Bleak Nights: Northern Nights Series, #3

By Jenna van Berke

Northern Nights Series #3

 

A lie for a lie…

 

Successful thriller author Brooke has everything she wants—except a baby. Pressurized by her biological clock, she comes up with a plan: She's going to use her research trip to Finland to seduce a smart, attractive and healthy man, and hopefully return home pregnant.
The handsome stranger she picks up in a bar seems too good to be true—and maybe he is, because he has his own dark secrets.
As time goes by, Brooke struggles with the realization that she might be falling in love with her unsuspecting sperm donor, and starts questioning her secret project: Would he forgive her if she told him the truth?
What she doesn't know is that there are even bigger problems headed her way: his secrets are about to be revealed as his shady past catches up with him, and Brooke finds herself a main character of what could be one of her thrillers…

Pregnancy romance meets kidnapping tale in the land of a thousand lakes.

 

*** The Northern Nights Series is a series of romantic suspense standalones with no cliffhangers and a guaranteed happy ending. Contains adult language and nudity.***

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brake Books
• Release date: Oct 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781386524311

Jenna van Berke

Jenna van Berke writes suspense, romance, and cozy crime, sometimes all in the same story. An accomplished reader and daydreamer, she's an expert on avoiding spending time in the real world. When she isn't absorbed in a book, you can find her treasure-hunting at a flea market, hiking, or saunaing. She moved to Finland several years ago.

Book preview

Prologue

Memoirs of a Criminal

I’m doing this for the money, I want you to know that.

Well, and because it’s cool. What I’m saying is, this isn’t some weepy attempt to cope with the past. They told me it would help me work through my traumas and blah blah blah, but I don’t believe in therapy. I mean, how does understanding that my parents were assholes help me sleep at night?

So when I’m telling you my father offed himself, I’m not telling you because I think it’ll help me deal with things or because I want your pity, but because it’s relevant to my story.

Also, I should mention that because I don’t want to end up dead or in prison, I’m taking the liberty to omit some details of my story, or change things like names and places.

Anyway. As I said, my father took his own life when I was sixteen. I won’t bore you with the details; suffice to say, it changed everything. Even before he was in the ground, my mother decided we wouldn’t stay in my hometown, but move to hers: Helsinki.

There are only about 1.5 million people living in the Helsinki metropolitan area, and there were even less back then, so you might think this wasn’t a big deal. But to my brother and me, who’d been born and raised in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere where everybody knew your name, it felt like moving to New York.

There were pretty girls, lots of them, and none of them knew I’d peed my pants with shock in kindergarten when I’d eaten fresh yeast. There were grocery stores, lots of them, and none of the people working there gave me a half-hour sermon for dragging in some slush. There were bars, lots of them, and none of the barkeepers had been to my christening and knew that I wasn’t eighteen yet.

I figured all the above kind of made up for the fact that we’d had to swap our generous house for a tiny, smelly apartment, and that we’d had to leave our friends behind. Especially after my mother found a job cleaning a school in the evenings and, therefore, wasn’t around to prevent us from checking out those bars I mentioned.

We were tall for our age, my brother and I, maybe that’s why it didn’t take long to find a barkeeper who didn’t ask for identification. So a seedy bar was where we spent most of our evenings and most of the money our uncle had slipped us before we’d left for Helsinki. And where our lives changed forever.

I have to admit I was looking for a fight that night. Not consciously, but my skin was practically leaking rage and frustration. I like to think I’d deal with things differently nowadays, but at sixteen, that’s how my father’s betrayal made me feel above all else: furious.

So there I was, drunk and angry—and soaked in adolescent hormones. I chatted up a girl, or rather, a woman—she was at least twenty—and yes, I might have been leering at her breasts, but I’m positive I never touched her. Anyway, all of a sudden, a heavy hand landed on my shoulder.

The owner of the hand was probably twice my age, had more tattoos than I could count, and wore a black leather vest that indicated he belonged to a certain motorcycle club.

I know. The sensible thing to do in a situation like this is to back off and apologize.

But I wasn’t being sensible then. I told you, I was drenched with hatred, and I was also really shit-faced.

