by Avelyn Paige
Absolution
Copyright © 2017 Doing Business as Avelyn Paige
Photographer – Darren Birks
Cover Models: Darren Birks and Catherine
Cover Designer – The Final Wrap
Editor Southern Sweetheart Author and Book Services
Format by Brenda Wright, Formatting Done Wright
This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced by any means without the prior written permission of the author.
All rights reserved.
This book is for anyone who has lived in darkness and a found a way back to the light again.
Hold on tight and never give up.
Table of Contents
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
Epilogue
Song List
Acknowledgements
About the Author
6 Months Ago
“Ratchet?” I whisper into the silence of the room. No one responds in return. Shaking off the drum line pounding in my head from the night before, I outstretch my hand to the spot he had occupied next to me in the bed, only hours before. The space now lies coolly unoccupied. My heart drops with disappointment, while my body aches with each movement as I turn over to see what my hand discovered. He is gone. He left me here alone without so much as a good bye.
Should I be surprised? No.
Was I hoping he’d stay after last night? Yes, but even I am not naïve enough to think that after giving into the lingering desire between us, that he would stay once he had me. The conquest was over, and the magic of the chase had dissipated. I was no longer unattainable, and with that change in status, I was likely nothing more to him than one of those club whores who lived to serve on their knees. The fall from queen to whore stung, and even though he had never said those words directly, I could feel it in his absence.
I was nothing to him. Just like every other man in my life. I was a bargaining chip, a drug mule, and their whore. When the appeal was gone, so were they.
No man ever stays. I lived my entire life as the discarded newspaper from the day before. Tossed onto an empty park bench waiting for someone else to come and pick me up. I came from nothing, and remain that way thirty-three years later. Happy birthday to me.
Despite what I knew about him, I had hoped Ratchet was different. Maybe hope wasn’t the best word to describe the situation I found myself in for the past year.
I wanted him to be different.
He was there at my lowest point. He was there when I screamed at the nightmares that spiraled into my mind refusing to let me go. He was there when I pleaded for someone to just kill me and end it all. He was there, and now he is gone. No other man in my entire life had ever taken so much interest in me, which is why finding him gone the first time I truly let him in, hurts so much. Knowing that I meant so little to him, and that I wasn’t deserving enough to get a goodbye, before he rode off into the sunset. Was there someone else? Did he ever care for me other than the desire to get between my legs?
The man who rescued me didn’t see me the way I saw him, and it sliced me open from the inside out. What do you do when the person that you care about the most leaves you behind? The answer may not seem so simple for others, but for me, it’s one that I have experienced more than once.
The answer is that you move on and never look back. Looking back only causes more heartache, and after a lifetime of it, you just become numb to the world that continues to shit on you. This time I won’t forget my umbrella.
Shifting under the sheets, I force my legs to leave the warmth of the blankets covering my nakedness and into the chilly morning. You’d think that living in a semi-desert climate that the cool morning air wouldn’t be so shocking, but even years after taking California on as my second home, I am still not used to it. Back in Kentucky, this time of year is hot and humid to the point that you’d be cemented to the sheets with sweat, as soon as you woke up. Something that I don’t miss at all.
Pushing through my soreness, I stand and pad to the bathroom, still hoping to find Ratchet.
You’re an idiot, Ricca. He was never going to stay after you fucked him. You gave him what he wanted.
I shake the doubtful words from my mind and continue walking to the bathroom. Turning on the shower, my reflection in the mirror grabs my attention. I peer into the misty glass, not recognizing the woman I see before me. Years of abuse, drugs, and violence has taken away the glow from my cheeks and the brightness from my eyes, and at times, my will to live after many restless nights of nightmares.
Most mornings I wake up in terror, reliving the days I spent chained and gang raped by a man who I thought loved me, and his crew. Those images flashing through my mind, haunted me every night. Their hands touching me as I screamed out for help. The helplessness I felt as they each took their turn at my flesh. How the blades skimmed my skin and the metal from the shackles dug into my wrists as I fought. My soundless screams that reverberated from my swollen throat after days of begging for mercy. The images of them and their demented deeds forever burned into my mind.
Stop thinking about it. Just STOP!
I shake my head in an attempt to force those memories out of my head, but I know it’s futile. They’re always there. Within seconds, the panic sets in. My skin becomes clammy, while my stomach retches as my mind relives my time in hell.
“Oh, fuck,” I exclaim before running to the toilet. I retch and heave up the alcohol and food I ate the night before, until there is nothing left. Bile burns my throat, while my lungs restrict my air flow. Suddenly, the room begins to spin as a panic attack begins to brew.
