Enemy Of My Enemy (Price Of Power Book 1)

by Laura Stephens

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgment

  Series Page

  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

  ENEMY OF MY ENEMY

  © 2019 Laura Stephens & Elaina Phillips

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  First edition. September 3, 2019.

  Written by L. Stephens and E. Phillips

  Edited by David Thomas

  Acknowledgments:

  Susie… this is for all those times that you made us want to curl up into the fetal position and cry!

  ENEMY OF MY ENEMY

  A

  PRICE OF POWER

  Novel

  L. Stephens & E. Phillips

  1

  This is bullshit. I shouldn’t be here, it was an honest mistake. At least that was my defense when I had to show up in traffic court regarding a minor speeding infraction. Apparently, 20 over isn’t an honest mistake and driving without insurance is a crime against humanity. So here I am, about to have a heat stroke while serving my city … forcibly, with sweat bleeding from my pores courtesy of the sweltering Miami heat. This is just the beginning of my 40 hours of community service and that doesn’t even include the $300 fine I’m supposedly responsible for.

  Being the responsible person that I am, I avoided my punishment for as long as possible. So, what did my wonderful procrastination get me? Five glorious days of sweltering heat and pure unfiltered hatred for speed limits. In addition to hard labor, I now have a late fee for not paying my fine on time. Tell me, how am I supposed to pay for both of them when I’m on the side of the road with a bunch of sweaty teenagers shoveling bird crap from under a bridge? Yes, you heard correctly, shoveling bird crap … under a bridge … with teenagers. You see, my options of community service assignments were limited to what was available today since I was under a time crunch. I never thought there would be a situation when I would wish to be at work, but our justice system has officially proven me wrong.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” I mumble under my breath, mocking my best friend. That’s what Emmy said to me this morning as I bitched about this whole thing. She thought her logic would help in this screwed up situation. It didn’t. I’m an adult, I know better, and trying to prove a point does nothing but get you into more trouble. I did it anyway. But making me shovel bird crap is just mean and uncalled for. I believe cruel and unusual punishment is the legal term I’ll be claiming when I pass out from the poop fumes.

  I force more of my body weight into the handle of the shovel they gave me. “You’re really stuck on there aren’t you, you little pile of crap.” I cease all movement the moment something warm and wet falls onto the back of my neck. Ah, hell no. “You little bastards! I hate you. I hate each and every one of you!” My screams echo from the bottom of the bridge as I swing my shovel in the air, hoping to catch the little jerk that just shit on me. They are like flying rats, you can hear them, but you can’t see them … just the presents they leave behind.

  “Violet James, that’s enough! Put the shovel down,” one of the men in charge yells.

  “He pooped on me!” I scream back, smiling fiendishly as I find another target to swing at.

  Hearing the squeal of brakes, I turn just in time to see a wheel of a BMW pop the curb. Black tire marks mar the street, as though the car swerved to miss something. The wheel slams back on the road and drives directly into the only puddle within eyesight. It all happens so fast, I don’t even have time to close my mouth before the stagnant, dirty brown water drenches me from head to toe.

  There are no words. None. What is a girl supposed to say when she has a mouthful of foul water and there is warm bird crap slowly dripping down her neck? I snap. I tend to do that from time to time. I was 16 when one of the boys in the group home called me ugly. I punched him in the nose and he never spoke to me again. Emmy had only been there a week when it happened, but she was a witness to my brand of justice and decided to inform me that violence doesn’t solve anything. Of course, she also dubbed me ‘Violent Violet’ the same day and it’s stuck ever since.

  Now, smelly and wet, my anger boils over. Before I realize it, my fingers release their grip on the wooden handle and the shovel launches into the air. In perfect harmony the brake lights flash, the tires squeal, and the impact commences. The driver wastes no time putting the car in park and opening their door. A long tanned leg with golden heels comes into sight first, followed by the woman herself. Gold on gold on gold. Between her dress and necklace and hair and even her skin tone, it all makes my head spin. She doesn’t seem to notice the damage I did to her car, but the look she is giving me tells everyone just how angry she is. With a cock of my head, I simply smile back.

  The next thing I know, I’m in the back of a police car forced to listen to old school rock music as I’m taken to the local police station. Violence may not have been the best idea this time.

  A few hours pass before Emmy finally shows up to collect me. “What did you do?” she asks me with a heavy dose of annoyance.

  “It was warranted,” I say with confidence.

  “What did you do?” Emmy asks me again as one eyebrow slowly rises.

  “He deserved it, Em.” This time my response comes out more like a question than a declaration of just cause.

  She rolls her eyes, as though this very conversation annoys her. “When is the court date and what are the charges?”

