Cold Hearts Read online

  Cold Hearts

  A Heartbreaker Prequel

  Stella Hart

  Copyright © 2018 by Stella Hart

  All rights reserved.

  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.

  Contents

  Disclaimer

  1. Celeste

  2. Celeste

  3. Celeste

  4. Alex

  More Information…

  Disclaimer

  Stella Hart is the dark romance pen name of rom-com author Alessandra Hart.

  1

  Celeste

  Pain and pleasure, like light and darkness, succeed each other.’

  ― Laurence Sterne

  October 13th, 2016

  “Ah!”

  I winced and paused my solitary morning jog in Frick Park, rubbing my back as a sharp and all too familiar pain descended over my shoulders and crept down my spine. I’d only just started on a trail alongside Nine Mile Run a few minutes ago, and already the nagging, burning sensation was setting in.

  It wasn’t from the run. It’d been hurting like this on and off for a while now, ever since I got a massage at a supposedly-exclusive salon in Shadyside that my best friend Samara had treated me and our other girlfriends to as part of a birthday celebration for one of the girls.

  At first I thought it was just a pulled muscle in my upper back and ignored the pain for a few days, but then the days stretched into weeks. Now it’d almost been two months, and the pain was still lingering. I wasn’t sure why it was taking so long to heal, whatever it was, but it had to get better soon.

  I tried to brush it aside and started running again, my chest heaving with deep breaths as I made my way down the trail. This particular area was my favorite part of the park to run in. Built over an old industrial waste site, it was hard to believe the land had recovered and grown into the rest of the park in such a relatively short period of time. But it had, and it was astonishing. Beautiful.

  I’d been exercising here before work and classes nearly every day for the last three years, and every time, I discovered something I hadn’t noticed before. Last time, I’d stopped near the restored wetland under the Commercial St. Bridge before my run and spotted a gorgeous blue damselfly amongst the rainbow of insects. Today, I was sure to see something equally beautiful, as the park was a big, sprawling place filled with spectacular wildlife and a majestic canopy of trees. Peaceful and stimulating at the same time.

  I slowed my pace as the trail took me high above the stream and directly past a pretty array of yellow maples. They only looked like this in the fall, so in my opinion, this was the best time of year to hike or run here. Having said that, the whole park was always a magical place to take in. It was filled with maples, red oaks, and black cherry trees, some of them centuries old and all of them magnificent. Even the ground was beautiful with its verdant grasses, ferns, and nettles, along with the pale green lichens growing on myriad rocks and logs, lending the place an air of ancient mystique.

  Sometimes I found it hard to believe such an incredible space with all these lush green fields and winding trails was situated right here, so close to the hard steel and concrete of the city. So close to all that grime and chaos. Whenever that occurred to me, I’d stop and stare around in wonder, savoring the sweet escape from the gritty realities of urban life.

  Speaking of stopping… I paused again to rub my back as a sharp pain near my right shoulder blade made me wince for the second time today. Usually running hard and fast caused an oddly-satisfying aching in my chest and legs which temporarily masked the pain in my back, but today it felt worse than ever, and running wasn’t helping this time. Now I was starting to get seriously worried. Perhaps that massage therapist had somehow torn some crucial part of me, and it would take months before it healed.

  If it ever healed.

  I had no idea what the deal was, but the pain was beginning to play on my mind as well as my body. If I didn’t see someone about it soon, I might very well drive myself crazy with all the worry and questions.

  Enough was enough. I took a deep breath and decided to book an appointment to see a doctor as soon as I got home from work this afternoon. The student health center at my college had free basic services, so I had no excuse not to go.

  Spying something out of the corner of my eye a few seconds later, I slowed my pace to a walk and made my way off the trail to crouch down and take a closer look. Someone had installed a fairy door in the hollow of a dead oak tree. My mother once told me that the little doors were a part of Irish folklore, and someone—presumably someone with Irish heritage—had taken it upon themselves to set up a whole lot of them in the entrances of tree hollows around Pittsburgh parks, most notably Frick.

  I took a step forward and reached down to touch the tentatively-placed wooden door. As I did so, I accidentally stumbled over an exposed tree root and inadvertently pressed a little too hard. The door teetered, then fell down into the dank hollow with a thump.

  “Shit...”

  I drew my hand back and guiltily glanced around, immediately struck with a strange sense that someone was watching me and saw me push over the little door. I instantly regretted touching it. According to my mom, disturbing a fairy door was meant to bring bad luck. Even though I wasn’t usually a superstitious person, I still felt bad for knocking it down, and to tell the truth, I could use all the luck I could get right now. I definitely couldn’t afford more bad luck, anyway. That was for sure.

  I looked around again, unable to shake the stark feeling that someone was standing nearby, watching me. But there was no one around. The trail was totally empty, save for a couple of blue jays on a nearby branch.

  “Weird,” I muttered to myself, blowing out a puff of frigid air as I waited for my heart to stop pounding.

