by M. K. Harper
Finding You
Pack Bardot Book 1
M.K. Harper
Copyright © 2020 M.K. Harper
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9781234567890
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: Art Painter
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
To my sweet husband, who gave this book so much inspiration thanks to his love of unfrosted strawberry pop-tarts and red power rangers. Thank you for always believing in me and pushing me to chase my dreams. I love you most.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
To be continued...
Acknowledgement
About The Author
Chapter 1
“Indy...” I twitch at the faint whisper of my name, still locked in my nightmare about being chased through the ninth circle of hell by little Chihuahua demons. “Linden!” I jolt awake at the suddenly urgent tone.
“Be gone, hell spawn!” I bat my hands around crazily, certain I need to claw my way free from the little monsters. Instead, my mother’s cerulean blue eyes stare back at me, slightly amused. I push my sweat drenched hair away from my face. My dream state extracurriculars have obviously caused me to put in a workout on this side of consciousness.
“Mom?” My confusion is evident at her randomly waking me in the middle of the night. “What’s wrong?”
“No time, Indy. We have to go. Now.”
My pulse races erratically at those words. The words I’ve both longed for and dreaded equally. This is it. The moment we’ve waited years for. I knew it was coming sooner rather than later. My father’s manic episodes are becoming so frequent, he’s almost always in a state of paranoia and rage at this point. It breaks my heart, while simultaneously hardening it. Gone are the days of bedtime stories and piggy back rides by the man I once adored. Those memories are now replaced with paralyzing fear. Dear ‘Ole Dad flipped his switch one day and became a stranger who feasted on the fear of the two people he’s supposed to love most in the world. Mom has taken the brunt of his beatings, saving me from having to experience that particular kind of evil firsthand, but the guilt of her sacrifice is something that’ll haunt me for the rest of my life. Among other things.
Her cries.
Her pleas.
At some point, I just learned to shut down emotionally and detach from whatever was going on around me. Mom will shove me in the closet and lock the door, that she smartly reversed the lock on, to protect me from the horror she’s being subjected to. I’d fight her every step of the way, willing to trade places with her in a heartbeat, but it’s a pointless battle. We both know if she had to endure watching him do the things to me that he does to her, it’d destroy her. So instead, I relent, and spend hours listening to him inflict unimaginable pain on his wife. Forcing himself on her. Screaming every degradable thing he can think of at her. All the while, I stay locked behind a solid wood door, safe and sound, until Mom has garnered enough strength, and my dad has passed out from exertion, to come and set me free. Each time, I’m met with a more broken woman than the one who hid me away.
Who knows how long she would’ve endured this hell for, but a few weeks ago, Mom was no longer enough for him. The day my father slipped into my room in the middle of the night and wrapped his hands around my throat, it stripped me of anything less than hate that I still tried to make myself feel for him. How? How does someone change so drastically overnight? There are days where I can’t rationalize the man he is today with the one I used to know and love. It’s like forcing yourself to accept the death of a loved one, but the person is still living so your brain just doesn’t compute. They stare back at you, obviously alive, but with empty eyes, completely devoid of any humanity. It’s a hell of a pill to swallow. Since that night, my mom has been crushing up sleeping pills and slipping them into his nightly glass of whiskey, doing her best to buy us some time so that she can get our escape plan together. Because staying here? That’s no longer an option. Hell, it wasn’t an option for me a while ago, but Mom argued that we weren’t ready yet. For years, she’s been pocketing away as much as she can without raising any suspicions. We’ll call it restitution. God knows she’s rightfully fucking owed a small fortune at this point.
Mom raises my bag in her hand, her own slung over her shoulder. She must’ve already pulled them from our little hideaway, the closest that’s been my safe haven way too many times to count. Silently, I peel back my covers with a trembling hand. The sound of my pulse throbbing in my ears is deafening. I don’t think I’ve ever been more terrified in my life. I know that if we’re caught, it’s game over. Lights out. I don’t think he’ll have enough restraint to stop until we’re both dead. It’s a numbing realization to know that you may very well be aiding in your own execution. My feet want to root themselves to the floor and refuse to follow through with this asinine plan. Thankfully, my brain knows that it’s now or most likely never, and a chance at freedom is more than worth the risk. With grace that is foreign to the likes of my clumsy ass, I tip-toe across the hardwood floor of my room until we’re standing in front of the window that we’ve already dismembered the lock on. The mechanism is solely for looks now. Mom hands me the black chucks she’d been carrying in her free hand. Sitting my bag down as if it were a bomb, she carefully wedges the window open while I slip my shoes on. The slight creak it makes has us both becoming statues, on high alert for the slightest inclination that the devil himself has been aroused from his slumber.
