Pike: The Pawn Duet, Book One

by Frazier, T. M.

  Pike

  The Pawn Duet, Book One

  TM Frazier

  Contents

  About This Book

  Opening Quote

  Prologue

  1. Mickey

  2. Pike

  3. Pike

  4. Pike

  5. Mickey

  6. Pike

  7. Mickey

  8. Pike

  9. Pike

  10. Mickey

  11. Mickey

  12. Mickey

  13. Mickey

  The Guidelines

  14. Mickey

  15. Pike

  16. Mickey

  17. Mickey

  18. Pike

  19. Mickey

  20. Pike

  21. Pike

  22. Mickey

  23. Pike

  24. Pike

  25. Mickey

  26. Mickey

  27. Pike

  28. Pike

  29. Mickey

  30. Mickey

  ALSO BY T.M. FRAZIER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  About This Book

  Born into chaos. Baptized in the gutter.

  I was raised by the violent laws of the streets, spilling blood without the hindrance of useless emotions or connections.

  Unfeeling. Unloved. Alone.

  My life was perfect.

  Until her.

  While on a manhunt for a mysterious enemy, one hell bent on taking both my business and my life, I find Mickey. She's covered in mud, rambling nonsense, and clearly out of her mind.

  She's also a distraction I don't need.

  That is until I discover a connection between the girl and my enemy.

  Mickey isn't a distraction anymore.

  She's the perfect weapon.

  One I'll use to exact my revenge.

  The plan is an easy one, but there's something about Mickey that's making it more and more difficult.

  A familiarity I can't place. A need I can't explain. A want I have to deny.

  After all, she's not mine to keep.

  She's mine to sacrifice.

  For the two people who are my entire world.

  My sun and my moon.

  My always and my forever.

  L&C

  “From the deepest desires often come the deadliest hate.”

  Socrates

  Prologue

  Pike

  Love is a plague, infecting the masses with the lie of happily ever after.

  It’s the ultimate religion, followed by those who have faith that it will save their wretched souls and give them some sort of deeper purpose. That love is what makes life worth living.

  Bullshit.

  Love is a fucking cult. A stampede of hopeful morons all rushing to jump off the same cliff that has claimed the lives of millions before them. Through the fog, they’re unable to see their fate, what love really has waiting for them at the bottom.

  Nothing but a gruesome tangle of carnage.

  So, they jump.

  And when all is said and done, love doesn’t lead them to find purpose or hope or meaning in this life.

  It ends with joining the fucking pile.

  Another notch carved on the handle of love’s gun.

  The only true end to the plague is death or something that feels a lot like it when the infection spreads to the heart and soul, crushing a man from the inside.

  Love is messy, bloody, and ignorant.

  Hatred is born in the absence of love’s false promises. An evolution of man.

  Hate is easy. Pure in its simplicity.

  It doesn’t disappoint or lead astray.

  There are no false promises, no fog clouding what’s waiting at the bottom of the cliff.

  Hate is a product of where I came from and a direction to where I’m going.

  Logan’s Beach.

  It’s a town made up of equal parts sand and sadists.

  Beach and blood.

  Saltwater and sins.

  Canals and chaos.

  The overgrown, empty fields house the perfect soil in which the seeds of hatred are planted and flourish, producing an army soulless men. The blood in their veins, replaced by the flowing green of greed. They wield weapons instead of hands, and stones instead of hearts. Encroach on their paths, and you will be cut down.

  The only law in this town is power. And the lengths you’re willing to go to obtain that power can be both astonishing and horrifying. Respect is earned through bloody acts of violence and the kind of brutality that outside of this town only exists in nightmares.

  My power lies in my truth. I have no false notions about who I am or what I’m capable of. I don’t fear retaliation, retribution, or the fucking reaper himself.

  I approach life without my weapon hidden behind my back but in my hands and in your face because my seed wasn’t planted at birth, but rather by circumstance.

  I’m not a victim. I’m simply the result. A product of Logan’s Beach.

  An outcast. An outlaw. Out for fucking blood.

  I’m prepared for anything and anyone.

  Except her.

  My life after Mickey is a live grenade being tossed into the air like a child’s plaything.

  While I’m distracted, trying to keep everything I’ve worked for from exploding, she somehow manages to slip her small feminine fingers past all of my barriers, reaches into my black fucking soul…

  And pulls the fucking pin.

  Chapter One

  Mickey

  Four Years Ago

  Mama and Papa always beam with pride when they tell people I have a photographic memory, even though I feel like the accomplishment is the least spectacular among those of my three younger sisters. Mallory, thirteen, is already on the junior Olympic swim team. Maya, sixteen, recently received her early acceptance letter to Stanford. Mindy, seventeen, paints spectacular watercolor landscapes and landed her first solo gallery show in Miami next month.

  Then, there’s me. Mickey, nineteen, photographic memory, high IQ, socially inept.

