Hunting Eden (Triple Trouble 1)

Chapter One

Wheesht: adjective, to call for silence, be quiet, shut up. Pronounced: Wee-sht.

Wee: Adjective, meaning small in size, often also used as a unit of measure (although wee can also mean an hour, "I’ll be there in a wee hour." Which makes no sense). Pronounced: Wee.

Numpty: Noun, an inoffensive name for someone who’s being a bit silly. Pronounced: Numb-ptay.

* * *

Eden

“Saddo, single, twenty-seven-year-old whizzing through, let me pass,” I call out as I carve my little car around Mr. Slowcoach, doing twenty miles an hour on the empty road.

“Why the hell are you going so slowly?” I bellow.

As I whip by in a flash, a quick glance in my rearview mirror reveals Mr. Slowcoach indicating left, disappearing into the crisp evening. “Oops, that’s why.”

Well, that was a waste of my efforts and petrol.

I sigh into the dark expanse of my empty car as I clutch the steering wheel.

I’m a bit of a girl racer, so I push my foot down on the accelerator a little more and shift up a gear.

Zooming faster through the late-night curves of the Scottish countryside, on the outskirts of Castleview Cove, the fields whoosh by in a blur.

Take it all in, people. This is my level of excitement for the day; this is as good as it gets.

My fun-sized car doesn’t even go quick, but it energizes me and gets my adrenaline pumping like crazy.

I need to get a life. I used to have one. However, four years ago it turned into a shit-show and I can’t seem to get over it.

I’ve been aimlessly existing, not truly living these last few years.

Defeated. That’s the only way to describe how I feel.

The creeping tension in my shoulders threatens to take hold. A glimpse of the Cove catches my attention as I stretch out my neck.

Way up here on the high road, grants me the perfect view of the ocean. I glance downward at the waning spotlight moon glittering off the inky blanket expanse of the sea. The steep towering cliffs on either side of the cove stand guard. The sea has so much explaining to do to me; I don’t think it will ever give me the answers I need. It’s deceptive. Never trust it.

“Asshole,” I hiss toward the cleverly disguised calm water.

It’s not really the sea I’m mad at. Because it’s nothing to do with the sea. Not really. Although it started the unfolding of my life, it’s really him I’m pissed off at.

“I’m sorry, sea. My bad.”

I slam my fist on the steering wheel and clench my jaw, grinding my teeth.

“For the love of God, Eden. Stop thinking of him.”

I’m normally a pretty chillaxed gal, but I’m frustrated at myself. Frustrated at life.

It’s official, I’m one hundred percent, totally and utterly stuck, and completely bored with everything. Nothing gets me excited anymore. Well, apart from driving and dancing.

Every day is Groundhog Day: eat, sleep, dance, read, repeat. Groundhog Day Syndrome is an actual thing. I’m living proof.

Welcome to Saturday Night’s Pity Party with star guest, Eden Wallace.

I think I’ve hit yet another all-time low. Why, you ask?

Because it’s late on a Saturday night. I’m driving back home from the supermarket, when I should really be out partying with my sisters and friends. Instead, here I am. Alone. Again.

Before I ran out the door and jumped in my car tonight, I even waved goodbye to Victor, my cheese plant. He’s become a close friend. If you head over to sad Scottish loser Eden Wallace dot com, you’ll find me there, you know, just hanging out with my cheese plant, Victor. I’m a loner, and I feel like such a loser.

Lost in my thoughts as I swish this way and that, I think about him. The man who consumes my reflections.

I should really cut this invisible cord he holds over my life. I want to feel free and happy again, I really do, but somehow I can’t bring myself to cut it.

A sudden thought takes hold. But I am out. What if he comes back and I’ve nipped out? Would he come back this late on a Saturday night?

Stop being irrational, Eden. Don’t let yourself go there. Nope. Push that down; push those thoughts wayyyyy down. Focus on driving. And… Breathe…

But I speed up a little more, because you just never know.