After several agonizingly long minutes, Mom releases a trembling exhale. Not willing to cause another noise that could result in our own demise, we both take in the smaller than optimal opening and know we’re gonna have to squeeze ourselves through. Luckily, we’re both pretty tiny. Mom motions for me to go first. Reluctantly, I concede and heft my leg over the edge. Wiggling my body through is an art. My chest heaves with the effort it takes. Effort that I’m absolutely inept to. No part of me coincides with physical fitness. That shit’s for the true sociopaths of the world. The arm of my hoodie snags on a loose nail and I have to jerk it forcefully to tug it free. I can feel it slice my forearm but I bite back my yelp and force myself to focus on anything but the pain. My foot finally touches solid ground and I sigh in relief. Before I have a chance to get my bearings, my bag is hoisted through the window so fast I barely have time to lunge for it.
Mom’s patience is clearly wearing thin and she’s ready to get the hell out of dodge, n
ot that I can blame her in the least. As soon as I sit my bag on the ground, hers sails through and smacks me in the face. I curse under my breath but manage to keep quiet. I wring my hands together nervously while I wait for Mom to climb out, knowing we’re in the home stretch, but for some reason my anxiety is at an all time high. It’s always at this point in the B-rated horror movie that something bad happens, right? Just when you start to believe you’re out of the woods but in reality it’s all been a false sense of security and the evil that has you running has really just been lying in wait for the perfect opportunity to destroy all of your hopes and dreams. Yeah, I’m a real optimist. My eyes scan the dense forest that surrounds our plantation style home, searching for anything that’s out of the ordinary.
Hands brace my shoulders and snap me out of my futile hunt. A scream lodges itself in my throat, but thankfully my mom’s hand covers my mouth before it can break free. Between you and me, I might’ve peed myself a little. I can see the guilt in her eyes for scaring me but we both know we don’t have time for misplaced apologies. Without another word, we grab our bags and bolt for the trees. Three miles. That’s how far away Mom stashed the truck. In other words, a goddamn marathon for the running challenged. Still, I don’t let up. My lungs burn and my legs ache with each step, but I don’t stop. At any second I expect to hear my father’s angry roar at finding us gone. Each blissfully silent moment that passes spurs me on, renewing my will to live and survive the hell we’re fleeing. After what feels like hours, the four door Jeep Wrangler finally comes into view. Tucked away in a far corner of our property, it’s been safe from anyone who might stumble across it. Mom fumbles in her pocket for the keys. The locks disengage just as our hands reach for the doors. Throwing them open, we toss our bags in and quickly shut and lock them back. Our eyes dart around the trees, nothing but our heavy breathing hanging between us.
After several intense minutes pass with no one yanking our doors open and dragging us out, we both exhale loudly. The adrenaline that’s been powering my sad little body seeps out of me with a quickness. I’m still shaking as I lean my head back against the seat. The keys rattle in Mom’s hand, trembling as she tries to stick them in the ignition. My heart hurts for all she’s endured. No one should have to be as brave as she’s been. My hand reaches over and steadies hers. Together we get the key in and turn it over, making the Jeep roar to life. It’s a sound that’ll forever be imbedded into my brain. A sound that I’ll always associate with freedom.
“We did it, Mom. We’re free...” A faint smile graces my lips. It’s not much of one, but it’s something. I’m still cautiously optimistic, terrified at any moment that the other shoe will drop. I feel the need to comfort her though, even if it might not be completely true. We need a damn win, so I’m claiming this as one.
“Oh, baby.” Her eyes blur with tears. “I don’t think we’ll ever be truly free, Indy. And I sure as hell won’t feel safe until we’ve put a few thousand miles between us and him.” She takes a deep breath and steels her spine before she puts the truck in gear and takes us away from the tortured life that we’ve been prisoner to.
No truer words, Mom, no truer words.
I live for the day we won’t have to constantly look over our shoulders anymore, but I’m also well aware it may never come. With a sigh, I lean my head against the window and watch the familiar roads disappear. Exhaustion sets in heavy and I finally give up the fight, praying my dreams are free of demonic ankle biters.
Chapter 2
The blinding sunlight that filters through the windows rouses me from a blissfully dreamless sleep and I stretch as much as possible within the confines of the front seat. My body is achy in places no almost eighteen year old’s body should be achy in. Groaning, I turn towards my mom.
“Morning sleepyhead.” Her smile is infectious, pulling one from me as well. I glance at the clock on the dash. It’s almost noon, well past morning.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“We got on the road around 3:30 and you fell asleep within an hour or so. You needed it, kiddo.” Her tired eyes give away just how much she needs some rest herself.
“Well, I’m all rested up. Pull over and let’s swap. You look seconds away from face planting the steering wheel.” Her soft chuckle warms my heart. It’s not a sound I’ve heard very often over the past few years.
