by Jewel, Bella
Soon Jamie finds herself not only fighting against her enemies, but her feelings for a man who left her once before. Can she risk losing him all over again?
PROLOGUE
Jamie Murphy, 15 years old
Perth, Australia, 2006
I step outside the back door and down the three cement stairs leading to the brown, patchy grass. The rusty old screen door slaps closed behind me. I tilt my head to the sky. The sun warms my face, the sensation breathing life into my body. And there lies the problem. Because the sensation reminds me I’m alive, and with that reminder brings an ache so deep it steals my breath.
My eyes burn and I squeeze them shut.
Oh, Dad.
His image flutters through my mind. Dark hair. Strong jaw. Fierce brown eyes. The love in them. The way they shone whenever he teased me. My father was a fighter. Literally. He was signed with the Ultimate Fighting Championship—the UFC. He travelled the world in competition, claiming the title of middleweight champion. His was a meteoric rise to fame. Forbes listed him as one of the greatest fighters of all time. Of all time. He wasn’t the flashiest fighter around, but he was the deadliest. He radiated power and confidence, his eyes savage as he took down opponent after opponent like they were nothing.
Despite the success, he made it hard for anyone to like him. He was rude and aggressive, shoving a reporter who had the gall to call his fights all hype and no substance. He once fired his manager in a spectacular public rant, right outside the cage after a fight that won him a title. The media dragged all the sordid details of the divorce from his wife, my mother, including counts of cheating—on both sides—money grabbing—my mother—and worst of all the custody battle, which my father won with ease. I was the subject of his adoration. My mother was not. She hated me for it. And all this by the age of thirty.
He took sole custody of me when I was six years old, while my mother took all his money and disappeared to Europe, never to be seen or heard from again.
I was the only one who saw his smile. I was the one he laughed with and carried on his broad, muscular shoulders. The one he took to the beach and tossed in the water, watching with amusement as I learnt to ride the waves. My father taught me everything he knew, including the kind of moves that could put a guy in the ground if he looked at me the wrong way.
Seeing my father win a fight was like watching a star shooting across the sky—extraordinary and untouchable. But the problem with shooting stars is that they burn too quick. Too bright. Too fast. And far, far too hard.
Great success in sport equals injuries of similar proportions. And soon after came surgeries and painkillers. Comebacks. More injuries. More painkillers, this time downed with alcohol. He lost his title. He lost his fans along with it too, because fans are fickle creatures; they devour you until you’re nothing but an empty husk before moving on to the next great success.
Medical bills eventually took what money he had left. And while I had been the light of his life, it wasn’t enough, because the fight was the love of his life, and all the fight left inside of him was gone.
“Jamie!”
My eyes shoot open, the voice cutting through the memories. I ignore it and limp towards the back of the yard. My feet crunch across the dead grass, the sharp little blades poking my tender skin. Reaching the fence, I turn and slide my back down the timber panels until my butt hits the ground.
Now what, Dad?
I thump my head back against the fence.
Thwack!
The fence hits back. My body jerks forward, my arm jostled inside its brand-new cast.
“Ouch!” I yell. “What the …”
I twist around, peering through the tiny gap in the panelling. At best I can see a flash of golden-brown hair well overdue for a cut. It has a slight curl and hangs out from beneath a red ball cap. The sliver of a bright hazel eye peers back at me. At least I think it’s hazel. There seems to be some green and gold mixed with the brown.
“Sorry,” comes the reply. I catch the flash of a rugby ball as he tosses it back and forth in his hands.
“Jerk,” I hiss, my entire body aching. “Watch where you’re throwing that stupid thing.”
“Hey.” His voice sounds taken aback. “It was an accident. The ball hit the fence. I didn’t know anyone was sitting against it.”
“Well, I’ve had enough accidents to last a lifetime,” I snap, furious. “Go kick your ball somewhere else.”
I turn back around, but he doesn’t leave. “What happened to your face?”
Heat pricks my eyes, and I palm my swollen cheek, knowing my body has a thousand bruises beneath the clothes that match this one. Damn you, Dad. Goddamn you.
“Nothing,” I retort with a heated lie. How can he even see my face? “It’s perfectly fine.”
“Did someone hurt you?”
“Don’t be so nosy. No one hurt me.” A shuddery breath escapes me. “Get lost.”
“Wow, okay.”
I hear grass crunching, and I turn for another peek. He’s moving away … I think. The gaps in the timber make it hard to see. I know there’s another backyard behind this one; the houses flank each other all the way down the street.
Silence returns and I close my eyes.
Time passes.
“Jamie!”
As much as I want to, I can’t sit out here forever. I struggle to my feet and limp my return to the house, the midday heat causing a trickle of sweat to wind its way down the centre of my back.
I yank open the crappy screen door. I’m greeted by Sue standing in the kitchen, wiping her hands with a tea towel. Her frizzy blond hair is tied in a knot on the top of her head, and her cheap cotton dress flutters beneath the overhead fan. She nods towards the bathroom. “You’re a mess. Go shower. It will make you feel better.”
I don’t answer. I simply head towards the bathroom like she asked, knowing no shower in the world will make anything better ever again.