  I did my best to pull the toppled fairy door back up from the mossy ground inside the tree hollow, placing it back at the entrance. Then I crept back to the trail and began to run again, faster than ever, practically flying over the grassy path. This time the exhilarating runner’s ache in my legs drowned out the strange pain in my shoulders, and I smiled faintly and breathed a deep sigh of relief, drawing more of the crisp morning air into my lungs.

  After finally turning around and making my way back up the trail, I trudged over to where I’d parked outside the Irish Center. My teeth chattered as I started my old car, praying it wouldn’t break down again this week, and I turned the radio on and began the journey to the home improvement store I worked at on Tuesdays and Thursdays. My hands began to tremble too. I sighed and turned my car’s crappy heater up to full blast, hoping it would warm up soon.

  When I was out running and finding my way through the hiking trails in the park, I barely registered the cold because the heart-pumping physical exertion kept me warm. Now that I was sitting still as I drove, I was freezing. The weather outside was classic Pittsburgh, damp and cool, but today was wetter and colder than usual for this time of year—probably somewhere around forty degrees, maybe even less. The dreary grey sky was filled with fat, angry clouds, and when I drove over the Monongahela on my way to work, I could see countless flecks of white on the choppy surface as nasty winds flung the river water around.

  Even though we were only a month or so into fall, we’d received a few inches of snow a few days ago, and the weather report said it would snow again soon. Snow during fall wasn’t unheard of here; in fact it was a fairly common occurrence. But this much so soon in October—along with the far harsher than usual temperatures—was really pushing the envelope. It felt more like the start of winter than the
midpoint of fall. Damn climate change.

  “…so after this many years, there hasn’t been a single development? He’s out there, literally ripping people’s hearts out, and they tell us there’s no need to feel unsafe walking the streets! It’s ridiculous,” came a shrill feminine voice from the radio. “How am I supposed to feel safe, knowing he’s still prowling around, and they’re no closer to catching him?”

  The radio talk show host made sounds of approval as the woman talked. “Couldn’t agree more, Annie,” he replied when she was done ranting. His thick, nasal voice grated on my nerves. “But you have to wonder why he chose to kill those co—”

  I swiftly reached out and turned the radio off.

  After a grueling shift at the store, I headed home to my place in Larimer. It wasn’t the absolute worst neighborhood, but it certainly wasn’t the best, either. Crimes were aplenty and many abandoned lots and grimy rundown houses with boarded-up windows littered the area. Things were beginning to turn around with recent community developments, though, and I’d never had too many problems with living in the area despite its reputation.

  A few minutes later, I pulled into my spot on the street outside my rented house on Mayflower. It was a tiny and ancient Craftsman-style bungalow with a sagging porch and paint peeling off the grey exterior. Not the nicest place, but it was cheap as hell and actually afforded me quite a lot of privacy considering the low cost. Set relatively far back from the road on a little block which was situated next to an overgrown empty lot, it was surrounded on three sides by an old, nearly broken-down chain-link fence, a row of unruly hedges, and tall hemlocks.

  On the fourth side was a wrought iron fence that bordered on my neighbor’s block. She was a nice old lady who never gave me grief or came out to bother me, unless you decided to count all the times she peeked at me through her curtains before running out to reserve my parking spot for me with an old lawn chair. That wasn’t a bother at all; it was actually really sweet how she’d keep an eye out for me and dash outside to place the lawn chair there almost every time I left home in the morning. For a woman who appeared to be in her late seventies, Cora was actually quite sprightly.

  Other than that, I had peace and quiet. Much better than my old apartment near college, which I’d shared with two other girls I met through a roommate-finder website. That little shoebox of a place was surrounded by loud neighbors and shrieking kids, which didn’t exactly make it easy for me to concentrate on studying and essay-writing, let alone relaxing after a shattering day lugging things around at work.

  “It never ends, does it?” I said out loud to no one at all as I stepped inside and threw my bag down. Even though it was late in the afternoon, I still had to book my doctor’s appointment, finish an essay for a college criminology class, and visit my mother at the hospital. Even though I was sluggish from my day already and wanted to curl up into a ball on the couch, I had to pull through.

  Mom needed me.

  Trying to perk myself up, I quickly showered, changed, and made the appointment, then grabbed a small bouquet of pink camellias I’d picked from my parents’ garden when I went around there yesterday. Camellias were usually considered to be more of a Southern flower, but there were a few varieties that could survive in our hardiness zone. The ones that grew in the garden on my parents’ property were so tough that they even pushed through in the freezing cold of winter, blooming with vivid pink flowers that appeared even brighter against the snowy white backdrop.

  I tried to avoid my parents’ place as much as possible these days, for a multitude of reasons, but the garden with its robust pink flowers always drew me back eventually. Somehow, the little flowers made me feel more optimistic about life with their quiet strength and persistence.

  If they could pull through the hard times, then I could too.

  I carefully placed the bouquet on my passenger seat before pulling out onto the potholed road. In my rear view mirror, I could see Cora running out to place the lawn chair in my spot already. The sun had emerged from its hiding spot amongst the grey clouds, but it was beginning to dip below the horizon behind her as it slowly set. The light made her white hair appear to be a brilliant shade of orange. It suited her.

