The Fake Zone: A Fake Dating Sports Romance (Oleander Springs Series Book 3)

“I’m proud of you, Mila. And I hope you’re proud of yourself. How did you feel sharing Mal’s death with Grey? Talking about her again?”

My eyes are itchy and red. It’s Friday morning. Briggs and I now change the time we meet every week. It’s a pain in the ass for both of us, but he does it without complaint.

“Relieved but also a little embarrassed. I puked.”

“Is that why you feel embarrassed?”

“It made me remember how weak I’d felt. How useless I’d felt.”

“Mila, you were barely seven. You weren’t weak. You were a child. What if that was Grey’s story? What if he lost a sister? Would you look at him differently? Would you think he was weak?”

I don’t respond.

Briggs nods as though he knows my answer, sees it in my eyes or pursed lips. It wouldn’t. “Giving him all the pieces of the puzzle will allow him to understand your boundaries and triggers.”

“I just wish I could be normal.”

His gaze lacks sympathy, instead determination fixes on me. “No one’s normal. Everyone is fighting their own battles. You’re a warrior, Mila. Never forget that. Now that you’ve shared this trauma, it’s a good idea to spend time taking care of your inner child. Remind her that she’s safe and loved, and assure her she didn’t do a damn thing wrong.” His eyes fill with tears.

My emotions mirror his, blurring my vision, though my jaw flexes obstinately. I hate exercises that require working on my inner child.

“You were seven, Mila,” he reminds me again, more adamantly.

I sniff, wiping at tears with my fingers.

My dream has haunted me since Wednesday. It’s been difficult to fall asleep because I fear I’ll have the same nightmare. Even awake, I think of my bloody handprint on the glass, the smell of that house, Mal’s purple shoes, and the stained walls.

“My dream felt so real, Briggs. I could remember the way the house smelled and how the carpet was always rough and dirty against my feet. I could picture it like I was there. Details I had forgotten about.”

“Several people had asked about your scars. It probably wrestled the memory loose.”

I nod and try to ignore the restless feeling that consumes me each time I think about the dream. I can’t understand why I couldn’t see Mal. Why she wasn’t in the memory, considering I’d stared and screamed at her until my voice went hoarse.

“I didn’t come today just to tell you about Mal and this mini breakthrough that happened because of you.”

Briggs wipes a tear from his cheek. “This was all you, Mila. All I can do is teach you. You took the steps. Don’t forget it.”

Watching him fight his emotions makes more tears form and my throat to tighten. Briggs isn’t the first grown man to shed tears over my story, though I’d prefer he be the last.

“I have a friend date next week. It was supposed to be tonight, but Katie got sick so we’re rescheduling.”

His grin turns authentic as he dries the corner of his eyes. It makes me more uncomfortable than it should. Emotions always do.

I glance at the clock on the wall, realizing we’re a couple of minutes past time.

“Are you doing something special for Valentine’s tomorrow?” I ask, sliding my coat on.

“Mila,” Briggs says, not moving. “I’m proud of you, and I care about you, and I think you’re amazing.”

Positive affirmations from others have always been difficult for me, which is why Briggs peppers them into our sessions.

Tears warm my eyes again. “Thanks, Briggs.”

He nods.

My emotions have me feeling more exhausted than my past couple of days of gym workouts, where Mackey has seemed nearly vicious. I have a hunch he’s waiting for me to admit I can’t or won’t. Little does he know my stubborn flag has a concrete base buried so deeply even I can’t always find it.

I step outside and turn both ways, taking in the parking lot, the street beyond it, and the sidewalks.

Mackey has been drilling into me that I need to be aware of my surroundings. I always thought I was aware, just like I thought I’d be a guard dog—or an alley cat—if someone ever bothered me. But I’ve realized our conscious and subconscious minds aren’t always on the same page or in the same chapter or even the same book.

The parking lot isn’t as full as Tuesday evenings when I sometimes have to park at the opposite end of the building. Nerves and adrenaline spike my blood as I cross to my car, my head on a swivel as Mackey instructs, paying attention to everything that moves.

I slip into my car and lock my doors before I’m situated. The leather seats are warm, easing my racing heart. Earlier this week, everything was frosted, but this morning, it’s nearly seventy. Locals joke it’s normal for snow to wash away the pollen at least once during the spring.

For a long time, I refused to see any faults in Oleander Springs, appreciating everything it offered and gave me. Recently, though, my thoughts have been drifting to what I want after graduating and where I want to live. It has my thoughts turning to Grey, wondering if he has a preference for where he plays.

