s side door, I finally haul myself up into the seat.

Stick shift. I blow out a long breath. Okay. Still got this.

I reach beneath me to hunt for a lever to pull the bench seat forward. Mrs. Devon’s son apparently has way longer legs than me. Not hard to do, I’m only five foot five on a big hair day.

With a metallic groan, I jolt forward.

Better. Now. Clutch. I press my foot onto the chunky pedal, ignoring the memories of the last time I attempted to drive stick. With Damon. My hand tightens into a fist, the badly healed fracture on the knuckle of my ring finger throbbing dully where his special brand of teaching left its mark. I shake my head, and those memories loose before they can take hold. Not today.

Fortune favors the brave. I can do this.

Holding my breath, I twist the key, close my eyes, and pray for no hill starts or stop signs.

An unhealthy whine preempts an almighty roar, the engine vibrating the whole cab as it comes to life.

My shocked woah has me laughing nervously. This thing isn’t just old, it’s a fricking dinosaur. I lean forward on the bench so I can see over the hood, the skin left bare by my cut-offs squeaking on the worn beige leather.

Left for town, right for the market. I flick the blinker up then bunny-hop the truck out of the drive and onto the road.

Right, it is.

I can do this. Slowly.

Squinting against the morning sun, I make my way around the bends and curves of the road at a snail’s pace. The farther I go, the more the lightness from earlier stretches my smile.

This. Place. Is. Amazing.

Lush green forests line either side of the sandy road, their thick canopies filtering everything with a happy green light. Arcsville’s dry burnt landscape has nothing on this. I fill my lungs with fresh woodsy air, and my laugh catches me off guard.

The only thing this road trip is missing is a soundtrack.

One eye on the road, I brave taking my hand off the steering wheel and push the power button on the surprisingly modern stereo. It lights up in the dashboard. Yes. I twist the first dial I come to as I glance up through the windshield.

Rock music blasts through the speakers at the exact same moment a flash of sun fires through a break in the forest’s canopy, blinding me with its white glare.

Holy hell.

I slam my foot down on the brake, the truck screeching to a halt on the side of the road, my heart crashing along with the music still screaming at me from the stereo.

I blink hard, my vision adjusting to the now shadowed side of the road and fixing on a pair of very wide, very blue eyes through the windshield.

No.

I blink again.

This can’t be happening.

About a foot in front of the truck, mouth opening and closing like a guppy … is a man.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Neither of us move.

A full minute passes before I manage to pry my fingers from the steering wheel and shut off the blaring music.

I could’ve killed him. I almost killed him.

I should get out. Make sure he’s okay. Do something other than stare at him.

Eyes, bright and unblinking beneath thick black brows stare back at me, his square jaw is clenched so tightly I can see the muscles working beneath the scruff that covers it even from here.

I swallow thickly, but before I get the chance to face round two with the truck door, he moves towards the front of the truck, slamming a hand down onto the rusted metal hood. Not good. This is not good.

He’s pissed. I can’t really blame him. A little faster and … I should never have left the bungalow.

Sweat prickles over my top lip, the tiny hairs on my arms raising. This is not one of the many ways I imagined things could blow up in my face today.

It’s worse. So much worse.

His stare doesn’t leave mine as he makes his way around to my door, his thick shoulders rolling with every step. A familiar, sickly dread seeps into my bones the closer he gets.

He’s not Damon. He. Is. Not. Damon.

My limbs freeze regardless when he makes it to my window, my stomach swooping. There’s no glass between us. The window’s down. There’s nothing between us but hot, humid air.

“You hurt?”

His rough tone turns my head. He’s worried I’m hurt?

I shake my head in a jerky answer, pinned once again by his unamused stare. This is probably about the time I’m expected to speak. Apologize. Do something. Anything.

I take a breath. Then another. My brain refuses to cooperate. I try again. “I … I didn’t mean … I didn’t see. I’msosorry,” I finally force out dropping my gaze to his black T-shirt.

“Who the hell taught you to drive?” he growls then glares up the road. “Ten years and not one thing has been done to make this fucking road safer.” He slams his hand against the roof of the truck, and my shoulders jump up around my ears.

“I … I’m sorry.” I shift along the bench, still avoiding his glare.

Just when I think he’s not going to say anything else, he inhales. “And you—fucking tourists, driving like maniacs with no idea where you’re going.” Bitterness wraps words I’m not even sure are meant for me as he drags one of his hands through his thick black hair and glares down at me.

Nothing can disguise his contempt though. I clamp my mouth shut to stop my chin from trembling and move even further along the seat away from him. Crying will help absolutely nothing. I know this. It doesn’t mean the tears aren’t there, just beyond my eyelids. I brush at them with the butt of my hand.

He catches the movement, catches the look on my face too apparently and his anger fades, morphing into something much, much sadder. His gaze flits from my left eye to my right and a deep line forms between his eyebrows. “You’ve no idea.”

“No, I don’t,” I whisper meekly, unable to look away, but shriveling more by the second under his unimpressed stare. “I’m sor…”

Pathetic. What happened to new Laia?

Fake it until you make it. Dad’s voice in my head has me squaring my shoulders.

He shakes his head with a sigh.

“I wasn’t going that fast.” I force my brows down and fight my knee jerk reaction to keep on apologizing. “And you were standing in the middle of the road on a blind bend. Who does that?” I tack on for good measure.

It’s his turn to blink. His eyes narrow, making my cheeks heat and my palms sweat. On second thoughts, maybe now isn’t the time to grow balls.

“I didn’t mean, I mean … I should go.” I resist the urge to apologize all over again and instead reach for the keys hanging from the ignition, allowing myself one more second to—you know—check he’s not damaged before I turn the ignition.

He doesn’t try to stop me, he just lifts his hands from the roof of the truck and steps back without a word.

I shoot him one last wary side-eye and grip the steering wheel, my foot trembling dramatically on the pedals as I pull away with only one tiny lurch.

Hand on the back of his neck, he watches me go.

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