  “The 12th and destruction of private property,” I mumble through my teeth with the slightest hint of regret.

  “What? What the hell did you do? Break the damn equipment?” She seems truly annoyed now.

  “Well, the shovel did break when it hit the car…”

  After a day like today, the last thing I want to do is be around people. Personally, I couldn’t care less, but today is my birthday. Every year Emmy manages to convince me that birthday celebrations are a ritual, like some kind of rite of passage. Last night, she succeeded again and wouldn’t let today’s events sway her plans. Sometimes she gets creative and tells me that we won’t always have birthdays to celebrate, but reminding me that I’m going to die someday really dampens the festive spirit. To me, it’s just another day and every one of my foster parents thought the exact same way. Hell, she was the one who made me my first cake on my 17th birthday. Of course, she burned it, so it was like chewing on a brick. Fearing that I would choke and die on the damn thing, I spit it out the second she turned her head. What we should be celebrating is that she never tried that again and changed to store bought cakes.

  We grew up very differently. She had a family. One who loved her more than I could ever imagine being loved. They died in a freak car accident and s
he ended up in the same facility as me. She talks about her parents all the time despite being so young when they died. I never had that. I never had a family. The only information that social services could give was my name and that my birth mother was deceased. I don’t know what my actual birthday is, I don’t know her name or even where my father is. With each new foster family I went to as a child, I grew to hate both of my birth parents that much more. As an adult, I could care less about who they were. In my mind, a family isn’t something you’re born into, but is something that you create. Emmy is the only family that I have and the only family that I’ll ever need.

  “Emmy! Hurry your ass up,” I yell, more out of frustration than necessity. We have a one-bedroom apartment and to most people it’s ridiculously tiny and run down but it is ours and we love it. At least, we tell ourselves that we do. We’re broke and it’s the only thing we can afford. Saying that real estate is expensive in Miami is an understatement; saying that crappy apartments on the outskirts of Miami are cheap is just a lie. The building is old and crumbling, home invasions are real, and cockroaches the size of house cats truly exist in our world.

  Despite the high cost of living, we love this city. For the most part it’s been good to us over the years which is why we decided to stay here after I turned 18. We both found jobs, they may not be great ones but they result in a pay check and that’s what matters. Emmy goes door to door selling beauty products to strangers. However, her primary job, as she calls it anyway, is her ‘volunteer’ work. She walks around with a cell phone glued to her ear five days a week for a suicide hotline. Me, well, I work in the food industry three days a week and my advertising job fills the remaining four days. What does that mean exactly? It means that I scrub dishes until my fingers prune up, then I get dressed up and twirl signs outside hoping that I don’t accidently bash myself in the head with my own prop.

  “Okay, okay. I’m done.” Emmy finally comes out of the bathroom, and as always, she looks amazing. Her platinum blonde hair hangs in loose curls well past her shoulders. While I’m all curves and hips, she’s petite and all breasts. The silver necklace she wears dangles down her chest, drawing your eyes to her most prized assets. She always complements her outfit with red lipstick on her perfect Cupid’s bow lips. I whistle loudly, giving her my approval. Emmy’s old school as I like to call it. At 23, she’s never had a boyfriend and still believes in true love and happily ever after but she’s far from shy when it comes to her appearance. She always says that if you’re proud of it, show it off. And she does. A lot.

  “You could at least put on a dress, Vi.” She looks me up and down several times before shaking her head.

  I’ll admit it, next to her I do look a little underdressed in my tank top, skinny jeans, and flip flops. “I tried. But I may have had one too many doughnuts this morning.” I pause when Emmy gives me her ‘bullshit’ look. “The point is, the damn dress doesn’t fit me like a second skin. It’s more like a busted can of biscuits kind of look. It’s bad.” The one gene that my parents blessed me with is a high metabolism. It’s doubtful that I’d be able to crawl out of the bed otherwise, considering how much I like to eat. I always poke fun at it, as does Emmy, but in reality, I have an hourglass shape and I love every inch of my curves.

  When she starts shaking her head, I stare at the floor knowing what’s about to happen. “I told you so,” Emmy says. There it is! I swear that’s Emmy’s favorite saying, whether it’s true or not. Unfortunately, this time it’s true. She told me to stop eating them; she even said it before I threw up from eating a dozen of them a few days ago. But I was cramping and required sugar, I just didn’t need that much sugar. She runs into her room and brings back a pair of candy apple red stilettos. With a pleading look in her eyes, she holds the shoes out to me. “Please.” She practically begs with puppy dog eyes.

  I simply sigh. I hate when she tries to dress me up like a doll. “Fine, only because you picked me up from the police station earlier.” I grab the damn shoes from her and storm to the car.

