Seven Sins

  Seven Sins

  Durham Boys, Book 2

  Piper Lennox

  Copyright © 2020 by Piper Lennox

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Photographer: Furious Fotog

  Model: Anthony Cadrecha

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To my sun, my moon,

  and all my stars

  I'll take your heart served up two ways

  I sing a bitter song

  I'm the lonelier version of you

  I just don't know where it went wrong

  Talk less, mean more

  Let's be electric like we were before...

  “Rat a Tat,” Fall Out Boy feat. Courtney Love

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Also by Piper Lennox

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Seven Years Ago

  Age Fifteen

  Adrenaline pierced my heart when I heard the dogs on the other side of the hill.

  Did I really hear them? Was it just my pulse reverberating in my skull, or the summer winds tearing overtop us?

  Did it really matter?

  Free to leave.

  What a joke. What a filthy, dirty lie. Nothing on this earth is free.

  But I was about to be.

  “Go.” Rebecca hissed at me through a wall of teeth and shoved past me.

  I’d have felt betrayed as she shrank in the darkness, leaving me behind in the sweeping spotlights and swaying grasses, but I knew it wasn’t on purpose. She was doing what she had to.

  Someone once told me there are no atheists in foxholes.

  Tonight, I was learning there were no friends there, either.

  The chain link rattled and bowed under our weight. Someone stepped on my fingers. It didn’t hurt. Even the barbs along the top, cutting into my thigh as I swung my legs over, didn’t hurt.

  The lights brightened across the top of the hill.

  I dropped. All sixteen feet to the ground below.

  The ground.

  Free earth. Unholy, unleveled, beautiful dirt, packed so firmly I knew my legs were toast the second I made impact.

  I didn’t call for help. I would slow them down.

  Rebecca glanced back at my limping, pathetic form. Oh, no. Her heart was working again.

  “Go!” I barked.

  Darkness filled her eyes like a vat of poison. Good. She’d need it if she was going to survive out here.

  She charged ahead.

  “Hey. Fairy Lights.”

  My gasp felt lined with dust. The nightmare trickled away, leaving only a pounding heart in its place as I blinked in the sunlight.

  Van tugged at the blanket underneath me.

  “You’re sweating all over my blanket.” He yanked again; I was in the process of rolling off on my own, but now fumbled and landed in the dry grass around the barn.

  I didn’t know it was your blanket, I thought.

  I didn’t know you’d mind.

  Silent, I raked my blonde hair out of my eyes. It was long, flowing down past my hips. Back home, I had to keep it in a pristine braid at all times.

  Here, I let it fly and float however it wanted, paying the price of constant tangles. I snagged one now, hard, and winced at the sting. It was always getting caught: in doors, on nails, or underneath my own weight when I sat down.

  “But if a woman nourishes her hair, it is a glory to her; for her hair is given to her as a covering.”

  I shook my head. This wasn’t a glory. It was a giant inconvenience, and I knew I’d need to cut it soon.

  Tonight, in fact.

  “Look,” Van snapped, nodding at the sweat down my shirt. Actually, it was his mother’s, too big on my teenage frame and smelling too much like a dresser drawer that hadn’t been opened in years.

  I had my own clothes, but I liked this one best; it reminded me of the curtains in my mother’s home, the same tiny floral print. I wore it often, even though Van hated it.

  He hated a lot of things about me, by then.

  “You’ve had those nightmares ever since you showed up here,” he added. “Kicking your legs like a damn dog and everything. Chasing squirrels in your sleep?”

  Running, I corrected. Climbing.

  That was the common element in almost all my nightmares. Sometimes I was injured, sometimes I wasn’t; sometimes Rebecca turned to help me up…and sometimes she just ran ahead without me.

  But, always, I had to relive the climbing—my drop from the top of the fence to the other side. A blind and terrified leap from my old life…into my new one.

  Of course, this wasn’t my new life. Just limbo.

  In a few hours, when everyone was asleep, I’d have to leave the Durhams behind and learn to navigate this world on my own.

  The ground swayed when I stood too quickly. Van cursed and caught me.

  “Should we take you back to the hospital?” he whispered, flicking his dark hair off his forehead while he searched my eyes. I watched as his jaw, manly angles still blunted by boyhood, began to unclench.

  Briefly, his heart had softened. We were temporary versions of ourselves from just a few weeks ago, when I first arrived here at his father’s ranch in North Dakota. Back when I was still their sweet little foundling, a runaway in need of a home…and Van was still my keeper.