  Eh, seems pale by comparison. Maybe, because I’ve watched them work so hard to reach their goals while my accomplishments are merely products of something I was born with. I never had to try to be smart or remember things.

  I just am. I just can.

  I hear Papa’s voice in my head from dinner last month with my aunt and uncle. “Bob, did I ever tell you that Mickey here has a photographic memory? It’s astounding. She can remember every detail of everything she sees. Never seen anything like it. Bob, give me your driver’s license. She’ll remember the numbers in two-seconds flat.”

  I chuckle to myself at the image of Bob’s astonished face when I did just that, taking a quick glance at his drivers’ license before handing it back and reciting not just his license number, but his birthday, the date he got his license renewed, and the fact that he’s an organ donor. I added the part about him having a ketchup stain on his collar in the picture for good measure.

  My memory has always been my superpower. It’s never failed me.

  My smile falls.

  Until today.

  Today, Papa’s brag is a lie.

  Because something happened today, and for the first time in my life, I can’t remember what.

  The memory is there, but it’s sitting inside my brain like a shredded picture, floating in the wind. Just when I feel like I’m getting close to it, it’s gone again. It’s like catching something moving in the corner of your eye only to turn around and realize that nothing’s there.

  It’s as if I’m chasing ghosts.

  The sound of my sisters’ laughter brings me back to the present. I brush off the uneasy feeling and plaster a bright smile on my fa
ce.

  Whatever happened must not have been that important. Because if it was, I’m sure I’d remember. Because it’s who I am. I’m the daughter who remembers.

  Whatever is going on with my memory is going to have to wait because I refuse to let anything bother me, especially not here, my happy place.

  My family and I vacation here in Logan’s Beach every summer. We have a small timeshare right on the beach. All of my greatest memories took place in this town. I lost my first tooth here. I had my first almost-kiss on the pier, pulling away at the last second after spotting whatever gross thing was stuck in Hudson Yontz’s braces, but the memory still makes me smile. My mom taught me how to swim in the pool of the timeshare here. My sisters and I even won a fishing tournament here. We called our team the Snook Sisters and that year, the Snook Sisters took home first place. You would have thought we’d won the lottery instead of a forty-five-dollar gift certificate to Master Bait & Tackle.

  The warmth of the sun begins to cool, and the unrelenting heat fades from the back of my neck leaving a cool spot in its place as the breeze brushes across my wet skin.

  I glance up to the sky and notice the sun dropping into the horizon.

  Sunset already? Where did the time go? Didn’t we just leave the timeshare to go kayaking a few minutes ago?

  We did. That, I remember. We packed up the van. Strapped the kayaks to the roof. Stopped to buy more sunscreen.

  Didn’t we? Or was that last year?

  Was it raining? I think I remember rain.

  It’s all blurry.

  I mean, time always flies by during our summers here. It’s not that unusual for me to lose track of it.

  But not of your memory.

  It’s fine. It will all be fine. I refuse to enter into that line of conversation again with my inner voice. After all, there’s only so much time left. It’s our last summer here as a family, and I want to enjoy every minute of it.

  The sign that says Welcome to Logan’s Beach glows green under the fading light as I approach. Every week during the summer, there’s either a large black spray-painted phallus across the lettering or a patch of paint covering said phallus.

  Today, it’s a paint patch.

  I smile to myself as I slowly walk past the sign. My feet ache from walking. Always the drama queen, I hear Mallory complaining about hers behind me, and I roll my eyes.

  Mom assures her we are almost there. I reply with a sarcastic “Are we there yet?”

  Nobody laughs but Papa.

  I listen on as Papa tells a bad knock-knock joke that makes my sisters and my mom simultaneously groan. Papa’s weird like me. Not only do we share the same high IQ, but also the same cheesy sense of humor. I’m the only one who laughs at his joke, and I’m rewarded with one of his famous winks.

  Mindy chides me for encouraging him and groans even louder when he starts telling another joke.

  Tormenting my sisters is even somehow sweeter here.

  Even sharing a bathroom with my three sisters is more tolerable here than it is at home, and the one at home has two sinks where the one in the timeshare only has one.

  As we walk, I’m leaving a snail-like trail of water on the pavement behind me. My clothes have gone from wet to damp under the heat of the sun. My jean shorts chafe at the inside of my thighs, rubbing the skin raw with each step. My wild mass of hair is a deranged sponge, and once it’s wet, it leaks like a runny faucet until I can find a towel and a blow dryer because air drying is not an option.

  Maya notices my wet trail and jokes that I should be on one of those Sham-wow infomercials. Not as the salesperson shouting about how fabulous the water-absorbent cloth is, but as the cloth itself.

  “Like I haven’t heard that one before,” I mutter. I have. Several hundred times. All from Maya.

