About the Book
From the New York Times bestselling author of The Fighting Series, comes Split, a dark, deeply emotional story of love against the odds with a suspenseful twist.
When her career takes a hit, Shyann abruptly finds herself jobless, penniless and packing for her hometown – where memories of her late mother and a reunion with her distant father await.
Lucas needs a quiet life, and that’s exactly what he’s found in Payson, Arizona. He finally feels like he fits . . . and is starting to keep his mind in check. Having suffered blackouts since he was a child, Lucas knows he’s not like other guys.
The minute he meets his boss’s strong-willed, sexy-as-sin daughter, her probing eyes and personal questions pick away at his barriers. Shyann is everything Lucas wants – and everything he should never have. When the blackouts return, the last thing he wants is to expose how dangerous he can be . . .
Because you believed I could . . .
So I did.
First off, I want to thank God for allowing me the ability to tell stories. All good things come from you.
Thank you to my husband, who is and always will be the only hero in my life. It’s your love that inspires me and your support that anchors me.
Thank you to my babies, who have made me feel like I’m the greatest novelist the world has ever seen, even though they have no idea what I write. I love their blind faith.
To my parents and my brother for being the best pimps and my number one fans, thank you. I’d never have the courage to do this if it weren’t for you.
A huge thank you to Evelyn Johnson for always having my back and for allowing me to drag her all over the country for signings and events. Your friendship and loyalty are unparalleled.
Thank you to my dear friend Amanda Simpson. From the moment this story was conceived, you’ve been my biggest supporter. You went above and beyond the call of duty: reading, critiquing, brainstorming, and shoving me on when I had my doubts. I’ll never be able to pay you back for all you’ve done for me, not only as a friend, but also as my business partner. I appreciate you more than words can express. To my friend Jonas Lee, thank you for taking on the hefty responsibility of critiquing this story for me. Your insight on this was invaluable. You could’ve easily blown me off but instead you worked hard to help me iron out all the wrinkles while being a huge source of encouragement. Thank you will never be enough.
Thank you, Sara Sellars, for your expertise in the inner workings of broadcast news that helped bring Shyann Jennings to life.
To my agent MacKenzie Frasier-Bub, thank you for believing in me and encouraging me to try something new. You are, like, totally, the most bitchin’ agent, like, ever.
Huge thank you to Megha Parekh for not only believing in the writer that I am, but also in the one I have the potential to become. I will not let you down.
Always a huge thank you to the talented Elizabeth Reyes. I’d never have had the cajones to write if it weren’t for your encouragement and support. Thank you for your time and, more importantly, your friendship.
None of this would be possible if it weren’t for the readers who’ve given my books a chance. There are so many incredible authors out there, and I’m humbled and honored every time a reader picks one of my books. Thank you for taking a chance on me.
Last but not least and probably the most important, thank you to all the Fighting Girls who support me and my books with the kind of steadfast love only an FG is capable of. I’d be nowhere without you girls. You mean the world to me.
Ten years ago . . .
It’s dark. Like when I hide under my bed and can’t see my hand in front of my face. But I’m not under my bed now.
Cold seeps into my body. My head rings; static blares in my ears.
I blacked out again, but this is different. Everything about this feels different.
There’s shuffling . . . some kind of panic in the air. My heart pounds and with the rapid blood flow brings a sharp stabbing pain that explodes in my neck. I try to open my eyes, push at the dark and reach for light, but a sticky coating covers my face. I suck in a breath, cough against the thick sludge that clogs my nose and throat. The metallic tang of blood turns my gut. I retch, hacking up something thick, and agony slices through my jaw.
“Oh fuck!” A deep masculine voice rips through my panic. “This one’s alive!”
I try again to open my eyes.
“We need an EMT!”
I need to get up, find somewhere to hide. Mom always gets angry after one of my blackouts and with the pain . . . oh God the pain . . . I can’t take one of her punishments.