The highlight of my day has involved a marathon Friends binge-watching session. It’s not for the fainthearted. Especially season three with the whole Ross and Rachel breakup debacle. You’ll cry, then laugh, and then cry some more.

Chocolate, copious cups of tea, and tissues are compulsory support tools. That’s the only reason I nipped out in my car tonight; I ran out of tea bags. Not gin. Tea bags. Christ.

I’ve been moping about my house since my last hip hop class I taught at midday and have since then drunk at least seven cups of tea. Intermittently playing some Candy Crush. I’m on level 347, in five days. Don’t judge. I’m delicate right now. Remember? Pi-ty par-ty.

My sad Scottish heart did a little dance when it found the bottom of the laundry basket earlier. Actually, I think that was the highlight of my day. I’ve since washed, dried, and folded it all neatly back in my walk-in wardrobe.

Having a walk-in wardrobe was always one of my dreams. When I converted my parents’ old barn, a walk-in wardrobe was way up there on my list of must-haves. I jumped up and down with glee and made carpet angels in the middle of the room the day we completed it. It’s just so grand and organized. Exactly how I like things. Also, I have a bit of a clothing buying obsession. The need is real.

But you rarely go out partying, Eden, in fact, never, so why all the clothes?

I tap my finger on my chin. Honestly? I don’t know. I just love fashion. Internet shopping is the shiz.

Hashtag: I buy going out clothes to stay in.

Sad.

As.

Hell.

Consumed by my thoughts, I’m suddenly drawn to a high-pitched squeal.

What the hell is that? Is that coming from outside? Must be. That’s not Betsy, surely.

Ah, Betsy. My wee, cute mint-green Fiat 500. She even has car eyelashes lined along her headlamps. Actual eyelashes for cars. Who knew? It makes her look even more adorable. Is that possible, you ask? I can assure you it is.

Christ, wait a minute. That noise is getting louder.

“Is that you, Betsy?”

I’m pretty sure if Betsy could talk, she’d be urging me to be wheesht and to stop singing and daydreaming. To be fair, this is a regular pastime of mine.

A large clatter brings me to my senses.

I dart my eyes briefly toward the entertainment console. In the dark, I fumble trying to locate the volume knob.

From the corner of my eye, faster than my brain can comprehend, my bright headlights illuminate a giant, slender, chestnut-colored four-legged beast leaping straight into the path of my compact car.

A deer.

Not just a deer but a big kick-ass daddy stag-sized deer.

“Ho-ly shit.” I let out an almighty yelp.

It all happens so quickly.

The startled stag springs its agile body right over my baby shoe-sized car.

A fusion of clunks, clatters, and bangs follow, as my screams join in the uproar.

In a whirlwind, my tires screech and squeal against the tarmac.

I completely lose control and spin off the road, smashing through the roadside fence straight into a field. There’s no stopping me; I’m flying down through a maze of berry fields. Out of control, my car hurtles, scattering pieces of it as it continues to race ahead. My headlights bob up and down, illuminating a flashing path of towering juicy raspberry bushes.

“Oh, fuck. Argh.”

Clearly living so close to the sea has turned me into a pirate. Potty mouth and all.

Eruptions of splattered berries thud against my windshield. It appears I’ve driven on to the set of TheWalking Dead.

Making homemade jam this evening was not on my agenda.

More screaming… Crikey, that screaming is me… Who knew I could hit that note?

Okay, bear with me here just for a moment. I’m going to ask you to press pause at this point as I have a full-on Deadpool moment.

You see, what’s happened here is… I was too busy channeling my inner old-school Beyoncé in the car. Imagining I’m the fourth member of Destiny’s Child they never replaced. At the same time going a little too fast on these country roads, combined with deep longing thoughts of my past love to return home. I’ve failed to notice with my tunes on, volume full blast and cat choir evening with Eden, there is something clearly wrong with my car. Plus, I’m having a pity party. But I was lost in the haven of my car, singing my heart out. I sing in the car for a reason. I’m safeguarding everyone from ear bleeds as I cannot sing for toffee. Just ask my best friends Beth and Toni, and my triplet sisters Eva and Ella. In my head, I’m Ariana. In reality, I’m Geri from the Spice Girls, tone-deaf, out of key, and can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Shhh… Don’t tell her I said that.

