by Trixie More
Tough Enough
Other Books by Trixie More
Tough Love Series
Tough Sell
Tough Going
T r i x i e M o r e
Tough
Enough
Tough Enough
by
Trixie More
Copyright © 2020 by Trixie More. All rights reserved. First Edition, v 1.0
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, inventions or locales is entirely coincidental. Reproduction, in whole or part, of this publication without express written consent, is strictly prohibited.
I appreciate you taking the time to read my work, it means the world to me. Please consider leaving a review wherever you purchased this book or telling your friends about it, either would just rock.
Thank you, thank you.
Developmental Editing: Olivia Maclean
www.CallOfTheWord.com
Line Edit & Proofing: Marla Esposito
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Book Cover: Adrijus Guscia
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Publicity: Vicki Rose
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Contents
Dedication
Sophia
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Shameless Begging ~ Promises of Free Stuff
~ Acknowledgments ~
About the Author
Dedication
To anyone who doubts their worth.
You are loved.
Sophia
Wisdom
From the Greek
Prologue
Smithville, Pennsylvania
October 2002
It was that time of year, kinda the best time, when the trees were turning but not bare yet. The sweet, musty smell of rot bloomed from the wet carpet of yellow and red leaves. Standing before the open door of Tommy’s house, the chill seeped into his shirt. The boy zipped up his hoodie. At thirteen years of age, he was smart enough to remember to thank Mrs. Kretlow before he left. He called down the center hall of the colonial home.
“Bye, Ms. K! Thanks for dinner.” He could see her shadow moving in the kitchen, and then she moved into view.
“You leaving now?” she asked, peering down the hall. “It’s getting dark. Do you want to wait and have Mr. Kretlow drive you home?”
“I’m good,” he said. His best friend sat at the bottom of the staircase that led to the second level. Tommy Kretlow’s legs sprawled out before him as he leaned back on his elbows.
“She’ll have to come to check now,” Tommy said. Proving him right, Mrs. Kretlow could be heard heading toward them. She joined the boys in the entryway, wiping her hands absently on a towel. She opened the door wider and looked out.
“There’s still some light. Are you sure you’re okay to walk home?”
“Yep.” He gave her a smile like he did every night. “Dinner was great, thanks for having me.”
Ms. K stepped back, and the boy passed her.
“Catch you tomorrow, dog,” the boy called to Tommy. He started down the front walkway toward the tidy sidewalk that would lead him out of this neighborhood with its two-story homes and spacious lawns. It would take him down to the busy main road and past the small strips of storefronts and over to where the less successful families lived, families like his. He shoved his fists into the pockets of his sweatshirt. Behind him, he heard Ms. K talking to Tommy.
“It’ll be nice when his father gets back, won’t it? He’s a saint; they’ll be happy to have him back home.” The boy was starting to turn that over in his mind when Tommy’s voice carried down the walkway.
“His father is a moron.” He heard Tommy hawk up a wad. Even though Mrs. K started speaking right away, the wet sound of spit landing on cement was explicit.
“Tommy, that’s not...” The door shut, the light blinked out, and there was nothing left to do but walk away. The boy walked with his head down. The golden leaves on the sidewalk reminded him of yellowed long johns he’d seen tonight in the Kretlow’s master bath. It had felt funny, walking into the bedroom and he’d cut across to the bathroom quickly, wishing the powder room downstairs had been usable.
Tommy’s father had a pair of thermals hanging from the towel rack. Maybe they’d been white once, but the waffle weave material had discolored. The boy quickly moved to the toilet, and as he relieved himself, he turned his head and found himself looking into the shower. There were two bars of soap in the little dish on the side, one lavender, one green and white. At every corner stood a different bottle of something: a pink bottle of shampoo, matching conditioner, shaving cream. He’d stood there for a minute, unable to look away. At his own house, there was a plain bar of store brand soap. It served as face wash, hair wash, and shaving soap for everyone in the house. He’d shook the sense of too-muchness off, turning to the sink to wash. All around the basin sat things his sisters would covet: tubes and creams in clever golden jars, soft-soap in a bottle, fancy cologne, a pack of false eyelashes. He’d washed quickly, catching sight of himself in the mirror, his own eyes a watery blue, framed by pale reddish lashes. The distance between his life and Tommy’s felt vast.
Only a few cars were out now as he rounded the corner, easily jogging across the main road. Tommy’s dad sold parts to some kind of machinery. There were so many things the boy was interested in, and the time was coming to start planning what he wanted to become.
The boy hardly noticed cutting through the parking lot of the Quick Stop, skirting the foul garbage dumpster, and following the small foot trail through the weeds, thin trees, and discarded tires. The shortcut saved him about a mile of walking and in ten minutes, he was at the split-rail fence that marked the back of the trailer park where his family lived. He climbed over. Perhaps because the homes were small, the residents tended to be outside more, sitting on plastic Adirondack chairs, smoking their cigarettes and calling out to passersby.