  A month had changed so much.

  “No,” I answered, swallowing, “I think I’m okay.”

  No, I wasn’t.

  Not when Van touched me like that. Like I still deserved even one shred of his kindness, anymore.

  Not when I knew, in just a few seconds, those breath-stealing blue eyes would turn back to stone.

  He called me “Fairy Lights” because of the one change I’d made to my accommodations. In the small carriage house where his father let me stay, I’d hung string lights all around the beams and posts.

  “You’re going to burn this whole property down,” Van scoffed when he saw them. I loved how they made him look: painted in soft light across his front, with deep, cold shadows wrapping behind his back like a marble statue.

  “Dangerous,” he called them, and flicked one of the bulbs.

  Now, as he set me on my feet and stomped away, I wished we could go b
ack to that night, or any of the ones before. I wanted to ask if he’d sleep in my bed again.

  Somehow, he kept the nightmares away.

  As he left, he drew his harmonica from his pocket. A lonesome symphony crawled after him that taunted my heart to follow. But I didn’t.

  It was good that Van didn’t climb into bed with me, anymore. I had to get used to the dreams.

  We had to get used to living without each other.

  Maybe the lights were dangerous. All that dead timber, ready to explode in the combined heat of a thousand tiny glows.

  Still, I loved them. Endless crisscrosses, bright white and twinkling, like a wash of stars I felt I could control. They brought a feeling of safety I needed too much to doubt or dissect.

  That’s what I liked about Van Durham-Andresco: he made me feel safe, even though I didn’t know why. Even though he was a dead, hollow carving, easily ignited.

  Back then, I didn’t know much about this world. But I knew I wanted to be the one to set him aflame.

  I had no idea that one day, years from now, I would.

  But not before he’d strike a match, touch it to the edge of my paper heart…and watch me burn first.

  One

  Present Day

  My watch beeps. Time to post.

  I look at my options: the lackluster sunrise before me that looks like a faded lawn flamingo, or the bowl of soggy Froot Loops in my lap I’m eating for breakfast. And that I ate for dinner last night, and lunch before that.

  As soon as the sky’s bright enough, I throw open the rear doors of my Ford Transit, stretch my legs out on the mattress, and snap a picture.

  Yoga, coffee, gas pedal. But first: sunrise.

  For good measure, I add some heart emojis that sort of match the colors of the sky. My hotspot is iffy, but I eventually get enough signal to hit Share.

  Right away, some comments and Likes ping through. I silence the notifications for now, then throw the Transit in gear.

  Eloise is almost as old as I am. This August, when I turn twenty-two, she’ll be clocking in at nineteen years and 160,000 miles.

  That’s the only reason I don’t get angry when, at the bottom of the access road, she starts chugging.

  “Come on, girl.” I slap her dash like a stubborn horse’s rump. “You can do this. Get me to Lake Linon, and you can rest for a whole week.”

  She groans, but soon I feel the front tires bounce out of the dip in the flattened gravel, and we’re on our way.

  I turn on my iPod when I hit the highway, hoping to distract myself from the line of cars continuously forming behind, then gunning it around, my vehicle. One woman flips me off as she passes, her stick-figure family decal shrinking in the exhaust fumes.

  Anger rises in my chest, but I take a few breaths and let it go. No point getting mad. The moment’s passed.

  Janis Joplin floods the car, which helps. My mother used to play Cheap Thrills and Pearl on a Walkman we’d hooked to two little speakers that sat on either side of our books—all ten of them. She’d gotten the CDs from her mother for Christmas when she was fourteen, she told me, because my grandmother thought it was time she learned what good music really sounded like.

  I always loved that story. It made me miss the grandparents I’d never known, and a life that was never mine.

  Today, as it often does, it occurs to me that I could sing along. There’s no one to stop me. No one to catch us.

  No “us” at all.

  Instead, I change it to a podcast and ignore the echoes of “Cry Baby” in my head, all the way to a visitors’ center near the lake.

  The lot is nearly empty. Inside, what few people there are don’t even glance at me.

  It’s rare that I get recognized, which is exactly how I like it. Being a travel blogger is fun and all, but I don’t treat it like a jetpack to fame. Just a way to make some cash while I take the big, hazy question mark that is my life and turn it into a winding road. Sure, I have no idea where it’s going…but might as well have fun finding out.

  The pamphlets are jammed haphazardly into the rack. I grab whatever looks interesting or useful: four bed-and-breakfasts that would make good blog posts, a few parks, and an awful wax museum that claims to have every president’s exact likeness on display.

