Unleashing Hound

by Harley Stone

  Published by Harley Stone

  Copyright ©2020 – Harley Stone

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States

  * * *

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the authors, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Dedication

  Introduction

  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

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Also by Harley Stone

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Dedicated to: Drewser. Thank you for sharing your story with me, and therefore the world. Your courage and strength never cease to amaze me. I’m so proud of you. Keep pressing on through the pain, my friend. This world needs you.

  Introduction

  Pain is a relentless master.

  * * *

  After ravaging my childhood, it destroyed my Naval career, sending me into a downward spiral of pills and self-loathing.

  * * *

  Now, fresh out of rehab with a biker club of veterans at my back, I’m fighting for my emancipation.

  * * *

  Then she shows up seeking sanctuary and a reprieve from her own torment.

  * * *

  Mila.

  * * *

  A gorgeous, wounded outcast, she’ll either be my kryptonite or my motivation to keep breathing, but I will do everything in my power to keep her safe.

  * * *

  Even if it breaks me for good.

  1

  Hound

  AN INTENSE BACK spasm pulled me from my sleep. Reflexively swatting a hand across the nightstand, I reached for relief. There was nothing but air where the pill bottles should be. Flashbacks filtered through my exhaustion: me stumbling, waking up on a street corner, being handcuffed and stuffed into the back of a police car. Scenes of my medicine-induced mistakes played like a movie trailer in my mind.

  The shit that was supposed to bring me relief had only brought me trouble.

  No more pills. Ever.

  Remembering the promise I’d made to myself and the handful of people who gave a fuck about me, I sat up, sucking down deep breaths as fire raged down my back. Someone once told me that God wouldn’t give me more than I could handle, but if God existed, the big man had to be one hell of a sadist to give me this level of torment.

  A particularly sharp pain dragged a curse from my lips. “Fuck me.” Clenching my fists, I pounded on the mattress until the pain eased.

  My eyelids felt like sandpaper scraping away my corneas with every blink. The clock on my nightstand read two-thirty-four a.m., which meant I’d barely gotten two hours of sleep. Stomach unsettled, brain foggy, body tense, this was how I spent way too many nights lately. Hell, I couldn’t even remember what well-rested and pain-free felt like anymore. You’d think I’d have grown used to it but dealing with the pain never got easier.

  Another wave was rolling in.

  Needing to focus on something else, I grabbed the remote and clicked on the television. Nothing worth watching was on, and flipping through channels didn’t do shit to distract me. My muscles kept tensing, bracing for the onslaught I could feel coming on.

  Sometimes deep, measured breaths helped, but not this time. Each gulp of air only increased the swell. What had started along my backbone spread through my core and down my legs. It raced over my shoulders and spread through my arms, overtaking my entire body like a tidal wave.

  I was drowning in pain.

  Holding still, I waited for the agony to pass, but it only intensified until my stomach clenched and bile rose in the back of my throat.

  Shit!

  It was too much. Too intense. Scooting off the bed—and swearing every inch of the way—I pulled on a pair of sweats. Hobbling out of my door and down the hall, I swallowed back bile as each step jackhammered the shit out of my spine. By some miracle, I made it to the bathroom without blowing chunks all over the hallway.

  Stumbling through the door, I hurried to the nearest stall and dropped to my knees where I heaved my stomach up to the porcelain god, praying for relief. Each move tugged at the muscles in my back, causing even more pain. My vision went white. Sweat and tears mixed with vomit as my body tried to expel my goddamn toes through my mouth.

  I couldn’t tell where I ended, and the agony began.

  I was pain, vomit, and tears. There was nothing else left of me.

  Then finally—just when I couldn’t take one second more—the wave receded. I could still feel it, but I could finally fucking breathe.

  With the cool porcelain toilet beneath my cheek and the slow, steady dripping of one of the showers in the background, the world came back into focus.

  I’d survived.

  Somehow, I always did. For now. The tide would roll in again. Maybe next time, it would take me under for good. Maybe I would never resurface again.

  What would that be like?

  Would I finally get some fucking relief?

  Unable to determine whether my death would be a blessing or a curse, I used toilet paper to mop off my face and the splatters on the toilet seat before flushing the mess away. Little pulses of aftershocks reminded me I wasn’t out of the woods yet, but I could handle them. They were nothing compared to what I’d just endured. Pulling myself up on unsteady legs, I headed for the sink.

