Love the Way You Lie

Love the Way You Lie Boys of Riverside Gracie Graham Copyright This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Copyright © February, 2023 by Gracie Graham All rights reserved. Dedication To my husband, who has witnessed both the joy and agony of my writing and encourages me through it all. Thanks, babe. Contents 1. Chapter 1 2. Chapter 2 3. Chapter 3 4. Chapter 4 5. Chapter 5 6. Chapter 6 7. Chapter 7 8. Chapter 8 9. Chapter 9 10. Chapter 10 11. Chapter 11 12. Chapter 12 13. Chapter 13 14. Chapter 14 15. Chapter 15 16. Chapter 16 17. Chapter 17 18. Chapter 18 19. Chapter 19 20. Chapter 20 21. Chapter 21 22. Chapter 22 23. Chapter 23 24. Chapter 24 25. Chapter 25 26. Chapter 26 27. Chapter 27 28. Chapter 28 29. Chapter 29 30. Chapter 30 31. Chapter 31 32. Chapter 32 33. Chapter 33 34. Chapter 34 35. Chapter 35 36. Chapter 36 37. Chapter 37 Become VIP About Gracie Acknowledgments Chapter 1 MACKENZIE Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if I were dead. Weightless. Floating in the dark. Mind blank. I imagine what my father’s life would be like with me gone and wonder how much better it would be without the constant fear that tragedy could strike again and take me away, too. Sometimes I conjure up images of heaven. But mostly, I imagine the nothingness of it all. The stillness. Ever since the accident, I’m not sure what I believe about the afterlife anymore, so these dreams are dependent on my mood. They’re constantly changing shape, although, I’d like to think there’s more after this life–that my mother’s someplace else, looking down on me. I slide into the seat of my car. The leather is hot, and my shirt instantly sticks to my back. Pressure fills my chest, and my stomach turns with the overwhelming urge to vomit, but I push it back down. Closing my eyes, I clench my hands around the steering wheel and breathe. It’s all I can do to keep from bolting as blood pounds in my ears. Once I’m able to open them again, I grip the keys in my hands a little tighter while the four-leaf clover key chain dangles from my fist, mocking me. I want to put the keys in the ignition, turn the radio up and pull out of my driveway with the music pumping like I used to; not a care in the world. I want to place one hand on the steering wheel while I cruise down the interstate, the wind whipping through my hair. But I can’t. I can’t bring myself to start my car, any more than I can will myself to remember. The rumbling of an engine behind me breaks through my ominous thoughts and I jerk my head up, glancing in the rearview mirror to see my dad’s cruiser. Busted. I wipe my damp palms on the front of my jeans and get out of the car at the same time he does. We share our dark hair, but that’s where the similarities stop. His is streaked with silver, but the hazel eyes staring back at me are unlike my own because the ice blues eyes I inherited from my mother are cool and crisp like polar caps. His belt hangs on his hips. Only the butt of his gun and the radio are visible as he slams his car door closed. The static sound of the dispatcher fills the quiet air as she relays a message to one of the officers before Dad has a chance to click it off. And when he takes a step toward me, his expression transforms instantly. His worry is revealed by his frown, creased forehead, and the crow’s feet by his eyes. “Mackenzie,” he starts, his gaze flickering to my car, “everything okay?” “Uh, yeah. Just . . .” I hook a thumb back toward the car with a sigh, “seeing if anything’s changed.” “Has it?” I shake my head, disappointed in myself, and the sympathy in my father’s eyes nearly cripples me. “All in good time,” he says, placing a hand on my shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Right.” I offer him a smile that doesn’t quite fit. It’s almost been a year, I want to say. But I don’t. Because he doesn’t need a reminder, and because the passing of time changes nothing. I haven’t been able to drive since the accident—can barely even bring myself to sit behind the wheel. “Anyway, I thought maybe we’d order a pizza, rent a movie or something. What do you say? I even bought some of that red licorice you like from the Sugar Shack on my way home.” My smile fades from my face. “Dad, it’s Friday . . .” He rocks back on his heels, his thumbs hooked in his belt, and I can tell he remembers but is trying to find an excuse, any excuse, to keep me here tonight—at home. Where I’ll be safe. “You promised, Dad,” I remind him. He exhales and runs a hand over his face, then stares off into the distance, gaze trained on the front door where the same floral wreath Mom put up a year ago still hangs. “Yeah, I know I did.” He pauses as if the next words out of his mouth cause him pain. “But are you sure you’re ready for this?” I’ve been ready, I want to scream. It’s you who isn’t. But