“There’s a rest stop a few miles up ahead. We’ll stop there and grab something to eat and take a potty break.” Mom squirms in her seat, her tell-tale sign that her bladder’s on the verge of rupturing. An unfortunate little quirk she passed along to me as well. I shake my head at the multiple empty Coke cans that litter the backseat. The woman doesn’t handle caffeine well, and I’m willing to bet she’s gonna crash hard. Moments later we pull into the mostly empty parking lot of the rest stop. Locking the doors, we head for the bathroom together, neither of us willing to part from the other. I do my business and head for the sink to wash my hands. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I almost faint at the sight.
“Sweet, baby Jesus...” My eyes are wide as I take in my pitiful state. The arm of my hoodie is torn with dried blood caked to it. Small scratches mar my face and legs. The tiny sleep shorts I’d went to bed in did little to protect me from the bushes and trees I barreled through. What is that? Reaching up, I pull a twig from my hair. A motherfrickin’ twig. A snort beside me draws my attention. Mom looks rather pleased with herself as she goes about washing her own hands. I narrow my eyes at her.
“So kind of you to not inform me of the woodland creature habitat currently residing on top of my head.” I try not to laugh, but it’s useless. We both burst into giggles, the sound so damn sweet it brings tears to my eyes. Groaning, I try to finger-brush my long, dark hair into some semblance of normal. It’s rather pointless. I’m gonna need some fancy ass conditioner to work out this rat’s nest. Admitting defeat, I splash my face with cool water and accept that this is as good as it’s gonna get for now.
“Come on, let’s go stock up on junk food. I’m winning all the mom awards today,” she jokes. I link my arm with hers as we exit the bathrooms.
“Hands down, you’re killin’ the mom game,” I smile brightly at her. While it’s said lightheartedly, it’s the absolute truth. I honestly believe there isn’t a woman alive who could hold a candle to Grace Britton. There definitely isn’t a soul who’s more selfless than her. Taking an ungodly long time, we raid the vending machine like we’re pms’ing or fresh off a break-up. The line of people behind us are not amused. We race back to the car like thieves, arms full of our loot. I mean, we did technically rob the place of anything worth getting. Before I even fasten my seatbelt, I rip open my bag of chips and chug half my soda. A carb overload is definitely in order.
“Alright, Inds. We’re in Missouri, so if you’ll take the next eight hours or so while I rest that’ll put us more than halfway there. Then I’ll take the last eight. I’d rather not stop to rest if we don’t have to.” She worries her bottom lip. I can read between the lines and pick up what she’s not directly saying. Neither of us wants to be sitting ducks and risk he-who-shall-not-be-named stumbling across us. The likelihood is slim to none that he’d choose the exact route that we’ve taken, or even know the direction we’re headed. But that’s the thing about fear. Once it’s been imbedded beneath your skin, rationale flies out the window. Even the slimmest possibility that he could be aware of our location refuses us the option of slowing down until we’re safely tucked away, where he’ll hopefully never, ever find us. So for now, no rest for the weary.
“Sounds good to me,” I mumble through a mouth full of Doritos. Reversing, I steer us back onto the highway. “Think he knows we’re gone?” I barely whisper, almost afraid to even acknowledge the fear that thought invokes. I can vividly picture the moment he becomes aware that we’ve dared to defy him. Dared to be brave. Mom looks over at me, wariness shining in her beautiful eyes. The same wariness that I’m certain is clouding my own.
&nbs
p; “I doubled the dose of sleeping pills I typically use. If he isn’t awake yet, he will be soon.” Maybe the fucker’s dead. I don’t say it out loud, but I know we’re both thinking it. If he wasn’t such an upstanding member of the community, *cough-bullshit*, I’m positive Mom would’ve already offed him. Silence descends on us, both of us lost in our own thoughts and worries.
Within minutes of us being back on the road, Mom is snoring. I glance at her, a smile lifting my lips. We look so much alike most people mistake us for sisters. She’s always looked younger than her thirty eight years. Looking at her now though, the faint worry lines creasing her forehead are more prominent than they’ve ever been. The past few months have undoubtedly aged her. Not only in appearance, but her spirit too. My father is five years older than her, and according to her, he swept her off her feet after he came in for breakfast at the diner she waitressed at in her hometown. It always sounded so cliché to me. Before I can attempt to lock down my emotions, tears are trailing down my cheeks as I steal another peek at her, the saltiness stinging my fresh cuts. This woman has been through hell and back for me. It’s hard to accept that she’s been the victim of such horrors, but even harder to come to terms with the fact that she took on the beatings that were meant for me as well. All while I hid away, safe from his wrath. I’m a firm believer in karma, and I have no doubt that Benjamin Britton will get what he deserves one way or another. I have to believe that. Otherwise, where’s the justice? Not for me, but for the beautiful, broken woman lying next to me, who’s probably getting her first solid sleep in years. I refuse to accept that he’ll just get to walk away completely unscathed from all the damage he’s caused.
He’ll get his. Even if I have to exact it my damn self. I can play judge and jury all day if it earns me that particular privilege.