Unpause… Let’s continue.

Boom.

The sound echoes throughout the countryside. Poor Betsy continues wildly running down the field.

Bang.

From fast and furious to a complete standstill.

Another bang.

My airbag thunders, smacking my face in a blast, catapulting my neck backward. Simultaneously, the explosion jolts my hands off the steering wheel.

Searing pain instantly travels into my left hand and face.

Then silence.

Apart from a seriously high-pitched ringing in my ears.

That is quite something.

I shake my head, trying to gain my bearings and organize my thoughts.

As I unclench my closed eyes, I try to refocus.

In front, a cloud of white smoke puffs into the cold pitch-dark night.

Faint hissing and low humming sounds escape from the car.

The ringing in my ears persists.

“Bloody hell. Make it stop.”

As I bring my hands to my head, bolts of dull pain rapidly shoot through my hand.

My fuzzy head thinks I’ve fought twelve rounds with a world heavyweight champion boxer.

Time passes. I don’t know how long I sit in a daze for, but the ringing subsides.

“What the actual hell just happened?” I tilt my head again in bewilderment, retracing my steps. “Car squeals. Loud music. Volume knob. Deer. Spinning. Field. You have got to be kidding me? Think, Eden, think,” I coach myself. “Phone, find your phone.”

Shakily, I reach for my handbag. It’s kindly bounced off the passenger seat during all the commotion and wedged itself into the farthest corner of the passenger side footwell. Just perfect.

I reach to unlock my seat belt but hesitate. My thumb on my left hand is throbbing like a bitch now. “Aargh, that is so painful.” I check my thumb. “How did you swell so quickly?”

I sit crying silent tears and sniffle away, feeling sorry for myself. I’m definitely in shock. I’m talking to my thumb.

Steadying my shaky hands, I use my pointer finger to release my seat belt, setting myself free.

“Sweet baby Jesus.”

The shooting pain in my hand is getting worse. Delayed reactions are the worst. Like when you use hair removal cream and leave it on too long and burn your lady bits in the process. You know that first pee you go for is going to sting like a nest of vipers, but you have to go. It’s okay for the first few seconds, so you think you’ve gotten away with it, but then whoosh, a burning sensation like you’ve never felt before sets your nether regions on fire. No? Just me then? Anyhoo…

With slow and careful movements, I shuffle over the center console, conscious not to snag my thumb. I twist my small five-foot-two body far enough to reach over and grab my handbag.

My legs are unharmed, so I twist and maneuver farther over. However, even in my minuscule car, I’m still too short to reach.

I try again.

Really craning this time, I grit my teeth and stretch my hand out, grimacing with the pain that’s winding up my thumb and wrist, and cry out like I’m bloody Thor striking down his lightning hammer.

“Argh,” I shriek, successfully hooking my middle finger into the lip of my bag. “Gotcha.” I drag the bag toward me as I hook-a-duck it up onto the passenger seat.

Huffing and puffing, I lean back into my seat. I take a moment before rummaging through my bag with my unharmed hand.

I begin my phone treasure hunt, sniffling into its depths. “Why the bloody hell is my bag like a trash can?”

Mirror—nope. Sunglasses—nope. Dental floss—nope. Cupcake. Yuck. Christ knows how long that’s been in there for.

Gum. Spoon. What? Why?

The dull pain in my hand pounds. I suck my breath in through gritted teeth. I keep searching. Hair tie, tampon, phone charger.

“Come on,” I grumble.

Realization washes over me. Crap, I’ve forgotten to pick up my phone.

“Of all the times, Eden, you’re an ass.”

I’m in the dark, in a field, late at night, no phone.

I lean my head back and search the darkness.

Where the hell am I? Is this McGregor’s fruit field? Was I driving past his place? What road was I on? Why the hell did I not take the low road home at this time of night?

