Road to Eden - Book One of The Southern Crossroads Series

I open my eyes. The wind is no longer gentle. It's sharp now, slicing through the stillness like a warning. My heart begins to pound as it hums around me, racing across the desert below in restless waves. Where am I? "Stella!" The voice is faint. Desperate. Familiar. I turn slowly, scanning the endless stretch of mountains surrounding me. Nothing moves. There are no signs of life. Only me. "Hello?!" I shout, my voice swallowed by the wind. It whips my hair across my face as I spin in a slow circle. "Where are you?! Who are you?!" For a moment, there's only silence. Then— "Stella!" My breath catches. My heart slams against my ribs. That voice. Unease coils in my stomach. Everything about this feels significant. Familiar. Like I'm standing in the middle of a memory that hasn't happened yet. Without thinking, I step closer to the edge of the mountain. Loose stones shift beneath my boots. Pebbles tumble over the side and disappear into the vast emptiness below. A rush of vertigo hits me. I stumble back. "Stella!" The shout comes suddenly from right behind me. I whirl around. No one is there. The air feels different now. Electrically charged. Waiting. "Stella..." the voice calls again, softer this time. Almost as if it's slipping away. My pulse races. "Who are you?" I whisper. A pause. Then quietly— "You know me." The wind dies without warning. Silence crashes down around me. And then it hits me. Recognition slams into me so hard it steals what little breath I have left. I know that voice. "Wyatt?" I shout, the name tearing from my throat as I spin around frantically. Across the gap, on the opposite side of the cliff, a figure stands motionless. My heart stutters. My twin brother. He's facing away from me, the desert wind tugging gently at his clothes as he stares out over the endless expanse below. Unmoving. Silent. Waiting. Slowly, he turns to face me. The wind picks up again, but it feels colder now. Heavier. Like it's pressing down on my chest and making it harder to move toward him. Wyatt's eyes lock onto mine. But there's something distant in them. Something wrong. Like he's already somewhere else. "Stella..." he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. "You weren't supposed to find me here." My throat tightens. "What are you talking about? I've been looking for you! I heard you calling my name! I was meant to find you. You're the other half of me, Wyatt!" A faint, sad smile touches his lips. He slowly shakes his head. "I wasn't calling you. Not really. You heard what you needed to hear so you could find me." The smile fades. "It's too late." A chill runs through me. "Stop it," I plead. "You're scaring me. Just... come back with me, okay? We can leave together. Just you and me. We can start over." I force my legs to move. I run toward him, reaching for his hand. But the second my fingers brush his, a violent pulse erupts between us. Like static. Only stronger. It throws my hand backward. I gasp. "Wyatt?!" He flinches as though it hurts him, too. "You can't touch me here." "Why not?" My voice cracks. "What is this place?!" He glances over his shoulder toward the endless desert below. The sand is moving faster now. Swirling in slow, unnatural spirals. "This is the place between," he says quietly. "Where people who are lost end up." My stomach drops. "Lost?" I repeat. "You're not lost. I found you. I'm right here." His eyes soften. But the sadness in them deepens. "That's the problem." The ground beneath his feet trembles. "Wyatt, please," I beg, tears blurring my vision. "Don't do this. Just step away from the edge. We can leave together. We have to. It's always been you and me. You know that." For a moment— Just a moment— It looks like he might move. Then the wind howls. The unseen force returns. Stronger than before. It yanks at him violently, nearly pulling him over the edge. He catches himself at the last second. This time, real fear flashes across his face. "Stella!" he shouts. "You have to wake up!" "What?!" I cry. I reach for him again despite the force pushing me back. "You aren't supposed to be here!" he yells, his voice breaking. "You have to let me go! Please! It's not safe!" The ground beneath him cracks. "No! Wyatt!" He reaches for me now, fighting against whatever is dragging him away. For a split second, our fingers nearly touch. Then the force rips him backward. I watch helplessly as he disappears over the edge of the cliff. The silence is deafening. The wind stops. The desert stills. And all that's left is the fading echo of his voice. "Wake up, Stella..." Time slows. His eyes never leave mine as he falls. Still reaching for me. A raw cry tears from my throat. "No, Wyatt! I love you! I'm sorry!" Then I watch in horror as his body slams into the desert floor below. Dust explodes around him. And then— Nothing. Only blackness. "Noooooo!" I jolt upright in bed, gasping. My heart pounds like I've been running for miles. I drag a hand across my face, wiping away sweat as I struggle to catch my breath. The dream. Again. The same nightmare every night since Wyatt disappeared. Nothing changes. It scares the hell out of me. What does it mean?. Raised voices slice through the silence. I push myself out of bed and cross to the window. Of course, it's them. My parents. If that's what you want to call them. They're standing in the driveway beneath the yellow glow of the shop lights, drunk and screaming at each other like it's