“You’re okay. They’re dead and can’t hurt you anymore,” I mumble and repeat in some stupid fucking mantra to keep the memories at bay. Every morning starts like this. Sure, maybe I did need go back to my victim group counseling sessions, but I knew the Kumbaya mentality they used couldn’t help me. The demons in my head were of my own creation, and they were never just going to go away by telling others who thought they were like me about them. I couldn’t forgive the men for the things that they did to my body and even with their deaths, my mind would never be able to see the world the same way. They took the last shred of innocence out in that desert, and it was something that I was never going to be able to get back, even if I had ruby red slippers, clicked my heels, and said it three times.
Life isn’t a fucking fairy tale. And no matter how hard I hoped he would be, Ratchet was definitely not Prince Charming. The knight in shining armor isn’t real, and he was never going to ride a white horse to my tower of terror.
I will admit that yes, he did save me physically that day, but mentally? Never. I’ve lived
my entire life in hell, and that was never going to change. The only thing in my future was more self-induced pain.
Pain is such a funny word when you think about it. It can encompass such a multitude of physical, mental, and emotional things in a person’s life. For me, it is a word manifested so deeply into my soul that the lines between normal and tragic blur together.
Flushing the toilet, I step into the hot spray of the shower and into my place of solace. Call me crazy, but after living in shit my entire life, watching the water wash it all away, helped me find a momentary solitude of peace. It cleanses me and resets my brain for a few seconds watching the filth of the world circling the drain between my feet.
I press my head against the cool stone wall trying to shut off my mind. While the horrors of my past wash away, the self-doubt and shame replaces it. I mentally tick away at the timeline of my life and shudder with each misstep.
My emotional dam breaks, and the tears begin to flow heavily down my face. With each sob, my body weakens, until I slip to the floor and just weep. I cry for the pain, I cry for the loss, and I cry for the future I know I don’t have. Why would the future want me anyway? I have nothing to give it in return expect for the pleasure of maybe living in it. I would be a waste in its expanse. My dark thoughts continue, until the world quietens once more, and the sound of the water soothes me into a state of semi-consciousness.
The water begins to run cold, when a voice startles me back to the present.
“Ricca,” a timid voice calls out from the other side of the door. “Are you in there?”
“Just a minute,” I stammer out, before forcing myself off the shower floor. Reaching to turn off the water, I quickly exit and wrap my shivering body in a towel. I take a deep breath and plaster on my brave face, before opening the door to find Dani on the other side. One thing that I have learned in my years is how to pretend that everything is okay.
“You okay?” she asks, trying her best not to pry, even though I’m sure she heard the emotional breakdown outside the door.
“Yeah, sure,” I mumble, walking past her heading for the closet.
“The guys headed out super early this morning, but I made breakfast if you want some,” she utters with a hint of nervousness about her. How far we have fallen in our relationship. From roommates to enemies to this awkwardness displayed before me.
“Sure, I’ll be out in just a minute. Just let me get dressed,” I declare, while stepping into the closet. My heart begins to ache knowing that Ratchet left, but at least I can tell myself it was because of club business. Was it an excuse to mask the pain I am feeling? Yes, but anything to make the pain temporarily go away is what I need in this moment. Feelings hurt too much, and I just want to be numb again. Before I had drugs to make them go away, but now that isn’t an option for me. Sobriety has been a bitch to obtain, and I wasn’t about to go back through that hell again.
I begin to think of his brooding face, when flashes of the night before the men arrived back to the clubhouse, flicker in my brain.
Oh god.
Darcy. The poker game. Ratchet throwing my semi-nude body over his shoulder and carrying me into his room. The heat and passion between us as he fucked me against the wall of his room and in his bed after.
“You’re mine, Ricca,” he moans as he thrusts inside of me the first time. “This body belongs to me now.”
Each memory shocks my system and leaves me breathless.
“Earth to Ricca,” Dani chides from the door way of the closet, while snapping her fingers in front of my face. Shit, I didn’t even notice that she followed me in here. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem a little lost in space.”
I plaster on a fake, reassuring smile knowing that it’s the quickest way to get rid of her.
“Yup, I’m right as rain,” I smile. “Why don’t you go throw whatever you made for breakfast on a plate for me, and I’ll be out in a few.”
She eyes me before turning and leaving. Dani knows something is amiss, but doesn’t want to pry. This is what has become of our rocky relationship, after I practically shoved her into this kind of life. She’s here because of my stupidity. At least her story ended far happier than mine. She has a good man and two beautiful newborn daughters. I’ve got nothing to show for it, except the scars that sting like bad memories each time I trace their outlines on my skin. The cuts may only be superficial, but they lie far deeper inside of me.