* * *
The next day I return to my spot by the fence. I turn and plonk down against it, closing my eyes, but the sound of screeching metal assaults my ears. Glass shatters, spraying my face, cutting it into a thousand pieces.
I gasp, my eyes blinking open and chest pounding. I brush at my face but there’s no metal. No glass. Just healing cuts and bruises. A mess that didn’t wash away in the shower yesterday.
Another shuddery breath escapes me. And another.
“You’re back,” comes the same voice from yesterday.
I ignore him, hoping he’ll go away as I work at calming my racing pulse.
“Did you just move in?”
My nostrils flare but I don’t engage.
“What’s your name?”
“None of your business!” I burst out with heated aggression. I came here for peace, not an inquisition.
“That’s okay. I can just make one up for you.”
A frustrated snort escapes me.
“I’ll call you Little Warrior, because you’re kinda like a rabid animal.”
Do not engage. Do not engage. “I’m not little.”
“Sure you are. You’re like, what, thirteen?”
I go to fold my arms and wince at the spike of sharp pain. A reminder that the bones in my forearm are shattered and a couple of pins and papier-mâché are all that holds it together. “I’ll be sixteen in a few months. And you’re what, ten?”
“Older than you. Seventeen.”
“Pffft.” I twist around, peering through the tiny sliver. It’s hard to tell, but he does look older. Big. Broad. Maybe. I gently press my face to the fence and squint, but I can’t get the full picture. I barely get any picture at all. All I can see is his stupid hair. “Bear.”
“What?”
“That’s my made-up name for you. Bear. Because you look like a freaking grizzly.” My comment is mean and harsh and doesn’t feel good. It just makes my insides sink lower than they already have.
Bear only chuckles, not seeming bothered by my snark at all. �
��Yeah, I could probably do with a haircut.”
“So why don’t you go do that and leave me alone?”
“Because I’m curious.”
“Curious about what?”
He turns his head away, his voice softening. “About how you got those bruises on your face.”
For a moment I’d forgotten they were there. The pain throbs anew. A wound that will never heal. I turn and sink back against the fence. “Go away, Bear.”
The quiet returns.
I close my eyes.
* * *
Three days later and I’m back at my usual spot by the fence. I like it here. It’s shaded by a big tree and mostly quiet apart from the occasional harassment by Bear. Inside the house is messy and loud, the noise grating. My jaw aches from biting back the urge to scream at them all to shut up.
I get almost an hour of alone time before the voice comes from over the fence.
“Hey.”
Surely he’s not so hard up for conversation that he has to harass me for it.
“So, what school are you going to?”
I sigh. Apparently he is.
School starts in less than two weeks, and I couldn’t care less. New teachers. New faces. The start of a new year. People talking about summer break, all tanned and relaxed and happy.
“Are you going?” he asks when I don’t respond.
I ignore that too.
“Why don’t you talk?”
I contemplate this question for a moment. “Because it feels better not to talk. To anyone. About anything.” Talking means remembering and remembering just hurts.
“Okay.”
The fence jolts. I twist around. Bear is sitting with his back against the fence, mimicking me. My stomach tightens at his proximity. “What are you doing?”
“Sitting here, not talking to you. Trying to see if it feels better.”
How ridiculous. Who is this guy? Then I remind myself that I don’t care who he is and turn back around. Now we’re sitting with our backs to each other, the fence a barrier between us.
A half hour passes and I risk a peek. He’s still sitting there. I’m not sure what irritates me more: his quiet presence or all his questions. I fidget with a blade of grass, shredding it between my fingernails.
“Fine,” I burst out, unable to handle the loaded silence a moment longer. “I’m going to Chatsworth High.”
His voice shows no hint of triumph at my answer. “That’s a girl’s school.”
“So?”
“I go to Bayside State. We won’t be study buddies.”
“I don’t want a study buddy.”
“We could always study together after school.”
He sounds thoughtful, as if he’s seriously contemplating it.
“No. Not happening.”
“Don’t be like that, LW.”
“LW?”
“Your name’s a bit wordy. Thought I’d shorten it.”
I roll my eyes. He can’t see it, but I hope he feels it.
* * *
“How was your first day at Chatsworth?”
Seriously? I sigh, tipping my head back against the fence. “It was fine.”
If fine means fielding rude stares from students all day long. I’m not just the new kid, I’m also covered in faded cuts and bruises, casts and bandages—though my leg is better so at least the limp is less pronounced. The worst part? They all know why. They know what happened. Who I am. Pity leached from their staring eyes until it suffocated me. It’s almost a relief to be back by the fence with Bear and his teasing questions and warm voice.
“Make any new friends?”
A huff of disbelief escapes my mouth. Who would want to be friends with some broken, angry girl? “No, Bear. No friends.”
He hums quietly. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Sure. Maybe tomorrow.”
* * *
“Hey, you got your cast off!”