The boy was careful, preferring not to be seen if he could help it. At thirteen, he was thin, plagued with red hair and occasional acne. Added to that, being the son of a missionary basically made him a walking target. Keeping his head down and his eyes to himself, he almost walked right past his own sister.
His parents had four children. Mary, seventeen, was the oldest. Alice was next at fourteen, followed by himself, thirteen, and then Elizabeth, the baby at eight. It was Alice’s voice he heard off to his left.
“Aw, you guys won’t finish that,” she was wheedling. “I’ll put it to good use.” He turned and headed off to find her. She was leaning on a makeshift fence, watching Zack Morris cook something. Thick smoke curled around a small charcoal grill.
“No way, you mooch, go eat at
your own house.” Zach’s voice was full of disdain. The boy drew up even with Alice.
“Just one?” Alice begged. “Your folks will never know. I don’t even need a bun.” Her face was thin and freckled, eyes overly large and round, like one of those plush beanie animals. He could see her throat move, swallowing nothing. Grabbing her by the elbow, he tugged her away.
“Hey! Lemme go!” Alice tried wrenching her arm away, but for once, he held on tight, pulling her around the corner with Zach yelling after him to keep his sisters under control.
“You look like an idiot,” he hissed. “Shut up.”
“Easy for you to say!” Her voice was thick with an emotion he couldn’t place. “You’ve had dinner tonight!”
“Yeah, I have,” he said. “You don’t see me making a big scene.”
“Because you’re not hungry!” Alice wrenched her elbow out of his grip and shoved him hard in the shoulder. He stumbled sideways, but at least he stayed upright.
“Stop being a drama queen. You’re not starving,” he said.
Alice stopped short, and the boy took a couple of steps before he realized she wasn’t beside him.
“No. You don’t get it, do you?” She glared at him, and he felt confusion well up inside him. What was she saying? Why was she mad at him? In the glow of the sodium street lights, orange highlights created sharp angles in her face, made her chin look longer than it was, her eyes huge and dark.
“You’re the only one,” she said flatly.
“What’re you talking about?”
“You. You got to eat tonight. You’re the only one. You have Tommy, and so you ate tonight. The rest of us? Not so much.” Alice raised her eyebrows, mocking him. “Sometimes we eat, sometimes we don’t. You wouldn’t know that because you’re. Not. Here.” She shook her head. “I’m going back to Zach’s. Maybe if I kiss him, he’ll give me a burger with a bun.”
“What?”
Alice flicked her strawberry blond hair over her thin shoulder and looked at him archly. “You heard me.”
He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her along with him. “Why the heck would Zach kiss you? He just threw you out of his yard.” Meanwhile, his mind turned and turned on the new information. How often was he gone? Four nights? Six? He walked home with Tommy every day, and they hung out every weekend.
Beside him, Alice began to walk normally, and he let her go. “Mary got twenty dollars last week for kissing a guy behind Gino’s,” she said.
What?
“She brought home three pizzas.” Alice seemed to gloat, and the boy felt an icy thread of nausea curling in his gut.
Their trailer, with its small concrete porch, was in view, and he couldn’t have been happier to see it. Never in his life had he heard his sister talk such trash, and for the millionth time, he wished his father were home, but that just wasn’t happening. Saul Lloyd was in Brazil, ministering to the poor, bringing the word of God to the people that needed it the most. Destitute people, with so very little that Saul couldn’t justify remaining in this small Pennsylvania town when the South American children, who had so much less, needed him. It would be another two months before he made his way back to the United States. Until then, his real children were on their own.
Their trailer was tidy but old, the paint flaking around the small window by the door which was positioned just above their kitchen sink. At the far end, a larger window brought daylight inside, at least when the sun was out. Right now, the green, ruffled curtains would be drawn, and the light would be on above the scarred table that served as a dining area, homework station, and gathering place. At the other end, to the left of the porch, were the two bedrooms. His mother and Mary shared one, Alice and Elizabeth shared the other. The boy slept in the recliner in the small space that was the living room. When his father came home, Mary would shove in with her sisters.
He opened the door. Behind him, he heard Alice’s stomach growl. Standing in the entry, he saw the truth of Alice’s words, even as his mother called to him to shut the door. No dishes in the sink. No smell of cooking. There was nothing new about any of it, and that, more than anything, caught his attention. How long had it been since he’d come home from Tommy’s to find the sink full of dinner dishes and his sisters arguing that he should have to wash them?
A cereal bowl and spoon sat in a sticky puddle on the end table next to where Elizabeth lay on the orange and brown shag carpet, her eyes wide as she watched a cartoon. A shove from Alice got him moving into the trailer.
“What did you eat, Mom?” he asked. He watched his mother, her face haggard, dark circles spreading around her eye sockets. She looked sickly and thin, but her voice was plenty firm.
“You ate at Tommy’s, right?” she said sharply.
“Yes.”