  The speakers pulse with a deep beat, hips are gyrating everywhere, lips are interlocked, and the bar is calling my name. Emmy tries several times to get me to dance with her. Her version of dancing is a little too touchy feely if you ask me. Either way, though, I don’t dance. Hell, I even labeled myself as an embarrassment to the art of dancing at the young age of 9 and flexibility isn’t something that I pride myself on. I’m quite content at the bar drinking the night away anyway.

  She reluctantly leaves me to my own devices. I’m anything but alone though. She was kind enough to announce that I’m a single birthday girl to every person within ear shot of me. She keeps randomly making her way back to the bar, always saying that she needs to ‘hydrate to gyrate,’ whatever that means. Within an hour I’m certain that everyone nearby has bought me at least a drink each, so I’m definitely feeling blissfully tipsy and am basically at the point of pure drunkenness.

  With drunk partygoers there is always a guarantee that any and every girl nearby will get hit on and I am not the exception to the rule. One guy tells me all I need to do is unwrap his package and I’d find myself a nice big birthday present. I may be drunk, but I’m not drunk enough to want to unwrap his gift. Lord only knows what I’ll find if I do. I just shook off the last hot shot not even five minutes ago, when a new one takes his place.

  A 30-ish year old man walks up and eyes me from head to toe. He has a muscular build but his face leaves much to be desired. His nose is crooked, probably from being broken several times by pissed off females, and his lips are so thin they might as well be nonexistent. “I’m Stanley,” he says while staring at my chest – staring at my breasts and not my face isn’t a good way to start a conversation.

  “Violet,” I answer back. All sense of logic I once had is now clouded in an alcoholic haze which is the only reason I responded to him.

  “Beautiful name. You here by yourself?” He runs a fingertip along the inside of my forearm as though I asked him for his touch. I shift ever so slightly until my arm rests in my lap.

  “Yes and no. Emmy abandoned me to go dance.” There is this unspoken rule of women in bars: never, ever, tell them you are alone. That’s just asking for trouble. But … there’s that haze lingering over me.

  “Emmy? Is that your girlfriend?” Stanley asks.

  Whiskey shoots from my nose, drenching my favorite tank top. I always thought alcohol was supposed to burn going down, but it really burns when it comes back up. Sitting next to me has always been a dangerous place to be. For whatever reason, and through no fault of my own, food and drink just have a way of not staying where they should.

  “I’ll take that as a no then,” he says with a chuckle.

  “Hell no, she’s my sister.” The bartender hands me another drink, muttering ‘happy birthday’ yet again. I really shouldn’t have another one, I know that, but I don’t care at the moment. I mean he gave it to me as a present. Saying no would be rude – I may be violent at times, but I’ve never been rude about it.

  Stanley just stares at me as I down the whole glass. “Sister?”

  I know he’s digging for more information about me, which instantly raises dozens of red flags. He lifts his eyebrows as though surprised that I have a sister. Biologically, I don’t. But Emmy and I have been inseparable for years. Most people are born into their families, but I chose mine. “Yeah, you know … a female of relation.”

  The look of shock on his face becomes more pronounced at my response. For someone who doesn’t know me, confusion is highly strange. Curiosity, sure. But confusion? The only way he would be confused is if he already had an idea of what to expect when he introduced himself to me. What a damn creeper. “You have a sister?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I snap back. I always seem to find the best and creepiest guys. It’s a gift really, and I’ve got myself a winner here.

  “Where is she? I’d love to buy her a drink as well,” he says with a lopsided smile.

 
Okay, is he trying to get a two for one? Because that’s not happening, there will be no sister tag teaming tonight or any other night. “Okay, well this conversation has been riveting but I gotta go.” I rise to my feet, but it’s like trying to stand on a merry-go-round turning at full speed. These stupid shoes that Emmy wanted me to wear were a really, really big mistake. So was that last drink…

  “Wait!” He jumps up and knocks his stool over in the process. He grabs my arm with a tight and unrelenting grip. My hands curl into fists as I look down at where he’s holding me. My teeth grind together as I force myself not to smash those fists into his already crooked nose. “You haven’t even asked me a question yet. At least take a few minutes and try to get to know me before blowing me off.”

  I have absolutely no desire to get to know him. Right now it’s taking everything in me not to punch him right in the face. Being arrested twice in one day is extreme, even for me. Assault, even if warranted, isn’t something I want on my rap sheet. “I have to pee,” I blurt. Emmy will be so proud of me for taking the high and nonviolent road.

  “Of course, I’ll order you another drink in the meantime,” Stanley says, while releasing my arm and waving the bartender over.