So I did not apologize, and I did not back off.

What happened next happened so fast I don’t have a clear memory. There was some shouting and shoving, then my brother appeared by my side and two of the guy’s friends at his, and the next thing I knew I was punching and kicking.

But mostly, I was being punched.

Though I was taller than any of them, they all had at least twenty pounds on me, and what’s more, they had experience. I remember laying on the ground with the kicks raining down on me, and having possibly the first sane thought I’d had in weeks: That we might die right there. And while I didn’t really care about myself, I definitely didn’t want to be responsible for my brother’s death.

I was looking at the sole of a boot, wondering if it would break my nose, when someone said, not even very loudly, Stop.

And they stopped. The boot never met my face.

My brother and I were lifted off the floor and brought to a room at the back of the bar. A pretty girl served us whiskey and tended to our injuries. Though we were red and blue with cuts and bruises, neither of us had suffered any serious damage.

So, our savior said with a smile, what’s the story?

He was about forty, I guessed, neatly groomed, well-spoken and confident, and he had a natural aura of authority about him. I suppose you know what you just did was downright suicidal. You must have a reason for doing it, anyway.

I liked him immediately and I would have told him, but I wasn’t able to put my state of mind into words. Instead, I asked, Who are you?

My name is Juha. And you are?

So we told him, and he kept asking questions, lots of questions—but not in the patronizing or interrogative way I resented in most adults. On the contrary, his interest flattered me. I welcomed his questions, because I felt he actually got me.

Bit by bit, we told him the entire tale about our father’s death, our recent move to Helsinki, our illicit drinking. But instead of chiding us for our stupidity, he just nodded sympathetically and poured us more whiskey.

Well, I bet you’re feeling better now, he finally said.

To my surprise, he was right. I couldn’t name a single body part that didn’t hurt like hell, and yet I felt more at peace than I had for ages.

Women talk and cry when they’re upset, Juha explained. But we are men. We’re men, and sometimes we must fight. It’s in our nature.

I knew my mother would have objected to this statement, but it seemed like the wisest thing I’d ever heard. After all, I’d just experienced the truth of it.

I gave him a grateful smile. He was so smart and understanding. He knew how I felt and didn’t judge me for it. He was just like the father I’d lost, only better. Cooler. Tougher. And, most importantly, alive.

To my delight, he asked us to come back and see him at the bar the following weekend. So we did. And the weekend after that and the one after that, and soon we were regulars with Juha and his friends.

My brother and I were young and new to the city, but we weren’t stupid. We knew whatever Juha did for a living was probably not legal. But really, who cared? If the coolest guy in town wanted to hang out with us—two teenaged nobodies from the middle of nowhere—who was I to complain?

So I didn’t think twice when one night he asked us to drop off some toys for his nephew on our way home. I picked up the plastic bag full of toys and off we went, taking a shortcut through Katri Valan Puisto, a park close to Sörnäinen Metro station.

But we never made it to the address Juha had given us.

The police had chosen that very night to raid the park, which was popular with junkies. It was when they demanded to see what was in the bag that I started getting nervous.

And I was more than nervous when they discovered bags of white powder poorly concealed in the toys.

1

Brooke

The coffee had long gone cold. I drank it anyway, glancing out the window. There was a woman pushing a pram with one hand, holding on to a toddler with the other.

Quickly, I closed the blinds and returned my focus to the manuscript. I reread the two measly paragraphs I’d written that morning, then I deleted them. Pressure was building in my chest, my throat tightened and I had a mental image of myself kicking the wastepaper basket across the room. Instead, I drank the rest of my cold coffee.

The alarm went off in the bedroom next door, making me jump. Eight o’clock already. I rose and studied the scene chart on my whiteboard while I listened to Paul’s familiar morning routine: the alarm was snoozed three times, then feet were dragged across the hardwood floor and into the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, a showered and dressed Paul hugged me from behind. The page in front of me was still blank.

Happy Birthday, he murmured and kissed me on the temple. Maybe we could go for a nice dinner next week when I have more time.