“Then you’re all set.” His mother returned to the papers spread before her at the table, as if that was the end of it. Mary, who sat at the other end, stubbed a cigarette out into a coffee mug.
“You shouldn’t smoke in here,” he said. “It’s not good for Elizabeth.”
“You don’t get an opinion. You’re never here,” Mary shot back. “Go back to Tommy’s.”
It hit him then. They were looking at him the way he looked at his father. Saul was an absentee parent; he was the absentee son. Feelings of resentment rose inside the boy, wild and fierce, as he thought of his father. Their father should be here. Here, in this trailer, here with his own family. On Mary’s face, the boy saw that same fury, but this time, it was directed at him.
He took the two steps to the refrigerator. The stark emptiness wasn’t a surprise to him, the thing never had anything but rancid condiments and a dribble of milk in it, but this time, he saw it for what it was. He turned to the cabinets and opened them, one after another.
“What are you doing?” His mother’s voice rose in alarm.
“Look at this,” he said.
“What?” His mother asked, frowning.
Little Elizabeth was standing now, her face pale, watching him with her oversized eyes, as the TV played behind her.
Empty. It was all empty.
“The food.” His voice sounded strange to his ears, older, icier. “What did they eat?” He turned to his mother and slapped his palm on the table. She jumped. “What?” he demanded.
Behind him, Alice hugged him, circling his waist with her thin arms. Her cheek was pressed to his back as she answered for her mother. “Nothing. I told you. Nothing.”
The boy’s lips pulled back from his teeth, and he snarled at Mary. “You’re smoking, and they’re starving?”
Mary smirked and lit another. “Didn’t seem to bother you when you were chowing down at the Kretlow’s, did it?”
“What’s gotten into you?” His mother’s forehead was creased, and she looked confused. “You know we don’t have much right now. Your father will be home soon enough, then we’ll be fine.”
“He’s been gone for months,” he shouted, the anger burning high in his chest.
He could feel the trembling of Alice’s arms, and he heard the gurgle of her belly.
“I didn’t know,” he said. He turned and grabbed Alice’s shoulders, looking into her sky-blue eyes. “I didn’t know.” Tears threatened as he pressed his forehead to Alice’s, but he held them back. His mind was moving on already, leaving his feelings in Alice’s keeping. At that moment, Doug Lloyd discarded his childhood, such as it was. Questions of what to study disappeared. There was only one subject that mattered, and its name was money.
Catskills, NY
April 2018
The sounds outside were driving Marco Camisa Junior freakin’ nuts. He was surrounded by the sound of every insect and leave-rustling nocturnal rodent in the Catskills. One thing he didn’t hear was a car engine. He put down his tablet and called out to the empty room.
“Is Jacob still out there?”
“Yes, Mister Camisa. The gentleman’s car appears to be outside still.”
Thank God for his housekee
per. He’d go crazy without her.
“Great. Thanks, Jill.”
She nodded her head and ducked back around the doorway. Marco sighed. Well, he’d have to go see. Jacob ought to be able to find his own car, but who knew? Maybe New York City prosecutors couldn’t find either their own asses or their vehicles.
It took Marco two tries to lift his ass off the couch and his knees creaked as he stood. Wasn’t he too young for this shit? He’d have to find a gym. He shoved his feet into a pair of sandals and left the quasi-comfort of his cavernous domed living room. As always, when he thought about his mountain getaway, he wondered at the madness that had made him buy it. The place only had two bedrooms, and he’d paid over four million for it. The rooms and hallways bounced between ornate insanity and concrete industrialism. He opened his front door. From outside came a new sound, one he’d recognize whether he was on Jerome Avenue in the Bronx or standing in the woods wearing orange. It was the sound of a gunshot.
Marco retreated into the house, took his bulletproof vest from the closet, and grabbed a handgun from the shelf. Another shot rang out. He left by the back door and used the path which was basically a well-protected culvert, to work his way around the driveway, now glad that the house was tantamount to an overdone concrete bunker with a four-acre clearing around it. There was nobody visible anywhere around him. Despite his concern, he felt settled, stoic. If he found Jacob dead on the driveway, so be it.
The summer frogs were starting to croak, adding their raucous sounds to the cacophony playing in the dying light. Marco headed straight into the woods, turned, navigated to the paved road and, walking in the weeds along the road’s edge, to minimize the sound of his feet in the leaves, continued back toward his own house, gun held ready, barrel down. The first unusual thing he came upon was a Kia parked on the shoulder, a discount rental sticker on its back window and a New Jersey license plate. He looked in the windows. There were fast-food bags on the front passenger floor and a rubber phone mount on the dash. The engine was off; the doors locked. Marco returned to the edge of the forest and continued along the road, straining to see his driveway or the stone pillars flanking it in the dim moonlight. In a minute, he was approaching Jacob’s car, this time from behind. To his ever-lovin’ relief, Jacob was just shutting the rear driver door. A dead prosecutor was hard to hide.
