Page 2 of Broken Pieces

Chapter One

Raelynn

I fish fifty dollars out of my pocket to pay the cab that drove me in from Chattanooga. I slam the door shut behind me after crawling out of the backseat.

I'm nervous.

Beyond nervous.

I haven’t talked to my brother, Easton, since we had a huge fight back in December when I temporarily stayed with him for a week. I know he can’t be that mad at me that he won’t let me back in his house since he has continued to send me money the last six months. But I haven’t heard one word from him, not even a text or a letter. Part of me thinks that he forgot about the bank account he had set up for me. I am standing across the street from his auto shop, but I can’t find the courage to go in.

I walk toward The Scrambled Egg, the diner of an old friend, thinking she might be more willing to help me than Easton. But I see that pretty girl in there with the blonde hair that greeted me last November when I tried to come back to White Creek. That girl tore Easton apart and I could only hope that her presence here meant she had returned for him. It gave me the false sense of hope that Easton would let me back in, let me live in the house I grew up in that I missed more than I realized.

I scratch at my arms, the itch reminding me of days not so long gone. The need is present, but I can’t find that cure here in White Creek. And I had made a promise to myself that I would stop when I returned. The reflection of my face off the paint of a parked car gives me another reason not to walk into the diner. Too many questions about what happened and why I came back.

Instead, I make the bad decision of limping across the street and into Sawyer's. It's only noon, so Trace, Easton's best friend and owner of the bar, probably won’t be working. A few shots of vodka should give me some courage. I push my hair over the side of my face that’s bruised and walk through the door.

Perfect. It's practically empty in here.

I have no idea who the bartender is and he seems to be preoccupied with the three other patrons in the bar, deep in conversation. I walk to the other end of the bar and wait to order. Luckily my face is hidden well enough, or the bartender doesn’t care, but he just gives me my order and walks away.

My mind starts to go foggy, but the itch has finally diminished. I've managed to keep to myself in the corner without one soul bothering me. I glance around and notice the bar has picked up a bit. Maybe I should leave here before anyone recognizes me. I order one more drink and slam it down. Liquid courage has always been my greatest supporter. But just as I am about to leave, some guys around my age start talking to me and buy me a drink.

I stay.

I laugh. A lot. I don’t remember having this much fun in a long time. I don’t remember their names or how long we've been sitting here drinking. This is the old me. The pre-Logan Raelynn. The girl everyone wanted to be friends with. The life of the party.

I laugh some more as the guy on my left tells a joke. The one to my right puts his hand on my leg and I brush it off. But after a few minutes, he replaces it and pushes it higher up my leg. I start to panic. I need to get out of here. I start to stumble as I get up to use the bathroom. I swear that one of them follows me but when I look behind me, I don’t see anyone. I make it into the bathroom stall and go to wash my hands, but I trip over my own feet and fall and everything goes black.

---