Chapter 1
After
the last drop of tequila rolled off my tongue, the empty shot glass taunted me.
I slammed it against the bar. “Hit me again.”
“Sorry, Jer, I’m cuttin’ you off.”
A sharp pang of
sorrow cut off my oxygen and echoed in my throat as I growled, “Don’t call me
that. Jenna called me that.”
Matt flung the bar towel over his shoulder and rolled
his eyes. “Dude, I’ve been calling you Jer since junior high.”
Jenna’s angel-like voice flitted through my mind: Jer.
My sweet Jer.
I glanced at Matt, standing behind the bar, eyeing me
with a narrowed gaze. Since we were teenagers, the scruffy blond-haired guy,
littered with piercings and tattoos, had been my best friend. His twin sister,
Missy, had brought Jenna to my eighteenth birthday bash.
The uninvited memory unfurled in my brain, with me
helpless to stop it.
My parent’s living room, stripped of its
furniture, had been transformed into a makeshift rave to house my crew.
Missy—the grand entrance queen—made her appearance a half-hour late, with a
dark-haired girl at her side. The girl’s big brown eyes found mine, turning my
brain to mush. I just stood there, gawking like an idiot.
Missy tossed her long blonde mane over her
shoulders, grabbed the girl’s hand, and led her through the crowd toward me.
“Jenna, meet the birthday boy, Jeremy. Jer, this is my BFF, Jenna.”
“Nice to meet you, Jeremy. And happy
birthday,” she said in a sweet, angel-like voice.
I offered her my most charming smile.
“Thank you. And it’s great to meet you too.”
She looked at my hair. “I like the man
bun. Very hipster.”
“Is that a good thing?
Missy groaned before she walked away and
joined the others.
Jenna’s eyes seemed to smile at me; then,
she’d giggled. “Yes, it’s a good thing.”
Realization punched me in the gut. She was flirting
with me. Holy crap!
Don’t be a creep. Relax. Take a breath, I
thought to myself and casually asked her, “Can I get you something to drink?”
I shook my head, forcing my attention to the present
and back to Matt. “It was the way she said my name. You know, with sheer
devotion. She was…” My voice crackled
with pain.
Reaching across the bar, Matt laid his hand on my
shoulder and narrowed his jade-colored eyes. “I can’t even imagine the
heartache you must feel, but Jenna wouldn’t want this. She’d want you to keep
living.”
Hot tears stung my eyes as her face formed behind
them. I soaked in every beautiful inch of her before blinking her away. Alcohol
was the only thing that allowed me to forget, even if only temporarily. Jenna
wasn’t coming back. “She didn’t just walk out of my life—that, I could’ve dealt
with—but her death… it haunts me,” I said, wiping the tears from my face. “I
should’ve told her not to drive, to wait until the morning, but I… I wanted to
see her.”
“The accident wasn’t your fault. You can’t blame
yourself.”
“She’d be alive if it weren’t for me!” I yelled, anger
spewing from my lips. “She wouldn’t’ve fallen asleep at the wheel and crashed
if I’d just told her to wait.” Taking a few deep breaths, I held up the shot
glass and urged, “Please, Matt.”
A look of sympathy tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Just one more, I promise.”
He shook his head in a slow, sad manner. “I’m doing this
for your own good.” He snatched my car keys off the counter and set them behind
the bar. “Someone’s gotta look out for you.” He filled a mug with black coffee
and set it in front of me. “You can hang out and wait for me to drive you home,
or you can Uber it, but you’re not driving.”
I waved him away and grumbled, “Fine.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
“Doubtful.”
Matt walked away to tend to a couple at the other end
of the bar.
I took a swig of coffee, cringed, and scanned the bar
for packets of sugar.
“Looking for this?” a male voice inquired from my
right, sliding two packets of sweetener my way.
“Thanks,” I said, eyeing the bald, wrinkly-faced man.
He moved to the barstool next to mine and remarked, “I
couldn’t help but overhear. Was she your girlfriend?”
“Fiancée.”
“Lost my wife years ago. Without The Dollmaker, I don’t think
I could’ve overcome this.” The focus of his gaze slipped.
I jerked my head in his direction. “Dollmaker?”
He pulled a tattered business card from his worn denim
jacket and laid it on the bar top. “This man saved my sanity. Might be able to
help you too.” He offered a kind nod, got to his feet, and exited the bar
without another word.
The name on the card read “The Dollmaker,” with a
phone number printed underneath—no address or website on the front or the back.
What the fuck? How could a dollmaker help me? I shrugged, then
punched the number into my cell.
It rang twice before a recording clicked on,
announcing, “You’ve reached The Dollmaker. We are closed at this time, but
please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and we will return your
call the next business day.”
Once the machine beeped, I sputtered, “Yeah, um… My
name is Jeremy—Jeremy Dillon. Cell’s 310-555-9189. A prior customer gave me
your card and said you could help.” I paused, debating if I should elaborate.
Instead, I mumbled, “Thanks,” and ended the call.
