Physical
Distraction
A Sinful Suspense Novel
Tess Oliver
Physical Distraction
Copyright© 2015 by Tess Oliver
Cover Image by FuriousFotog
Cover Model: Tyler Halligan
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter13
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
Epilogue
Tess Oliver
Chapter 1
Tashlyn
It was the kind of scar that was so hard to look at, you couldn’t look away. It was the kind of scar that made you flinch because it was impossible to fathom the amount of pain that had come with it. It was the kind of scar that changed a person’s life. I had that kind of scar too. Only the pain that I’d endured had not been acute but rather a long, drawn-out stretch of hurt and confusion. And my scar was invisible to other people’s eyes, to other people’s pity. I was thankful for that.
The girl spun around with her grape slush held high in her right hand. The grim ridges of pink, puckered scars had erased the knuckles of her hand as they smeared along what had once been the smooth skin of her forearm and upper arm, disappearing beneath the sleeve of her t-shirt and reappearing again on her right thigh. I was no expert, but it seemed there was only one monster that could do such horrific damage to a human and that was fire.
The girl’s bright blue eyes smiled with confidence. “I highly recommend this,” she said pointing to the slush with the long fingers of her left hand, an unmarred version of the right. “It leaves your lips and teeth stained purple, but it’s totally worth it.” She spoke to me as if we were good friends rather than two strangers standing at a roadside burger stand. Something told me she spoke to everyone she met in the same neighborly tone. Even with one leg encased in the thick, unwieldy scar, she walked past me with a graceful stride.
“Thanks. I think I’ll take you up on your suggestion,” I called to her. “I don’t mind a little purple on my teeth.”
She looked back at me with a triumphant grin, obviously pleased with herself for having set another person on the right path toward the proper refreshment choice.
The bus driver honked his horn once to let us know that we had five minutes until departure.
I was at the end of my long trip, a journey that would more than likely prove to be a big, fat zero. I was chasing vapors, streams of memory that had evaporated into a mist that only occasionally solidified and rarely ever made any sense. But the missing chunk of my life, that piece of my history, the only dark spot in my existence, had left a hole in my heart and in my soul. My Aunt Carly had filled in most of the hollow with unconditional love and a wonderful childhood, abundant with books, art, music and laughter. But there was still a void to fill, questions to answer. Carly, with all her usual thoughtful understanding, had stood at the bus stop, hugging me good-bye through a hurricane of tears and sobs. She’d promised not to worry too much, and I’d promised to write her every day.
It had been hard leaving behind The Grog, an off-the-grid commune of artisans, craftsmen and self-proclaimed philosophers, people who, like my Aunt Carly, had found true happiness living off the land and worshipping nature and all the beauty that came with it. Carly had become my accidental guardian after my dad, my only other family member, died when his delivery truck veered off the road. I was seven and my life up to that horrible heartbreak had been perfectly wonderful.
For the last sixteen years, Aunt Carly had stepped into the emptiness that my dad left behind. But the brief space of time between his death and the bizarre day when I’d found myself alone and confused, wearing a forest ranger’s coat and sipping a chocolate milk in the middle of a ranger station, had been lost forever, gone, as if someone had reached into my skull and erased that section of memory just like the flames had erased the smiling girl’s knuckles.
While some people traveled across country to meet up with long lost relatives or to fill their picture albums with amazing memories, I’d packed my khaki duffle with my thrift store clothes, my blank postcards and Aunt Carly’s homemade molasses muffins and hopped on a bus in search of some independence and that missing chunk of time. I wasn’t delusional. I knew I’d probably never find what I was looking for, and that was all right. I wasn’t worried about failing. In fact, I was far more worried about succeeding. Something deep inside, some instinctual form of self-preservation, had blacked out those memories. Uncovering them terrified me.
I ordered my very purple, very frosty drink and took it from the woman behind the counter. The first sip did not disappoint. Artificial colors and artificial flavors had been strictly prohibited in The Grog. I’d always found it slightly humorous and more than a little hypocritical that drug induced highs from mushrooms and opium were tolerated, but maple syrup from a plastic bottle was taboo.
I swirled my straw around in my cup and took another refreshing, completely artificial tasting sip. It momentarily carried me back to my kid years with my dad, back when I drank Kool-aid for dinner and prepared neon orange macaroni and cheese from a box.