just another Tuesday night. Then Dad swings. The crack echoes across the property. Momma freezes, her hand flying to her cheek. Her eyes go wide for half a second before fury replaces the shock. "I'll kill you, you motherfucker!" she screams. Dad laughs. A cold, ugly sound. "Go on then," he taunts. "What's stopping you?" I roll my eyes, even as my stomach knots. Just another night in the Vance family. My dad—Charlie Vance—is the best mechanic in Laurel. People trust him with their cars, their money, and their time. Too bad none of that makes him a decent man. I let my gaze drift beyond them to the property. Calling it home feels generous. The place looks more like a graveyard for broken machines. Rusted-out cars sit in crooked rows beneath the Mississippi moon. Some are missing doors. Others have hoods propped open like they're waiting for a miracle that never came. The vehicles that still have a chance belong to customers. Dropped off. Left in Charlie Vance's care. He's good at what he does. Good enough that people overlook everything else. By noon, he's usually halfway through a bottle. By nightfall, he's a mean son of a b***h looking for someone to blame for his miserable life. That's when I try to stay quiet. Stay invisible. Stay out of reach. It doesn't always work. Most nights, Momma takes the brunt of it. Sometimes it's me. Sometimes it was Wyatt. Before he... My throat tightens. I look away from the window. Around town, everyone knows exactly what kind of man Charlie Vance is. They don't say it out loud. They bring him their cars. They pay him. They leave. That's the deal. Momma—Suzanne Vance—isn't exactly innocent either. She's got enough demons of her own. Momma practically lives at the bar. If she's not there in the afternoon, she'll be there by sunset. And she doesn't leave until someone makes her. Usually, the bartender. Sometimes the bouncer. Always after one drink too many and one argument too far. She's loud. Flirtatious. Reckless. The kind of woman who mistakes attention for affection. Half the time, she's accusing other women of looking at her the wrong way. The other half, she's leaning across a table toward someone else's husband, daring the world to say something about it. Wyatt and I are their only kids. That's more than enough. We're fraternal twins. Different from the very beginning. Different faces. Different personalities. Different dreams. We shared a birthday, but that was about where the similarities ended. Even so, we were always a team. Wyatt started using in high school. At first, it was small. Then it wasn't. What started with pills turned into heroin. After that, nothing else seemed to matter. Not school. Not home. Not me. People in town talk. They always do. I heard the rumors. Whispers about what he was doing for money. Things I didn't want to believe. Things I still don't know if I believe. But the night our parents found him behind the bar... That part wasn't a rumor. Dad went ballistic. He nearly beat Wyatt to death. The man he was with didn't fare much better. Momma stood there and watched. Not doing much to stop it. Then Dad pointed toward the road. "Get out. Don't come back." As far as Charlie Vance was concerned, his son was dead. Just like that. That was three weeks ago. I haven't seen Wyatt since. Part of me is glad he escaped this place. But mostly... I need to know he's okay. I glance down at my phone. At the one message he sent me the night he left. I've read it so many times I could recite it in my sleep. Stella, I'm sorry. I'm headed to Eden, Texas, for work. Please don't come looking for me. It's better this way. I left you my car. I hope it helps you get out of that hellhole. I love you. That's it. The last thing he ever said to me. I've called every day since. Straight to voicemail. I've texted until my vision blurred. Nothing. And I know something's wrong. Twins know. Not in some magical way. It's Wyatt. We've spent our entire lives looking out for each other. He wouldn't disappear without a reason. Not like this. My stomach twists as I think about that night. About the way Dad threw him away like he was nothing. Less than nothing. Like he wasn't his son. Wyatt wasn't a screw-up. He was sick. He needed help. You don't abandon someone when they need help. You don't throw them away because they're struggling. But that's exactly what they did. I hate them for it. I hate both of them. Because if it had been me? I would've fought. I would've stood between them. I would've done anything. And Wyatt would've done the same for me. Now he's gone. And all I'm left with is a text message and a feeling I can't shake. Wherever he is... Something isn't right. I glance at the clock. 