As soon as the door clicks shut, I breathe for the first time. Every smile exhausts me, and I know sooner rather than later, Dani will see through me just like Ratchet did.
Slipping the towel from my body, I toss on a sports bra, hoodie, and a pair of the softest leggings I’ve ever felt with cute little sugar skulls on them. Walking from the closet, I grab the towel off the floor and dry my long, blonde hair. I make quick work of braiding it and start for the door, when my cell phone rings.
“That’s weird,” I mutter to myself as it continues to ring. I pad over to the nightstand where my phone lays and unlock the screen. A familiar zip code flashes as the ringtone continues to sing.
I slide my finger across the illuminated green button and take the call.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” a feminine voice responds. “Is this a Miss Erica Delmont?”
“Yes, that’s me,” I stutter. “And who the hell are you, and why are you calling so damn early?”
“I’m sorry for the early call Miss Delmont, but I wasn’t exactly sure where you lived. My name is Elizabeth Brewer, and I am calling from the Hancock County Coroner’s office.”
My heart stops. No. No. No.
“I am sorry to have to do this over the phone Miss Delmont, but your mother has died.”’
I freeze instantly at her words and remain silent.
“Miss Delmont, are you still there? Did the connection drop?”
“Yes,” I reply. “How?”
“Excuse me?” Elizabeth questions.
“How did my mother die?” I forcibly ask.
“An overdose.”
Jesus. After all these years, she was still using. Not that it shocked me, but I had hoped after the ten years since I last saw her that she would have at least tried to clean up her act.
“… your brother is too young to claim her body so you will need to come in yourself to do that, Miss Delmont,” the woman on the phones continues while my mind was wandering.
Wait. What did she just say?
“Can you repeat that?”
“Your brother is legally unable to claim her body based on his age. We need you to do that.”
“Did you say brother?” I retort. “I don’t have a brother.”
“Are you sure? I have an Asher Delmont, age eight listed as next of kin along with yourself.” Elizabeth says with a tone of annoyance.
“Are you sure you’re talking to the right person?” I question back confused. “Because the last time I checked, I was an only child.”
“Miss Delmont, I’m sorry for the confusion during this troubled time, but the documents I was given regarding your mother’s information list both yourself and Asher Delmont as next of kin. I understand that you may not have known about your sibling, but we do really need to get the matter of claiming your mother’s body settled.”
“My fucking mother’s body can wait,” I snap. “Where is my brother? Is he with a relative?”
The sound of shuffling papers fills the receiver with static.
“That information is outside of my jurisdiction, Miss Delmont. I know this may all be a shock, but we need you here within the next seventy-two hours to claim the body. Can you do that?” Elizabeth asks with an aggravated tone to her voice.
“Yes,” I declare before abruptly ending the call.
I stand in shock as I replay the conversation in my head. I have a brother. A brother who I’ve never met and have no idea where he is. What if he was alone? What if they put him into the system and
I never get to meet him? But why do I suddenly care about someone I’ve never met? I have no emotional connection to this kid, but something is driving me to take action.
A sudden sense of urgency hits and strikes my core like a punch in the gut. I may not have been able to save myself, but he might just have a chance to be normal. Something that I was never afforded. I was never granted the chance to have a normal childhood of wonderment. Mine was nothing more than a hellacious period of physical and mental abuse.
My heart begins to beat wildly as I make my decision.
I need to save him from the life I lived and to do that, I have to give up everything that I have here, including Ratchet. As quickly as he was able to leave me, I will return the favor.
Adios, California.
Hello, Kentucky.
Present
“You done bullshitting me?” I whisper into the ear of the semi-conscious man tied up in front of me. His hair is matted, while blood drips from the laceration above his eye and broken nose. Just a few shorts months ago, I would have called him my brother, but today the only word I could use to describe him is traitor. A traitor to our club, and to those who lay dead because of guys like him.
He mumbles a garbled response, but it’s completely unintelligible.
“What’s that?” I antagonize. “You ready to tell me the truth, Hog?”
“Go to hell,” he forces out just before spitting blood onto my black, leather-riding boots.
“Pushing my buttons isn’t the best idea, Hog. You could make this so much easier on yourself if you just spit it out. There’s no use in stalling since the result will be the same.”
“Fuck You!” he screams.
It’s the puff up my chest like I’m a total badass move that only makes me work harder for the truth. Maybe he thinks it will change my mind, but he’d be dead fucking wrong. When the shit hits the fan, I am the one who laces up my boots and wades in head first for my brothers. Maybe it’s my lack of an emotional connection to the consequences of death or the fact that I have a strong stomach, but it’s my job and one that I do well.