I release a heavy sigh and grab my phone so I can send an update. It seems like I have a dozen group chats now, half of which are used to check in and update each other on our whereabouts. Already, we’re using them less.

I open the one with Grey, Hudson, and Evelyn. All three are in class, but I text them anyway, per our agreement, letting them know I’m leaving and am stopping at the store for socks and granola bars. I go through socks twice as fast since I began working out.

I ease my car onto the main road, vigilant about noting every vehicle around me.

I drive to Target, where I park near the back. Parking at the rear of a parking lot is a habit that formed shortly after my parents gifted me my Audi, and I parked in the front row and got door dinged—twice.

The sun is warm on my skin. Evelyn will appreciate the warm weather when we go running later with Hudson, and I know her asthma will, too.

Inside of Target, I grab the couple of items I came for and some additional things I’ll need if I stay at Grey’s much longer—extra shampoo, conditioner, face wash, as well as a waffle iron I plan to put to use tomorrow for Valentine’s Day. As I head to the front to checkout, anxiety flares in my body, triggered by the waffle iron and items for Grey’s.

I have no idea how long we’ll continue staying at the dorm. Last year, I stayed with Hudson until summer began. My parents had wanted me to come to California, and I’d been considering it until Evelyn arrived. Seeing her every day helped shove the shadows fear casts over my thoughts and convinced me to stay. But it’s February. I can’t stay with Grey until May—or I shouldn’t want to. The reality is his dorm feels comfortable, warm, cozy, and familiar. I miss my apartment, but I like the security the dorm lends, like that it smells like Grey, and that I wake up every morning tangled around him like a bedsheet.

I check out, return my cart, and head for the parking lot with the fierce determination to stop focusing on the future and be present. If I show up to the gym distracted and gloomy, Mackey and Cole will ensure I regret it.

I pop my trunk and am just about to set my bags inside when a flash of white lurches to a stop behind me. I turn as Julian jumps out of the driver’s seat, leaving his truck running and door open.

My opossum wants me to freeze.

“What are you doing?” I ask, realizing my car is already between us, my bags on the ground.

“Get in the truck,” he orders.

“What do you want?”

“My life back. Compensation for everything you took.” He moves with me, circling the car.

“I’m not whoever you think I am.”

“You’re Mila Phillips. I know exactly who you are.”

His claim is like a bomb detonating in my head, causing so much shrapnel I can’t make sense of the mess. No one in North Carolina aside from my parents and a handful of people know my last name was Phillips before my adoption.

Julian gains several inches on me, causing me to sprint to a nearby car to put a cushion between us. My guard dog is awake, nudging my opossum with its nose, telling me to run, scream, and hide. But I’m trying to grasp how he knows me, why he blames me.

He sneers, and recognition nearly blinds me. “You dated my mother.”

“And you sent me to prison.”

Anger explodes in my chest, nearly eclipsing my panic. I’ve read how adrenaline gives people superhuman strength in emergencies, and if there were ever an emergency, it seems like vengeance for Mal, for Julian Holloway blaming me, making me fear every dark space and corner should warrant an emergency, but as I shove at the car in front of me with both hands, it doesn’t flip over and crush him. It doesn’t even sway.

Emotions grip me with arguments, vindication, and an entire warehouse of questions starting with how in the hell he could blame a seven-year-old for his negligence.

“I was going to be out in four years, but your parents petitioned the judge to keep me there for eleven. Eleven years of my life because they said you were traumatized. Do you know what trauma is, bitch? Trauma is losing your entire life overnight. Trauma is sleeping in a cell meant for cattle for eleven fucking years. Trauma is guards watching you take a shit every goddamn day and having to watch your ass every second, so someone doesn’t rape or kill you. You know nothing about trauma.” He slaps the top of the car from where he stands across from me, and I see the glint of zip ties in his hand.

Mackey told me most guys aren’t used to getting back up after they take a hit, but I fear Julian might get up even if I were to hit him with my car, much less a strike to the face.

I glance toward the store knowing I need to be near people. As many people as possible.

“Try it. Try and outrun me.” Julian moves toward the rear of the car, anticipating my move.

My heart thunders. God, if there were ever a time I didn’t want to make a bet, it would be now.

I grip my purse, and turn the opposite direction, and sprint across the parking lot entrance and down the sidewalk, not daring to look back to see if he follows me. I run like my life depends on it, certain it does. I push myself and every limit and weakness as my legs, throat, and side ache.

I turn into a parking lot, aware that I can’t maintain this pace, and spot the red letters of Costco. Relief has me speeding forward. My shins and lungs burn, but I don’t dare slow down or stop until I reach the door, where I finally look behind me. Julian’s a few hundred feet away, hands on his knees, staring at me.