  “Bye, dear!” she called out. “Hope you’ve got a jacket!”

  I briefly turned around and smiled with a nod and a wave, making a mental note to take her some of the choc chip cookies I’d baked yesterday when I had a rare few minutes to myself. Then I was off, cruising through the city on my way to Morrison Wright Memorial Hospital, where my mother had been laid up for several months now. It was a fairly new hospital in one of the nicer neighborhoods, and despite the steep cost, it was worth it for the stellar treatment. My mother probably would’ve died some time ago if it weren’t for the amazing doctors and nurses working at Morrison.

  It was getting dark by the time I arrived at the hospital. The ER’s entrance sign cast an eerie blood-red glow into my car as I drove past it on my way through to the visitor parking lot. It made me shudder, the color reminding me of my mother’s recent health scare—a gastrointestinal bleed as a result of something rupturing. It was a common occurrence in end stage liver disease. She’d been treated for it as best as the doctors could manage, but I knew not to hold out too much hope. She was marching closer and closer to death with each day that passed. I suppose I should be grateful for how slowly the long, cold days crawled by in fall and winter, because it made it feel like I had more time with her, even though I knew I didn’t.

  After hitting several potholes in the supposedly new parking lot—typical—I found a spot and headed into the hospital’s palliative care unit, where they’d moved my mother a few weeks ago. The woman at the admin desk smiled and waved me through without making me sign anything. They knew me here by now. After all, I visited almost every other day.

  My footsteps echoed my heartbeat as I stepped down the tiled hallway, growing quicker as I hurried toward Mom’s room. I was impatient to see her face, but when I reached the room, I stopped outside for a moment, a nervous pit quickly forming in my stomach. I felt it every time I came here.

  Would it be the last time? Would I even get this time, or was she somehow already gone? If not, was she in terrible pain?

  These questions haunted me every time I lingered on this threshold, but I knew the longer I remained frozen in fear, the less time I had with her. We had a lot of making up to do, so the more time I could get, the better.

  Swallowing hard, I lightly knocked on the door, then finally stepped inside. A tall, dark-haired doctor in navy blue scrubs was in deep conversation with a petite redheaded nurse on one side of the room. Their backs were turned to me, and they seemed to be talking about a chart in the doctor’s hand.

  The nurse turned at the sound of my footsteps. Her face warmed with a smile as she recognized me. “Celeste, good to see you again.” She stepped over to me and lowered her voice. “She’s asleep right now, but she’s been out for a while. She’ll probably wake up soon.”

  I nodded. “How is she?”

  Her smile faltered. I knew what that meant. “Dr. Magnusson has given her something for the pain. She’s weak but as comfortable as she can be right now. Don’t worry.”

  “I thought painkillers weren’t good for people with liver cirrhosis. Something about the metabolism of drugs?”

  She put her hand on my shoulder. “You’ve been Googling again, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. I can’t help it.”

  “I understand. Everyone does it these days. Anyway, to answer your question, opioids need to be used with caution in cases like this, but they can be used as long as they’re given in lower doses with extended intervals. We’re monitoring her carefully for any side effects.”

  I forced a shaky, grateful smile. “Thank you,” I said. I bit my bottom lip, then choked my next words out, my voice barely above a whisper. “How long does she have?”

  “It’s difficult to tell,” the nurse replied, her voice softer and low
er now. “But we’d say anywhere between one to six months.”

  I nodded but didn’t reply. My throat suddenly felt too swollen, and my tongue seemed to be paralyzed. Glancing over at Mom’s bed, I took in her appearance. She was thin, far too thin, and her skin was yellowed from jaundice. Her hands were tightly clasped together on her chest as she slept, but I could see they were shaking with tremors. Her chest rose and fell with short, wheezing rattles. I knew each breath came with great difficulty.

  She’d been in this state for quite some time. It’d been over two years since she was first diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver, and things had gone drastically downhill from there. Her prognosis was only good if she stood a chance to get a liver transplant, but she wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list right now, so the odds of her getting one within the one to six month window were low.

  Basically, I’d been told to prepare myself for her imminent death.

  I guess I couldn’t find it too surprising. No one else did. Mom drank like a fish for years and years, and from around the age of five or six onwards, nearly every memory I had was marked by an image of her with a bottle or wine glass in one hand. Part of me didn’t blame her, given what we’d gone through in the past, but another part of me resented her for a long time. She’d made my childhood very difficult with her rampant alcoholism.

  Not only had she failed to be there for me as a parent on many occasions when I desperately needed her, she’d also blown through a lot of the family money, leaving me in the lurch for a lot of things. It wasn’t all spent on booze, of course. Alcohol wasn’t that expensive. It was the rest of the things she bought when she was drunk, which was most of the time. Never cheap things, either. Designer clothes, overpriced purses, expensive jewelry, new cars. One time she even somehow managed to buy a hunting cabin upstate near the game lands just south of the national forest, despite the fact we weren’t hunters and never went near the game lands.