Buried Alive Read online

  Buried Alive, Copyright © 2018 Stacey Marie Brown

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and her crazy friends. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It cannot be re-sold, reproduced, scanned or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Copyright © 2018 Stacey Marie Brown

  All rights reserved.

  Published by: Twisted Fairy Publishing Inc.

  Formatting by www.formatting4U.com

  Cover by Hang Le Designs (http://www.byhangle.com/)

  Developmental Editor Jordan Rosenfeld (http://jordanrosenfeld.net)

  Edited by Hollie (www.hollietheeditor.com)

  ALSO BY STACEY MARIE BROWN

  Contemporary Romance

  (Look for another contemporary romance coming in Spring 2018)

  Contemporary Fantasy

  Darkness of Light

  (Darkness Series #1)

  Fire in the Darkness

  (Darkness Series #2)

  Beast in the Darkness

  (An Elighan Dragen Novelette)

  Dwellers of Darkness

  (Darkness Series #3)

  Blood Beyond Darkness

  (Darkness Series #4)

  West

  (A Darkness Series Novel)

  City in Embers

  (Collector Series #1)

  The Barrier Between

  (Collector Series #2)

  Across the Divide

  (Collector Series #3)

  From Burning Ashes

  (Collector Series #4)

  The Crown of Light

  (Lightness Saga #1)

  Lightness Falling

  (Lightness Saga #2)

  The Fall of the King

  (Lightness Saga #3)

  Rise from the Embers

  (Lightness Saga #4--coming in 2018)

  Dedicated To:

  All those excited to join me on this new journey…

  The ride is just beginning.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Also by Stacey Marie Brown

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Chapter One

  Hannah

  The snow ground under the worn tires of my 2000 maroon Ford Fiesta as I came to a stop, sending a prick of energy up my spine…a lick of life where I had felt a void for a long time.

  Whistler, Canada.

  Home.

  Well, it was once.

  I gazed out at the white substance piled in mounds around the parking lot, my chest squeezing tight.

  I had made my choice. There was no going back.

  Don’t waste years living in what has already happened. I heard my grandmother’s strong voice swirl around my head, clenching my throat with a sob.

  My grandmother, the only person I had been close to in years and the one who had pretty much raised me, had recently passed away. Her death had thrust me from my bubble of comfort. I could no longer live a lie or pretend the new life I had made for myself didn’t hollow me out even more.

  Plus, I had failed most of my classes. Again. The choice to leave was no longer up to me. Even my therapist had given up on me. My boyfriend certainly had. Not that I blamed either of them.

  I took in a shaky breath. Come on, Hannah, you can do this.

  The metal squealed as I opened the car door, rebelling against the freezing cold. My boots crunched, imprinting in the muddy snow, my lungs snapping with shock. And familiarity. Tears itched under my lids as I took in a deep gulp of air.

  Snow had a certain smell or maybe a lack of smell, which made it so distinguishable. Heavy. Cold. Clean. It filled my lungs with density, slipping over my tongue, bringing me to life. At one time, when life held so much potential, it was the best smell in the world to me.

  Hope. Dreams. Excitement.

  Love.

  I shook my head, throwing out the thought right away. I had enough of my past haunting me. As I rubbed my hands together, puffs of air billowed out in front of my face. The evening crept in like a thief, snatching the last bits of afternoon light from the sky, chilling the already icy air. A shiver ran down my back. The years living near the beach had thinned my blood and skin. I reached into the back seat, grabbed my large duffle bag, and hooked it over my shoulder. All my possessions fit into one single suitcase, and very little of it meant anything, except the few items I kept of my grandmother’s.

  My feet carried me without thought, the familiarity of the trek ingrained in me. The gorgeous ski lodge came into view, my feet halting, my lungs stumbling for breath. Like a giant wave, emotion swept down on me and crashed against every bone and fiber.

  Shit.

  I couldn’t do this. What had I been thinking coming back here after all this time?

  Panic bubbled in my chest and fear coursed through my veins, squeezing oxygen from my lungs. I had made a mistake coming back here.

  “You must face your past if you ever plan on facing the future.” My therapist’s voice came into my head. “You do want that, don’t you, Hannah? To move on with your life?”

  I did. But that didn’t mean it would happen. Nor did I deserve it.

  People brushed past me rushing into the lodge to get inside from the cold or out to the ski lifts before they closed, giving me a side glance as I bent over my legs, drawing in deep breaths.

  You can do this. You are strong. You are no longer the person you once were. I repeated it to myself over and over until my lungs slowed, easing the shaking in my hands. These kinds of emotions hadn’t hit me this hard since my first couple years in San Diego. It had been a while since those days. I was a girl then, just acquiring the notion of how harsh and cruel life could be.