I quickly dig out my Costco card and slip inside. The familiarity and busy aisles do little to ease my duress. My heart is still careening in my chest as my thoughts cycle like a slot machine—my past, my future, his anger, the police, hide, run, Grey, the gym—everything is going too fast, preventing a complete thought.

I head down an aisle, peering over my shoulder every few feet. I go down two more aisles before stopping where something hasn’t been restocked. I slide into the empty space, tuck my knees against my chest, and try to will myself not to fall apart as I call Jon. I need help and answers, and Jon has been giving me both for nearly fourteen years.

It goes to voicemail, and I consider hanging up but don’t. “Dad, I have some questions I need you to answer. Waylon Klein is here in Oleander Springs. He’s Julian Holloway now. God. I had no idea. I didn’t recognize him. He’s furious. He feels like we owe him for the time he spent in prison. I don’t… I don’t know what to do.” I try to stop the building sob, but it tears out of my throat. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to scare or worry you guys. I’m fine. I just…” I want to tell him how Julian chased me, how I think he’d planned to kidnap and zip tie me and use me for ransom. “I love you. Call me.”

I sit for a moment and consider the questions I was asked the last time I went to the police station. Did Julian hurt me? Touch me? Threaten me? Can I prove he wants to kidnap me, or is this another game of he said, she said where he could claim he was stopping to help with no malintent?

I scroll down to the numbers Grey made me add and dial the first one.

“Mila?” Cole answers after the second ring.

I’m silent. I wasn’t expecting him to answer.

“Mila?”

“Can you come and get me?”

“Where are you?”

“Costco in Oleander Springs.”

“What happened?”

My throat thickens. “Julian pulled up while I was putting grocery bags into my car, and I ran.”

“Where’s your car?”

“In the Target parking lot, a couple of miles away. I don’t know if he’s waiting for me.”

Cole’s voice is muffled as though he’s covering the mouthpiece. “We’re coming,” he says, a second later. “Where are you now? Are you where people can see you?” In the background, a car engine revs.

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I need a minute.”

He doesn’t push me.

After a few minutes, I tell him what happened and where I’m hiding.

It should take him thirty minutes to reach me, but Cole arrives in half that. “I don’t have a membership card, but I’m right out front. Black SUV.”

I extricate myself from my hiding spot, my body stiff and fatigued. I look at everyone like a threat as I make my way to the exit.

I spot the SUV immediately, half pulled onto the sidewalk. I remain frozen in the exit, searching for Julian and his truck when the passenger window of the SUV lowers, and Abe calls out to me.

I dart for the back door and throw myself inside, all semblance of calm gone.

“Are you okay?” Cole turns to face me from the driver’s seat, raking his eyes over me, searching for physical wounds.

“I need a Valium and some fucking tacos.” I release a deep breath.

I sense Abe’s relief that I don’t burst into tears.

“Let’s go see if your car’s okay,” Cole says, inching back into traffic.

“You’re going to my car?” Alarm slips into my voice.

“Hell yeah. I’ll let him get in one cheap shot, then pummel his ass and wait for the cops to drag him in.” It’s such a macho male response.

“What if he has a gun? He spent eleven years in prison. I don’t think we should underestimate him.”

“I thought you didn’t know him?” Abe lowers his visor and looks at me in the small mirror.

I want to flip him off. Instead, I look away.

“Mila, a little information would be good right about now. I need to know what we’re walking into,” Cole says.

“He served eleven years in prison,” I repeat.

“For…”

“Manslaughter charges for killing my sister.”

The car falls silent as Cole stops at the entrance of Target, his turn signal on, blocking traffic. He remains there for several minutes, ignoring the few who honk at us.

“If he’s there, we’ll keep driving,” Cole says.

I’m nauseated as I direct them to my car, where the trunk is still open, and my purchases are spilled across the ground. I don’t move. I don’t want to get out of the backseat. The tinted windows and locked doors of the SUV offer a sense of security I’m desperate to cling to.

“There has to be something on me or my car,” I tell them. “It’s too coincidental that he’s been able to find me this many times, and I never see him coming. I know that sounds paranoid, but…”

“It doesn’t sound paranoid. Every asshole with twenty bucks can track someone these days by buying an Find-it Tag. You’re supposed to use them to track your own shit, but people can use them on anything. We suspected the same thing when you called.”

“Do you see anything?” Abe asks, turning to Cole.

Cole shakes his head and turns around to look at me. “Sit tight. We’re just going to see if we can find a tag.”