  The cold water felt incredible. I dunked my head under the faucet before splashing it on the back of my neck and rinsing out my mouth. Glancing at the shower stalls, I considered trekking back to my room for a towel, but I didn’t have that kind of energy and needed to get my ass back to bed. Tomorrow was an important day that would require me to fire on all cylinders, not just the fumes I was currently running on. Turning off the faucet, I dried off my face with a paper towel as my reflection snagged my gaze. Staring into the mirror above the sink, I noted the dark circles surrounding my dull eyes. They say you can see a person’s soul through their eyes, and I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell anyone would see in mine.

  I looked hollow. Empty.

  I felt worse.

  At thirty years old, I didn’t have shit to show for my life. Sure, I’d served in the Navy, but as soon as I started to make something of myself, I was injured and sent home. Estranged from my family, with no woman, no job, a criminal record, and an addiction problem, I couldn’t be further from the man I’d set out to be. How many nights had I spent with nowhere to
lay my head? How many times had I been so fucked out of my mind on morphine I didn’t even know where I was? I’d felt the bone-chilling cold of a jail cell, and had become well acquainted with the lonely desperation of rehab. Detoxing had been no joke, making me feel like my body was being eaten from the inside out.

  Turned out sobriety wasn’t much better.

  “Is this it for me?” I asked my reflection. “Pain? Failure? Is that all this fucked-up world can offer?”

  My reflection didn’t answer. It was probably disappointed in me, too.

  I’d always wanted more. A career I could be proud of, a family that loved me and didn’t lie to me or make me feel like I wasn’t welcome. I didn’t want much, just a real home full of love, laughter, and cooking smells. Someone who gave a damn that I’d survived the day.

  That was my American dream.

  But who in their right mind would want me now? I was busted beyond repair, the very definition of FUBAR.

  Another wave of pain rolled over me, making me grit my teeth and hold onto the counter for support. The wave ebbed, but I could feel another rolling in behind it. If I didn’t do something to counter it soon, I’d be kneeling before the toilet again in no time.

  Pushing away from the sink, I wobbled back to my room and went straight to the top of my dresser. A 5,000-milligram bottle of CBD oil sat like a god on its throne, positioned between two custom-made Budweiser glasses my little sister had given me. I never put anything else around the bottle, because I couldn’t risk losing the little fucker. Costing almost $260 after tax—including my veteran discount—the shit was more valuable than gold. Especially considering I needed a dose of at least 1,000 milligrams to even make a dent in the pain.

  Insurance had paid for my morphine and dilaudid. They didn’t blink a goddamn eye as I poured so many pills down my throat I lost myself. But the motherfuckers flat out refuse to pay for a non-addictive form of pain relief.

  It’s almost like they wanted us to kill ourselves… like they relied on the shit to weed us out, so we were no longer their problem.

  The muscles in my back contracted. I could already tell this wave would be a doozy. Angry at my body, the expense, and the way the country I’d served didn’t seem to give two shits about me now that I couldn’t do anything for it, I wanted to throw something. I wanted to punch walls and flip furniture.

  I wanted to rewind my life and change everything that had gotten me to this moment.

  But I was stuck here, in this purgatory, unable to move forward or backward. There was no way out, just more pain. Living wasn’t worth this kind of torture. Hell, what did I have to look forward to, anyway? More nights on my knees, alone in front of the toilet?

  No fuckin’ thank you.

  I’d been trying to stay afloat, waiting for help, hoping for a rescue, but I was drowning. And, I wanted out. I wanted peace and rest, an end to the agony. If I had a gun, I’d be tempted to eat a fucking bullet and end it all.

  Link, my club president, would shit himself if he found a weapon in my room. A veteran himself, he knew the power of temptation at three in the morning when memories kicked a person in the ass and made life seem hopeless.

  A gun was unnecessary, though. There were other ways to end my life: a rope, a bottle of pills, a razor blade across my wrists. I’d be lying if I hadn’t considered them all. But when it came right down to it, I was hurting too bad to so much as move. Killing myself would take a level of effort I didn’t feel up to. Besides, this club had taken me in when nobody else would, and I didn’t want to leave a mess for them to clean up. They deserved better than that.

  A chuckle bubbled up in my throat.

  My weariness and reluctance to leave a mess were the only things tying me to this life.

  Fucking unreal.

  Unscrewing the CBD oil, I started with two milliliters in the dropper. Since I bought the strongest shit they sold, two milliliters equaled about three hundred and thirty-four milligrams, which wasn’t even half of what I needed. But that inadequate dosage cost me a little over $17 and my bank account was the only thing running lower than this bottle.