The faculty was hosting a literature event at the moment, meaning Paul was busy organizing and networking until late every night.

Sounds good. I reached for the comfort of his hand. I had to tell him.

Great. You coming tonight?

I don’t think so. I told you, Janice and Carli’ll come over and—

Bring them along. Seriously, this lecture is going to be brilliant. Carson’s lectures always are, of course, but I have a feeling this one’s going to be one of his best yet. And Carli sure could use the education.

We’ll see. I squeezed his hand. I really needed to tell him. I think I’d rather come tomorrow, though I also need to get this scene fixed if I want to meet my deadline.

What? Still stuck? I thought you’d long pulled a fitting cliché from your toolbox. Anyway, I’d better get going. He pulled away his hand. You want another coffee?

I shook my head. I already had two.

Okay. See you later. The floorboard behind me creaked as he moved toward the door.

Paul? I swiveled my chair to face the man I’d fallen in love with sixteen years ago. There were a few wrinkles around his eyes nowadays, and he had different glasses, but otherwise, he still looked the same. The same unruly chestnut hair I’d tousled a million times, the same high forehead and small nose.

Yeah?

I took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to like what I had to tell him. Never mind. See you later.

2

Brooke

Like so often, it was my mother who helped me find my moral compass. So once I came home from her new favorite restaurant she’d invited me to have lunch in, I picked up the phone and called Paul.

Obviously, I should have told him face to face. But I’d always hated confrontations, and I had to do it now or I’d lose my nerve again.

We need to go to that fertility clinic, I said by way of greeting. I’m ovulating next week, and—

Brooke, slow down, he cut me off. Let’s not talk about this today. It’s your birthday.

Exactly. I’m turning thirty-five today, which means I’ve officially reached the high-risk age. Perhaps the doctor—

"Wait. I don’t know if I can handle this. If we can handle this. I mean, remember what Judy and Mark told us? How he had to give her a shot in the butt twice a day for months? How’s that supposed to work when you’re afraid of—"

I’m not even talking about IVF just yet, I said, trying not to think of needles. To distract myself, I fiddled with the packaging of the present Paul had left for me on the kitchen table. I knew what was in it.

Paul had picked up on a tradition Mom had started many years ago, when I’d been writing my very first novel: Every year for my birthday, she’d give me a notebook. Most years they were exquisitely beautiful, like the one she’d given me earlier (a sleek, narrow book binded in gorgeous pink silk). But sometimes they were funny, inspirational, or functional with word count charts or weekly to do lists.

I pushed the present to the middle of the table. I’d open it later, once Paul came home from work. Look, I just want to know. We’ve been trying for two years; I need to know if it’s even worth trying.

I don’t know, Brooke. I just... Let’s talk about this later.

"We’ll just go and see what the doctor says. Then we can talk."

He sighed, and I could picture him sitting in the office and glancing at the Tag Heuer watch with the brown leather band his dad had given him as a graduation present. I’m going to be late for class. We’ll talk later, okay?

I’m serious. We have no more time to waste.

Again, he sighed, no doubt thinking the same thing I was thinking: This argument was getting old. I knew his lines, and he knew mine.

Except this time he didn’t.

Actually, I already booked us an appointment. Quickly, I added, Wednesday, ten fifteen.

What? You...? No. I don’t want to go there. I—

Why not? I said, a bit louder than intended. "For you it’ll be easy." If he absolutely refused to come, I’d simply take a sample of his semen with me.

No! he almost yelled. Was there panic in his voice? I always thought I was the one who hated doctors. I can’t. I’ll explain later.

Paul, the doctor won’t even touch you, I said, trying to be reasonable. "I’m the one who’ll be examined. I’m the one who has to spread her legs in front of a total stranger. I’ll get the eggs implanted into my uterus if we go that far, and the one who gets the hormone shots and god knows what else. Don’t make this about you, when it’s mostly about me."

No, he croaked, and his voice sounded so strangled I started to worry. It’s not. It’s about me. I had a vasectomy.

3

Brooke

The funny thing is, I used to think the whole biological-clock-thing was just a myth.

Or perhaps something that only happened to those girly-type women: the