I nod.

The two slide out of the car and look every direction before Cole picks up my things and sets them in the trunk. He closes it as Abe circles my car, scanning his phone across it. He stops at the back and calls Cole over.

Abe ducks out of view as Cole peers around. Abe stands a minute later with something pinched between his fingers.

Abe glances toward the SUV as Cole says something. The brothers talk for a few minutes, though it feels like hours. My unease is growing by the second. I find four items to focus on, three sounds, and two scents, but it does nothing to nullify my nerves.

Cole comes to the back door and opens it. “We have to make a little pit stop by the police station.”

We ride in silence to the police station—the same one I went to the last time Julian approached me.

Inside, Cole greets the receptionist and explains our emergency and we are immediately paired with an officer. I’m grateful it’s not the same one as the last time I was here.

“Tell me what’s going on,” the officer says, looking across the three of us.

I take a shallow breath and launch into the story.

I wonder what Briggs will say next week when I tell him I had to share the hardest parts of my past with Abe and Cole as my audience.

I self-numb, a tactic I mastered years before, but it rarely works when discussing Mal. Today, shock, fear, or stupefaction allow it to work. Mostly. I still shed some tears. Abe passes me a tissue box, and I consider throwing it at him. I don’t want him to accept me or be kind to me because he pities me.

The police officer finds Julian’s file easily, and explains they knew his past charges from when he went by his birthname, Waylon, it was my last name being legally changed that prevented the dots from being connected last year or even a few weeks ago when I’d come to report him following me.

The officer looks embarrassed and almost ashamed when he tells us that stalking, even with proof, is a misdemeanor charge, and without having anything more concrete, the best we could likely hope for was a restraining order.

“Is this a joke?” Cole asks, pointing at the Find-it Tag. “He was carrying zip ties, and this is the second time he’s pulled up on her. Someone’s going to get hurt!”

“Careful,” the officer says, pushing his chair back as he looks around the station.

I hold my breath and grab Abe’s hand. I know he’s going to hit something, just not what. I don’t think he does, either. “Let’s go,” I say.

“We’ll do everything we can,” the officer says. “I’ll reach out to his parole officer and see if we can up the charges, but a lot of times, we can’t even track who registers these tags because people use VPNs, and we can’t track it back to a person’s IP address.”

“He’s found her twice, officer,” Cole says tiredly.

The officer nods. “I’d suggest searching the rest of your things.”

As we leave, Abe offers to drive my car back. I’m relieved. I can’t navigate my own brain right now, much less four thousand pounds of steel.

Cole drives the speed limit with me in the car, winding down the same backroads Grey uses to take us to the gym.

When we arrive, the red brick building feels more familiar than it should as he parks in the front.

Mackey looks relieved when we step inside, but his expression fades in a second. “Get changed.”

A part of me is relieved he doesn’t want to discuss the details or allow the panic to sink in. I need the distraction of being here.

I head for his office and close the door to change. One of the most fascinating details about working out for me has been the transition in how I see my body. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been amazed at how much I’m able to endure, and how hard I can push myself. How there are times I mentally want to give up and my body refuses and vice versa. It’s created a sense of pride and gratefulness—emotions I’ve never felt toward my own body.

When I finish changing, I head toward the jump ropes, but Mackey stops me. “In the ring.”

I pause.

“This is when fighters fuck up,” Mackey tells me, pointing at the ring for emphasis.

I stare at him and wonder if it’s written all over my face how I froze, how I’d forgotten every single piece of advice down to my stance and lost all confidence in myself for fighting. I would have been the girl in the movie everyone screams at.

I kick off my shoes and climb into the ring.

“Abe, get in there,” Mackey instructs.

My thoughts skid to a stop. Abe never shadowboxes or trains with me. The only minor exception was those lone ten minutes where he watched my back when those guys were creeping on me. It’s one of Grey’s two rules.

Abe looks equally confused as he pulls off his shirt and shoes and slips between the ropes.

“Are you—” I start.

“You can work, or you can leave,” Mackey says.

I get into position.

“He grabs your arm. What do you do?” Mackey nods at Abe.

Abe hesitates but grips my wrist.

I break out, and Mackey barks the next order. Abe grabs me again and again and again, but rather than find the rhythm I normally do, each hold feels more difficult, my muscles more fatigued and my mind weaker.

“He’s trying to see how far he can push you,” Abe’s voice is barely above a whisper as his arm bars across my chest, gentler than Cole—a fact that surprises me. “Don’t break now—not for Mackey, and certainly not for that asshole.”