  I needed to conserve the shit out of it.

  Screwing the lid on the precious goddamn oil, I wandered back over to my bed and collapsed, hoping the dose would be enough to get me through the night.

  It won’t be. Fuckin’ coward. Get off your ass and end it. What are you waiting for?

  Hope is a strange thing. No matter how many times life kicked me in the teeth, somehow hope managed to wiggle its way up through the destruction. It was like a goddamn dandelion pushing through the cracks in the pavement. Somehow it managed to break through the despair to remind me that tomorrow’s appointment had potential.

  Just survive the night and your life could change.

  And if it didn’t? I could always put an end to the pain tomorrow.

  2

  Mila

  TWENTY-THREE MINUTES to go.

  I studied the rows of eight to nine-year-olds seated before me, knowing I had to keep them busy or all hell would break loose. My third-grade classroom stared right back, trying their hardest not to squirm. We had a deal, after all, and a highly anticipated surprise was on the line. As they struggled to keep their excitement for summer vacation under wraps, I fought to think up enough questions to pass the time. We’d already discussed summer plans, favorite colors, and what everyone did and didn’t enjoy about the school year. I was running out of material.

  “You guys are doing great,” I encouraged. “Just a little longer. Why don’t you each tell me how many siblings you have? Jonathon, you start.” I nodded to the mousey brown-haired boy in the front row.

  “Three brothers and one sister.” His reply was barely above a whisper and delivered from the back of his seat where he sat with his shoulders hunched forward. At the beginning of the year, he wouldn’t have even answered questions in front of the class, preferring to pull his shirt over his head—like a turtle disappearing inside its shell—and hide until I moved on to another student. He’d come a long way this year, and I beamed him an encouraging smile to let him know how proud I was of his progress. His cheeks turned bright pink as his gaze landed on my feet.

  “Are they younger or older than you?” I asked. I’d taught one of his brothers three years ago and knew his little sister was in first grade, but I wasn’t sure about the others.

  Jonathon’s little face scrunched up as he thought the question over. “Liam and Peter are older. Deirdre and Brian are younger.”

  And shy, quiet Jonathon was stuck right in the middle of that insanity. No wonder the boy was so withdrawn; he probably felt lost in the shuffle. As a middle child myself, I could relate.

  “Lisa?” I asked the redhead seated behind him, signaling for the question to circulate the room.

  As each student answered, the pressure in my classroom continued to build. Containing the energy of third graders was a lot like living on top of a crater filled with methane gas. One little spark, and the entire place would blow. And here I was, walking around with a lighter in my pocket.

  Across the hall, first-year teacher Amy Nilong wasn’t faring so well. Nothing in her training could have prepared her for the end of the year insanity she now faced. I’d tried to warn her, but she’d waved me off with naïve assurances she’d survive. Her closed door did little to block the sounds of chaos coming from her room. In the midst of loud chatter and laughter, it sounded like someone was bawling. I hoped like hell it wasn’t Amy.

  Third graders could be ruthless.

  The sibling question had gone around my entire classroom, and according to the clock on the wall, we still had eighteen potentially explosive minutes of the school day left to go. Wondering if the clock was malfunctioning, I pulled out my cell phone and verified the time. My private email account had a new message, so I clicked on the icon.

  Glancing up from my phone, I said, “All right, class, next question. What’s your favorite meal? Jonathon, please start.�
� Figuring that would keep them busy for another minute or two, I scanned the email. The sender was some random email address, and the message was a Bible verse.

  “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”

  Just like the previous messages, there was no signature and no reference to a Bible book and chapter. But after years of forced studies, I knew exactly what I was looking at. I also knew the verse wasn't for me because there'd be no forgiveness for the sins I'd committed. Besides, I wasn’t the least bit sorry. Even if I was, who would I confess to? The “good” reverend and his faithful elders hadn’t been able to beat the sin out of me as a child, so I doubted they could do so now that I was an adult.

  Still, the email was unnerving. Very few people had this email, and none of them were the type to sign me up for some Bible verse service, but this was probably the fifth scripture I’d received in the past few weeks. I’d let the rest of them go, but this was getting old. Scrolling past the body of the message, I searched for a company name or an unsubscribe button, finding nothing. Replying with an “unsubscribe” request, I set down my phone and huffed out a breath and listened to a cantankerous little blonde named Kari give the equivalent of a two-minute verbal dissertation on why pineapple didn’t belong on pizza.