  That girl was long gone. I needed no more lessons.

  Rolling back my shoulders, I took one more centering breath and slammed a lid down my feelings, which I had gotten very good at doing. I lifted my chin, re-hitch
ed my bag on my shoulder, and reached for the door. Nobody would be waiting for me in the lobby because no one knew I was coming. Not that I was acquainted with many people here anymore.

  I stepped through the door, greeted by a gigantic, decorated twinkling Christmas tree, a roaring fire, and tall timber rooflines. My nose filled with memories, the familiar scents replaying my entire childhood in front of me. It looked and smelled exactly the same. Pine boughs and garland were wrapped along the railing up the large stairs and at the check-in counter. The smoky aroma of burning wood from the fireplace perfumed the room. Cozy, overstuffed groups of chairs and sofas filled the open space in the lobby with dark stone flooring showing under the enormous rugs. Despite the vastness of the room, it felt intimate and cozy, begging you to grab a book and hot chocolate and sit by the fire.

  A smile flickered over my mouth. It was as if I stepped back in time. The same fake presents lay under the tree, the empty stockings hanging from the mantle. For so many years I had helped decorate and spent Christmases in this exact room. Oscar, the owner, was tough, but once you became part of his family, which my family was, he revealed the tenderness below the surface. He always had a holiday staff party, giving us presents, bonuses, and a weeknight off to enjoy.

  This was the only home I had known growing up. My parents worked here year around, as I did even when I technically wasn’t old enough to be working.

  Now I didn’t recognize one face behind the desk. They couldn’t identify me even if I did. I had changed a lot. Time and choices had made me almost unrecognizable to the young girl who used to run around here with a smile.

  I curved and moved for the fine-dining restaurant, The White Den. The elegant-rustic room hadn’t changed much; the simple classic design always kept it in date. Heavy in wood, it was beautiful and romantic, with large windows displaying the gorgeous snow-tipped mountains, another huge fireplace, and iron chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

  A waitress was setting the tables for dinner as I walked toward the kitchen. How many times had I pushed through those swinging doors? Too many to count.

  “Miss? Excuse me, where are you going?” A girl around my age called out to me as I continued on my path. I couldn’t deny my sense of entitlement. This was probably merely a holiday job to her; it had been my home. “You can’t go back there. Miss!” She yelled after me as I slipped through the doors. The sounds of chopping and pots banging around were music to my ears, splitting my lips into the first genuine smile I’d made since arriving. The fragrances of spices, meat, fish, and pasta cooking tapped at the emotions in my veins. The hours I spent here, the heat of the grill trailing sweat down my back, the feel of the knife in my hand as I cut and diced vegetables.

  Kitchen staff hurried around me, in their zone, prepping for the dinner rush. I headed to the small office, where I knew the head chef would be making last-minute changes to the menu.

  Clipboard in hand, a tall, husky man with a silvering beard and hair walked out of the office. His heavy brow furrowed, hiding the light blue eyes I knew he had. Dressed in his white chef’s jacket, Crocs, and black pants, he stared down at the menu as if he were still debating.

  “Dad?” My voice came out quieter than I wanted.

  His head jerked up, his lids blinking rapidly, taking me in. The once skinny, little blonde girl who had stood in this kitchen nine years ago was not the woman before him now.

  My locks were now almost black, the natural waves sleeked down by a straightener. My skin was tan and freckled from surfing and being on the beach. I also had filled out a bit, and although I hadn’t grow much taller, I was no longer the bony girl of my youth. I stood a few inches taller, fit and muscular from surfing every day. It had been my escape. The only minutes I felt at peace.

  “Bren?” He whispered my pet name, his eyes growing wide, as if he spoke too loud I would disappear again.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  His nose twitched and his blue eyes filled with tears as he dropped the clipboard, which clanked on the hard tile. “Oh my god.” His arms engulfed me, pulling me to his warm chest. My teeth sawed into my bottom lip, swallowing back the flood of feelings. Funny how all those years I had kept up a hard exterior, but one touch from my father and I wanted to collapse on the floor and cry. Be his little girl again.

  “Wh-what are you doing here?” He wiped at his eyes, pulling back to look over me. “I can’t believe this. It is so good to see you. You have changed so much from when I saw you last. You look so different.”

  “I thought I would come back and spend Christmas with you guys.” It wasn’t a complete lie.

  His blue irises filled with tears again before taking me in for another immersing hug. My father wasn’t usually emotionally demonstrative. His tears were like javelins to my heart.