  Mom tells her to be nice, and I smile and stick my tongue out like a child even though I’m a grown woman now. I wonder when I’ll actually feel like a woman. My body certainly hasn’t gotten the message that femininity should’ve reached its peak within me by now. Exhibit A being my chicken legs and exhibit B being my lack of graceful...anything.

  Papa tells us all to stop walking and take in salty air.

  While we’re both intelligent, and share the same ridiculous sense of humor, this is where we differ. Papa is sentimental in a way that’s almost whimsical. He can put aside logic for feeling.

  While I watch him close his eyes and take a deep breath, I realize I envy him. That he can have the best of both worlds where as I manage to live within the boundary lines of just the one.

  Normally, I’d roll my eyes or just pretend to go along with it, but it’s my last summer here before I head back to college and begin my new research project, and who knows, maybe my last summer here ever, and I made a promise to myself that I’m going to savor each and every minute I have left in this place. So, I do what Papa says, and stop, face the water, and close my eyes. The salt is so thick in the air that I can taste it in my mouth before I even have a chance to inhale.

  I try to take a deep breath, but I can’t. My lungs are already full, but not with air. I cough one of those gross wet coughs where you can feel stuff moving around in your lungs. And the air might as well be a like a salt lick because what I cough up tastes like I’ve been licking at one all day.

  My mother comes to my side to ask if I’m okay. I nod, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and flash her a smile, reassuring her that I’m fine. She reminds me that I always get a cold at the end of the summer. She’s right. I always do.

  So much for my attempt at being a free spirit.

  I smirk to myself. Mallory will be wearing her surgical mask the entire trip home so she doesn’t catch my cold. She’ll be giving me her usual raised-eyebrow, side-glances every time I sneeze like I’ve got the zombie plague. I make a mental note to throw in some additional fake sneezes and coughs for good measure.

  We continue walking. My feet are aching to the point that I’m limping. I do my best to hide it so Mama won’t worry. I don’t want to complain either, she’s heard enough of that today. Besides, she said we’re almost there, so I’ll be able to rest them soon.

  The white and yellow of approaching headlights spread wide in the light of dawn like portals of blurry suns. I pause and shield my eyes for a moment before we all continue on. A loud horn blasts from a passing car, making Maya jump and Mallory curse as it fades off down the road.

  After a few more miles, the road becomes thin and cracked with no markings separating the lanes. There are no more lights or bars or people.

  Mindy whines to Papa, and he assures her again that we are almost there, but I’m beginning to think there doesn’t exist.

  A black truck pulls up beside us and stops. It’s on big, lifted tires. I crane my neck when the window rolls down. A man appears although he’s so high up I can’t make out his face.

  “Miss, you need a ride?” he asks, sounding concerned.

  I smile, and my lips crack. A trickle of blood runs down my jaw, and I wipe it away with my wet shirt. It stings from the salt but my smile doesn’t falter. I’m just so happy to be with my family. To be here. I have to be happy.

  I can’t not smile.

  But why am I bleeding?

  All three of my sisters are begging my parents to let us get into this stranger’s truck, but I know they’ll never allow it. So, as much as I appreciate the offer, I politely decline.

  “Thank you so much, but no thank you.”

  My sisters giggle, and although I can’t see the man, I realize that he must be decent looking because my sisters are giggling like idiots.

  I whip my head around. “Shhh, don’t be rude,” I say between my teeth and turn back to the stranger. “Sorry about them.”

  “Them,” he says, as if he doesn’t understand why young women would be giggling in his presence. I might be, too, but his face is even blurrier now than it was when he first pulled up. In fact, everything is blurrier now.

  We need
to keep going, so we can get there.

  But where is there?

  Where am I?

  “Thanks again for the offer,” I say to the man. “But, as you can see, even if we were to take you up on your kind offer, your truck doesn’t have a backseat, and I don’t think it can accommodate all six of us.”

  “All six of you,” he repeats. It’s not a statement or a question. I’m beginning to think he doesn’t have all of the necessary brain power to compute such a simple statement.

  Or count to six.

  My feet ache, and I’m shifting from one to the other. I’m eager to send this stranger on his way, and I’m finding it harder and harder to remain upright. “You don’t think I’d leave my family here and go with you alone, do you?” I turn back to my Papa and shoot him a shrug. He smiles proudly, no doubt at the realization that his constant stranger-danger talks have sunk in.

  “Miss, where is your family?” he asks, tentatively.

  I frown. I mean, my vision is blurry, but this man must be downright blind.

  “Right behind me!” I wave my arms to where my family is gathered at the side of the road. They all wave back like they’re a moving painting of a picture-perfect family.

  He opens the driver's door and hops down onto the pavement. I register bear arms and a white shirt. Tattoos. His hair is dark blonde, reminding me of my cat, Penny. He’s got a scar on his jaw and bright eyes that keep moving out of focus. No wonder my sisters giggled. He’s very giggle worthy. My guess is that he’s only a little older than me although his deep voice sounds much more mature.