8:30 p.m. I drag myself into the bathroom and crank the faucet as cold as it'll go. The icy water splashes across my face. It doesn't help. The heat here never really leaves. Mississippi in July is brutal. My apartment sits above Dad's shop, tucked into the garage like an afterthought. It's the only place on the property where I can almost pretend I'm somewhere else. No air conditioning. Just a rattling fan that sounds like it's dying more than it's cooling anything. Still... It's mine. My escape. My sanctuary. At least as close to one as I'm ever going to get around here. I need out. Fast. Saving money in Laurel feels like trying to fill a bucket with a hole in the bottom. There aren't many opportunities. And my last name doesn't help. Vance. Around here, that's enough to make people shut the door before I even knock. They don't see me. Not really. They see where I came from. The only place willing to hire me is the gentleman's club across town. Apparently, the only thing I'm good at is taking my clothes off. I tell myself it's temporary. Just until I save enough money to leave. Start over somewhere nobody knows my name. Somewhere, nobody knows Charlie Vance. I've managed to save about three thousand dollars so far. That's a lot of late nights, a lot of fake smiles. A lot of drunk men who think paying for a dance means they're entitled to more. I glance at the clock again. Almost time. My shift starts at ten. I don't let myself think about it. Instead, I head for the shower. Hot water. Shampoo. Soap. Routine. Automatic. One more night. One step closer to getting out. Then I head downstairs. Wyatt's car is parked out front. A 1966 Chevy Impala convertible—deep purple with a white top. It doesn't belong here, not in this yard full of rust and broken things. He loved this car. Always said it ran like it had a soul. I still don't understand why he left it to me. But I keep it running anyway. I get in, start it up, and head out onto the road. About ten minutes later, I pull into work. The neon sign flickers weakly: Pulley's Gentleman's Club. The parking lot is already full. I sit for a second before getting out, staring at it like that might make it easier. It doesn't. I grab my bag and head inside. The air changes the second I walk through the door—cooler, heavier, layered with perfume, smoke, and alcohol. Music thumps somewhere deeper in the building. Jack is behind the bar, wiping down glasses. "Hey, Stella," he says when I pass. "Hey, Jack." He gives me a small nod and a polite smile, like he always does. He's tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and a calm presence—nothing about him fits the rest of this place. He's also the only reason I have this job. I don't say that out loud. I head toward the back without slowing down, pushing past the noise and lights and the beginning of another night I don't want to think too hard about. In the dressing room, I sit at my vanity. One of the other girls comes rushing into the dressing room, still fixing her lipstick in the mirror like she's trying to erase whatever just happened in the back room. "Hey, Stella," she says. "Get ready. Frank's here. He's asking for you." I pause. Of course, he is. "Oh, God," I mutter. "Thanks for the warning, Sable." She shrugs and heads back out, already moving on like it's nothing. I stay seated at the vanity for a second longer than I should. In the mirror, I catch my reflection—too tired, too aware, already bracing myself. I hear Momma's voice in my head before I even realize I'm thinking about her. Shake what your Momma gave you, girl. That's what's gonna get you paid. Find yourself a sugar daddy if you're smart. I close my eyes for half a second and push it away. Not today. I turn back to the mirror, section my hair, and start curling it into loose waves—messy enough to look effortless, controlled enough to feel like armor. I finish my makeup—heavy, exaggerated, built for distance. Hot pink lipstick. Dark eyes. The kind of face that doesn't quite feel like mine. The dress goes on next: hot pink, ripped in places that aren't accidental. Knee-high black boots follow. Fantasia. That's me. Well, not really. A version of me. One that I don't care for. A knock comes at the door. "Okay, you're up," Sable says. I nod even though my stomach tightens instantly. It always does. No matter how many times I do this. I might throw up on the walk there. I don't. I never do. Jack's voice booms over the speakers before I even see the stage. "Alright folks, up next we've got the stunning—and very sexy—Fantasia!" Applause follows—a mix of clapping, cheering, and drunken energy. I step out anyway. Lights hit me hard—too bright, too hot. For a second, I can't see the crowd at all—just flashes and silhouettes. That's the only part I like. Not seeing them clearly. The music starts, so I move. The world narrows to rhythm and motion, the pole under my hand, the beat in my chest. Men drift closer to the stage, attention sharpening as I dance, but I keep my focus just ahead of them—somewhere above, somewhere away. I attract a crowd when I'm up here. That's the job. That's the point. Being paid to exist in someone's fantasy. I move along the edge of the stage, collecting bills and tucking them into my garter, smiling when I have to, not feeling much of anything at all. That's easier. That's safer. Until I see him. Frank. My body reacts before my mind catches up—a sharp, sick drop in my stomach. He's someone from my father's circle. Someone who was always there when I was younger, always too familiar, always too comfortable being where he shouldn't have been. I don't think about that night seven years ago. I don't let myself. Not all the way. But my body remembers it anyway. I look away too fast. Too late—he's already seen me. He motions for me to come over, like this is normal. Like he didn't steal my innocence like a thief in the night. Like I'm just another girl on a stage and not a person trying to hold herself together. My feet move before I decide to. I tell myself it's just part of the job. It's just money. It's just survival. I take the bill, step back, and keep going. But my hands are shaking when I turn away. I hate that he still has that effect on me, after all this time. Some things don't fade. They wait. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Frank motion for me once again. Everything tightens at once—my chest, my stomach, my throat. I force myself to keep moving on stage, collecting tips, smiling when I need to. But he's there. Watching. And suddenly I'm not just dancing anymore—I'm trying to get through a moment I don't want to be in. He impatiently motions for me over a third time, like I'm supposed to obey. Like, he's the only one lined up for my attention. Reluctantly, I make my way back to him. Not because I want to. Because I know what happens if I don't. I tell myself it's just money. Just a transaction. Just another night I have to get through. But my hands won't stop shaking when I take yet another twenty-dollar bill from his hands. And I can feel him still watching me as I turn away. Like he always has. Once my set is over, I exit the stage. He draws near, he leans close, and I can feel his hot breath on my ear. My stomach drops. I force my expression to stay neutral. That's the only thing I can control right now. "Hey, sweet cheeks," he murmurs. "I've got two hundred dollars with your name on it if you give me one of those sexy dances." I let out a small, disgusted gasp, but I forced myself to smile anyway. "Wow," I say dryly, trying to keep my expression calm. "You really know what to say, Frankie?" "Mmhmm," he says, sliding his hand along my hip. "And I might be persuaded to make it five hundred if you really put on a show for me. I gasp before I can stop myself. For a split second, all I can think about is hitting him, ending it right there. I don't. My body betrays me anyway, making it difficult to play the part—tight chest, bile rising in my throat as he gets closer. I catch the smell before I see anything else—Wintergreen chew, cigarettes, and alcohol. Just like before. Just like I remember. My lip curls in disgust for a split second, but I quickly recover and force a smile on my face. "Easy there, Frankie," I say, forcing a smile. "You know how this works. You get the dance—nothing more." I take his hand and lead him toward the back room. The door clicks shut behind us. Dim red light. Low music is bleeding through the walls. Empty chairs. Space. It feels smaller back here. Frank settles into the chair as if he belongs there, as if nothing about this situation is wrong. My stomach twists. I keep my face neutral. That's the only thing I can control. Not him. Not the air in the room. Just me. He's watching me too closely, like he's waiting for something I refuse to give him. I shift my stance, placing myself where I can see the door. "What can I do for you?" I ask, steadying my voice. He eyes me, "Come closer, Stella." He responds, flashing an evil grin. Inside, every instinct is telling me to get out, but I don't move; instead, I reach up and I pulled the straps down to my dress, displaying my perfect breasts for him to see. I feel the weight of his stare before I even sit down as I approach him. His breath is heavier now, like he's waiting. I turn my gaze away from him. I can't look at him. Instead, I focus on the door, the walls, the space around us: anything but the feeling of him. But I don't have a choice. I force myself to sit, straddling him. I can feel his large hands grasping my hips. I shift my posture as a wave of nausea sweeps over me. It's just a performance, I keep telling myself. He leans back, waiting for me to start—to give him what he thinks he deserves—but I stay silent. The tension stretches thin between us, and I hate every second of it. It's a game now, but I'm the one playing to survive. It's the only thing I can do at this point. I can feel his reaction beneath me as I sway slowly with the music. At this moment, I force myself to detach from the situation and do what I have to do to survive. It's apparent now more than ever that I can't keep this up. My focus narrows to what I can control: my breathing, my expression, the distance between me and everything I don't want to feel. Frank watches like he's waiting for something personal. Like, he still has access to parts of me he took a long time ago. I refuse to give him that. When it's over, I step back immediately, pulling myself back together piece by piece before anyone can see the cracks. I fix my appearance out of habit, not comfort. The room feels too small now. Too quiet. I need to get out. Frank adjusts himself and hands me two crisp hundred-dollar bills without saying much more. Without hesitation, I snatched it from his fat fingers and hurriedly stormed out of the room. After that, the night blurs. More dances. More faces I won't remember tomorrow. Another stage set where I become someone else for a few minutes at a time. Frank lurks in the shadows the entire night. I feel him more than I see him—watching, waiting, lingering like a stain I can't scrub out. Time moves slowly under the lights. Too slow. Eventually, I slipped away backstage. The noise fades the second I step behind the curtain. I change out of costume and back into street clothes, wiping away the makeup in streaks that don't quite feel like they belong to me. Hair pulled back. Face stripped down, back to something closer to invisible. When I leave, Jack is at the bar. I handed over his cut without talking much. He nods like he understands that I don't have anything left to give tonight. Security walks me out like they always do. The parking lot feels too quiet after everything inside. I get in my car and drive back home.