  Doubtful, since one glimpse of their Rutherford B. Hayes proves they specialize in nightmare fuel, not history—but I take the pamphlet, anyway. Might be a decent laugh.

  With who?

  Fair enough. Traveling alone sounds thrilling and limitless, but you quickly realize some things just aren’t as much fun on your own. I put that pamphlet back.

  After stretching for a while, I use the bathroom and stock up on Powerades from a vending machine. The guy behind me curses under his breath when he discovers I took all the White Cherry ones.

  “Oh…here.” Cradling the drinks like squirming babies, I tilt one towards him. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I grabbed them all.”

  Surprised, he thanks me and takes it. When he offers me money, I shake my head with a smile. It’s the least I can do after depleting the supply. Ensuring good karma, I guess you’d call it.

  “At least let me help you carry them.” His eyes sweep the lot. “Are you here by yourself?”

  Alarm bells clang in my head. Not really about him, since he’s young. Sixteen or so. I saw him hop out of his family’s RV when I left the building.

  But still: never admit you’re alone. Especially if you’re a woman.

  Especially when there’s no one out there who’d miss you if you were gone.

  “My mom’s waiting for me in our van,” I tell him, starting down the path, “but thanks. Have a nice day.”

  “You too.” He waves with the Powerade, condensation droplets flinging left and right in the early sun. I let out my held breath once I’m back at Eloise, doors locked.

  Two hours later, I arrive at the lake. The campground employee informs me everything on the scenic side is taken, but there are a few spots open on the other side.

  “You still get beautiful views of the water,” he assures me, “just not the shallower parts and docks. If you like hiking, that’s definitely the place to be.”

  I hesitate. The east side of the lake was my top choice, for safety reasons. It’s pretty much just families in that area.

  “Is anyone else there?” I ask.

  He checks a list on the desk. “Nope. It’d be all yours, maybe even through your entire stay. Most folks turn around if the east side’s full.”

  “I guess that’s okay.” I take my placard with a smile I’m not sure I mean.

  The road to my camping spot is a mess of rogue ivy, gravel, and fallen branches that clunk the undercarriage like hail thrown from the ground. I apologize to the vehicle under my breath, but what I’m really doing is asking karma to cut me some slack. Paying for a new van is not in the cards.

  At my spot, I hit the brakes. Hard.

  A van is already there.

  Its windowless, mud-caked doors stare at me like I’m the intruder. I park a few feet behind it on a rise and climb out.

  “Uh...hello?” I rap my knuckles on the driver’s side window, which is blacked out with some definitely-not-legal tinting. “I think—”

  No. Don’t kneecap your sentences.

  Clearing my throat, I fix my posture and try again. “This is my spot.”

  Silence. With my hands cupped around my eyes, I peer in, only to get a foggy close-up of my own pores and squinting stare. Great.

  Hopping off the running board, I step back to assess the situation.

  Thing is, the person didn’t actually park in my spot: they’re way too far forward, past the signs warning DO NOT PARK PAST THIS POINT. The van blocks my view of the lake, but doesn’t actually prevent me from setting up camp.

  With a few cleansing breaths, I decide to live with the annoyance—for now.

  After making sure they’ll have enough room to turn and leave, I gather wood for tonight’s fire, set u
p my makeshift patio of a flannel blanket and some outdoor pillows, then go on the hunt for some matches.

  The Transit is maximized for storage. Good for fitting my entire life into a mobile box…but not so good for finding the little things. Exasperated after five drawers, I open a lower compartment I rarely use, surprised to find my hiking boots.

  The bottoms are still dirty from the last time I wore them: close to a year ago, during my tour of Red Clay in Tennessee. I didn’t stay long. It was fun learning about Cherokee tribes, but hearing the phrase “council meetings” over and over got old fast.

  I set them aside to keep looking, but my eyes wander back.

  That guy did say this side of the lake is great for hiking.

  It’s not my favorite activity, just because trekking through the woods alone can be dangerous…but so is trekking cross-country in a van. And that certainly hasn’t stopped me.

  Besides, I reason, while I loosen the laces and kick off my Tevas, this lake is hardly the wilderness. Generations of families have made this destination their traditional vacation spot, which means what little nature remains is a watered-down, commercialized version. The trails can’t be but so brutal.

  And who knows? Maybe this van will magically disappear while I’m gone.

  I shut and lock Eloise, put my lanyard in my shorts pocket, and start up the first trail I find.

  To dust you shall return.