It’s late. I’ve no idea what time it is. My car console isn’t working, and I know for a fact my Apple Watch is sitting by my bedside on charge. And yup, I’m one of those sad step counters. I’d completed my steps and exercise quota by one o’clock this afternoon and removed it before my shower earlier. Go me.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” I smash my good fist onto the dashboard.

I’m a sitting duck. Hot prey for serial killers.

Are there serial killers in our local area? I rub my hand across my forehead. Have we ever had any murders in Castleview Cove?

“Hello.”

I jolt, suddenly startled by a muffled foreign voice calling from the blackness.

“Anyone there? Hello?”

Male, but not a Scottish accent.

I hear it again. “Hello, can you hear me?” The voice is closer this time.

Then I hear a few muffled voices. All male voices. Oh, shit.

Tremors of cold sweat skim across my body.

My mum’s voice pops into my head. “Always keep your phone on you, girls. Remember to keep it charged, and no taking the high road late at night.”

And now here I am, on the high road, no phone. I have a phone charger, though. “Fucking pointless, Eden.” I silently curse myself and pray.

Please, Universe

I am not exactly one to reach out, having lost my faith in you some time ago, for obvious reasons, but can you pleeease not let them be serial killers? Pretty please. I promise to do more steps tomorrow and reduce my cupcake intake this year. Well, that’s a bit of a white lie, but could you look after me, please, just for tonight? Thank you.

Be brave.

I suck in a shallow breath and tremble out into the pitch-black, “Help, I’m here.”

They won’t hear me as I’m in the car. My windows are up and my doors are closed, so how the heck will they hear me? Stupid Eden.

Reaching out, I pull the door handle. It unlocks with a soft click. I pull the handle further. Clunk. It opens. I nudge the heavy door just a fraction. That’s the problem with a little three-door car and a small body frame like mine. The doors are always too heavy for me to open fully without a tremendous amount of effort. I have no more effort left in me tonight.

I try to shove the door wider. Well, if it’s a serial killer out there, I’ve just given him an all-access pass. There’s more than one of them too—great, a gang bang of serial killers. Flippin’ fantastic.

Hey, Universe, I’m fully trusting you up there. Please have my back.

A mix of chattering voices scramble together. Maybe three of them.

I’m still a little clunky and disorientated, but I pluck up the courage and cry out again, “Hey, I’m here. Can you please help me?”

I tear up again as the full reality of my situation hits me. I haven’t even attempted to get out of the car.

“Please, can you help me?” I plead to the abyss.

“Hey, ma’am? Miss? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

A strong American accent hits my ears as they close the gap. Most definitely a tourist—we get a lot of them in Castleview Cove. I love the Americans; they are always so polite and kind.

Thank you, Universe.

A loud knock on the passenger side window startles me.

“Holy shit,” I burst out and throw my good hand to my pounding heart. I don’t think I can take any more surprises tonight.

“I’m on the other side.”

I see the tall figure circle around the back of my car toward me, and I hear him informing whoever else is out there that he’s on the wrong side.

Yup, we drive on the other side of the road here, you numpty.

Oh, I’m gnarly.

Don’t be mean, Eden. Someone is here to help.

As the stranger moves to my side, I imagine my serial killer invite. It’s possibly gone viral on the universal serial killer notice board. “Eden invites a party of serial killers to a field in Castleview Cove. First come, first serve. Mwahahaha.”

“Please take care of me, Universe,” I whisper pray.

Although that thought is being overshadowed by the burning pain I’m experiencing. I feel very woozy as adrenaline and soreness mulches into one.

I just want help. From anyone.

My door flies wide open, triggering the indoor light, illuminating the small space. Why didn’t I think to try that wee light above?

Movement from a large figure captures my attention as they crouch down inside the nook of my car door.

“Hey, can you move? Are you hurt?” A deep gravelly American drawl floats over me as my eyes lock with the most sensational jet-pooled eyes I’ve ever seen.

Holy cow.