I look down at my arm, wondering how Bear even knew I had one. It’s not like you can see properly through the fence. The cast had been on for ten weeks. Now my skin is pale, the muscle tone gone, angry red scars marring the once smooth, tanned flesh. It looks horrible and I don’t care. The mirror doesn’t show much better either. My once healthy, happy face is now pale and thin. A fine red scar decorates my right cheekbone, just below dark brown eyes that once held warmth and happiness. I’m assured it will fade in time, as if it’s important my face is the unmarred perfection it used to be. I used to long for freckles or rosy cheeks—anything to make my face more interesting. Be careful what you wish for, I guess.
My long brown hair sits in a ponytail now because who can be bothered to wash it? Sue suggested cutting it, but Dad used to braid my long hair before bedtime. He would smooth the thick strands with battered hands and tattooed arms that were trained to cause damage, weaving made-up fairy tales as he plaited, ones where the girl beat her foe alone and ended up saving the boy instead.
I ignored Sue’s suggestion.
“Yeah. I got my cast off.”
“How does it feel?”
I test the arm, lifting it up and down. “Really light. Like it’s made of air.”
“How did you break it?”
I don’t answer.
“Come on, LW,” he pleads. “Give me something.”
I open my mouth, finding myself about to give him something because his voice tugs at me as if he cares. It’s hard not to respond to that. Then I close it.
“I’ll come over and knock on your door,” he threatens.
“No!” My heart pounds at the thought. I like the anonymity we have with each other. It makes everything easy. With Bear I can pretend that nothing ever happened. Except for times like now, when he pushes, poking at the hurt. “Please don’t.”
“I feel like I should be offended.” His tone is teasing but there’s something more beneath it.
That something has me scrambling to reassure him. “It’s not you. It’s just …” I blow out a sharp breath, my cheeks puffing. “I was in a car accident.” There’s a beat of silence. “That’s all.” I brush it off like it’s no big deal because I don’t want to dissect the details.
But I still feel the glass cutting my face and the screeching metal tears through me. I scream and scream until there’s silence and the car rests upside down. I try to unbuckle my seat belt because I know I need to get out—to run, to escape what happened, until I see bones poking through my skin. “Dad!” I cry out, horrified, eyes shifting from my arm to my father. “Dad!” He’s stuck in his seat, same as me, his head hanging unconscious.
A sob climbs my throat. I choke it back, hunching over on myself. I have to be strong like my father always taught me to be.
Bear’s gentle voice reaches out. “Don’t cry, Little Warrior.”
His words ease their way around my heart. I press my hands against my eyes, pushing the tears back in.
“I was in an accident once,” he confides.
“You were?” I choke out. I want to hear more. Did it happen slowly for him like it did me? Did the world tilt? Did he feel the same terror?
“I had a run-in with a quad bike down at my friend’s farm.”
“A quad bike?”
“You know, the four-wheeler things? I can be a bit competitive, and we were racing. I saw a huge mound up ahead. Thought I’d jump it. Don’t know why. Looking back, I figure it only would have slowed me down had I actually made it.”
I press my lips together, picturing Bear hitting the mound and flying through the air like Evel Knievel. Then his words register. “Wait a minute. You didn’t even make it to the mound?”
“Not even close. I revved the bike and it shot out from under me.”
My mouth opens. “You fell off?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s so lame!”
“Yeah,” he repeats, laughing at himself. “The worst part was that the bike kept going.”
I laugh with him, picturing Bear on the ground as his bike shoots o
ff in the distance, escaping him like a wild horse. The laughter builds and builds until it aches, and I’m holding my sides, and then suddenly it’s not funny anymore. It just hurts and there’s nothing left but agony and grief.
I whisper my confession, my voice hoarse and broken. “My dad died.”
Bear sucks in a sharp breath. I hear it over the roaring in my ears.
A beat of silence passes between us as my words ricochet through my head, sounding ugly and wrong.
“I’m so sorry,” he says quietly. And after another moment, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” I answer, curt and rude.
“Okay. You don’t have to.”
That night as I lie in bed, I stare at the ceiling of Sue’s house and hear Bear in my head.
“Don’t cry, Little Warrior.”
For some reason it feels like Bear is all I have in the world now, which is stupid because he’s just some boy from the other side of the fence that knows nothing about me nor I about him.
All I do know is that when I push him away, he doesn’t leave, and it feels like a lifeline.
My eyes prickle with heat.
“Don’t cry, Little Warrior.”
CHAPTER TWO
“Make any new friends today?”
“No, Bear. No friends.”
Yelling comes from inside the house. A female shriek followed by a male bellow. I close my eyes, wishing they would all disappear.
“Who’s that?” he asks.
“The other foster kids.”
A heavy silence follows, as if Bear is unpacking those four words and examining them with great care. I’m so attuned to his presence now, I miss nothing, not even the quiet whoosh of air that leaves his lungs.
“They’re loud,” is all he says.
“Yeah.” And I hate it. I should be grateful I have a roof over my head, but Sue fosters up to six kids at a time, me being one of them. The state released me into her care when I left the hospital three months ago, and I’ll likely be here until at least sixteen—or when I decide what I’m going to do with my life. I haven’t worked that out yet. All I know is that I want to leave. Every kid here has their issues, though we at least know better than to poke at each other over them. The general consensus is that we leave each other alone until we each make our own escape.