  “You know how much we’ve been wanting you to come home. But Christmas is our busiest time. And even more so this year.” Did he think I forgot? Living with the famous head chef and hotel manager in a busy ski lodge, you didn’t expect to see them at all until after the new year. “I can’t believe you are here. Why didn’t you tell us? Your mother is going to flip.”

  Oh, I had no doubt about it.

  “Actually, I’d love to work in the kitchen again.” I shrugged. “Then I can see you more often.”

  His eyes lit up. “Absolutely! I’d love to have you back here with me again for a few weeks. Oscar will be thrilled.”

  My father had complete control of hiring and firing in his kitchen, but I knew Oscar would be happy to have me back. As tough as he was, he was also my surrogate dad. At age nine, I shouldn’t have legally been working with my father in the kitchen, but Oscar didn’t mind. As long as I stayed behind the door, he was cool with me helping out. My brother never expressed any interest, spending all his free time on the slopes with his friends. I didn’t want to be a chef, but it was the only way to spend time with my dad. That was until the slopes called me away from the chopping block.

  “You better go see your mother.” Dad squeezed my arms. “She is going to be so happy. It is so good to see you, Bren. Even if it’s for a little time before school starts again.”

  Yeah, about that.

  “Colm?” A man’s scratchy voice, as though he had smoked all his life, called for Dad. “Do you have the menu set?” A man a little younger than my father, skinny everywhere but the belly, came up to my side.

  “Hey, Freddie.” He had become the assistant chef when I was ten.

  “Holy shit!” He stepped back, his mouth dropping open. “Brennley?”

  “Hannah,” I forced through my teeth. My nickname was a dagger into my spine. Brennley was my middle name, which I had been called since I was six, but I had been going by Hannah for the past nine years.

  “You will always be Sprout to me.” He folded me into a huge hug. As a child I was so tiny and gangly, he always said I looked like a sprout. These guys were not known for being big teddy bears. Most of the employees feared them and called them assholes behind their backs. They were ruthless and demanding of their staff. They had been tough on me, but they offered praise too. When no one was looking, these two rough men had been patient and kind, showing me tricks of the trade. I worked hard and learned quickly, which was why Freddie’s temper never turned on me.

  “You finally came back for a visit?” He stepped back, his gaze roaming over me, his head shaking. “Shit, you have grown up.”

  “And you’ve grown out.” I patted his stomach.

  He tipped his head back and laughed. “Never trust a skinny cook. You know that.” He winked.

  “Oh, is that the reason?” I cocked an eyebrow. “Looks like no exercise, a diet you haven’t changed since college, and a weakness for…what was it…?”

  “Okay, Sprout!” He clamped a hand over my mouth. “I’m sure your mother would love to see you.”

  I pulled away, laughing, winking conspiratorially at him. He always snuck me any crème brûlée or double chocolate brownie dessert they had l
eft over, probably so he had a reason to have it too.

  “Here’s the menu.” My dad shoved Freddie a piece of paper.

  “Good to have you back, Sprout.” Freddie squeezed my shoulder before turning to the kitchen, yelling at the staff, the tenderness in his voice completely gone. “Gather around. Now! You are already wasting my time.” The asshole chef in full gear.

  “You better go. Dinner is about to start.” Dad touched my arm, turning me toward the door. “Go see your mother.”

  I sighed, nodding. I rose on tiptoes to kiss my dad’s cheek. “Good to see you, Dad.”

  He grunted.

  I walked to the door, ready to push through.

  “Bren?” His voice followed me. I turned back to him. For one second I saw sadness and how much he had aged, before he cleared his throat, ridding himself of emotion. “It’s good to have you home.” He quickly turned away, leaving me feeling hollowed out.

  Home? I had none.

  Chapter Two

  Rhys

  “Rhys! Look over here! Rhys!” A mix of women’s and men’s voices bellowed from the roped-off section, which blocked them from walking right onto the course. Most leaned far over it, microphone in hand, calling my name. Camera flashes blinded me as the sun dipped behind the mountain, and the temperature quickly dropped with it.

  A hand pressed against my back steering me faster through the crowd. “Try to ignore them. I need your full focus tomorrow,” my coach, Shaun, muttered in my ear, his voice tight with irritation. He disliked anything pulling my attention away from the sport. My agent, on the other hand, loved this stuff. The attention on me brought in many sponsorships and endorsement deals.

  I had a love/hate relationship with the media. Most of the interest actually had little to do with me. The reporters were all about my brother. They loved the drama my sob-story readers gobbled up. I would not be getting this attention otherwise. I should—I was fucking good—but most of those behind the rope didn’t care about that part of it.