by Harlow Stone
Frayed Rope
By
Harlow Stone
The Ugly Roses Series
Book One
© 2015 by Harlow Stone
Frayed Rope
The Ugly Roses Series
Written by Harlow Stone
All rights reserved
Registered Copyright through the Canadian Intellectual Property Office. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
The Ugly Roses Series is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events portrayed in this book either are from the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, establishments, events, or location is purely coincidental, and not intended by the author.
Trademarks: This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The author acknowledges the trademarked status in this work of fiction. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
©2015 Kate Kearns / Harlow Stone
Acknowledgments
First and foremost a big thank you to the growers of pinot gris. Without your grapes, I would still be stuck writing chapter two. (That totally deserved bold letters)
Erin T, My first book reader and awesome friend. Thank you for all the help and reading so fast!
A special thank you to my momma, for being so judgmental.
And last a thank you to Barbi. Without our random chats I would not remain sane.
Foreword
So many questions run through my head.
Who is he?
Why was I taken?
My body has healed, but will my mind?
A changed name, a different Country, a new life. Carte Blanche, right?
Perhaps, and I might have even enjoyed it if I didn't believe that there is a man out there, still hell bent on killing me. So I lay low, and I don't speak much. I keep to myself and I stay in the shadows.
That was until ‘he’ walked into my life. Or more accurately, jogged.
The dark and broody owner of Callaghan Securities invades my reclusive bubble when I least expect it. Understanding that my time spent ignoring people could be coming to an end, I have an important decision to make.
Am I able to open up to someone about my past? Let him in, let him help?
Or will I embrace the cold hearted bitch I've become, leaving him behind like everything else in my shit life.
I was once a nice woman named Jayne O'Connor.
I’m not sure I know her anymore.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Foreword
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Author Notes
Prologue
Five months ago
“Why won’t you scream?”
The heated liquid dripped down my spine and curved between my legs. I watched as it made the journey south, dripping off of my big toe and slowly adding to the puddle of crimson on the concrete floor.
Blood.
It’s the only warmth I’ve felt in this frigid fucking tomb that this sick fuck calls a basement. Or perhaps it’s the blood loss that is slowly adding to the chill that seeps deep into my bones.
WHACK!
I bit the inside of my cheek and grunted at the impact. He wielded what felt like a two by four into the fresh wounds on my back. I suppose I should be thankful that the wood absorbs some of the impact. If he had chosen the steel piece of pipe on the other side of the room, surely I would have been passed out or dead by now.
“Scream you selfish fucking bitch because I’m not stopping until you do! I’m not stopping until you tell me what a selfish whore you’ve been when you should have been a good girl with me! I want you to feel the same fucking pain you have caused me to feel!”
A few more agonizing blows and he worked his way around to my front. His nostrils flared, and his chest was heaving like he’d just got back from an 8 mile run.
The perspiration on his shirt along with the smell was beyond nauseating. If he would just leave and take a shower maybe I could work at getting out of this fucking place.
This man has pissed, shit and practically lived in this hell hole with me since I got here. I can tell he’s afraid to take his eyes off of me. Afraid that if he can’t see me, I’ll be gone. He wanted me desperately and now that I’m here, he has no intention of letting me go.
SLAP!
“Look at me! When I speak you will look at me and show me the respect I deserve! The respect you should have showed me years ago when I was nothing but kind to you. When I tried to get you to see ME! Tried to look after you and make you mine! But you had to fuck that all up with that lowlife piece of shit you went a spread your legs for! Now your nothing but a dirty fucking whore!”
He slapped me again across my already bruised cheekbone, saliva flying from his mouth as he yelled and screamed at me for what an ungrateful bitch I am after all he tried to do for me.
The kicker to all this? I still don't know his name.
He’s what I would call standard. Ordinary. Brown hair, brown eyes, medium skin tone and maybe five foot ten. Not someone who stands out. He’s not someone you would meet and remember long after the introduction, he’s completely forgettable in his plain red polo shirt and Levis.
Just fucking plain.
The only thing that I will remember of him is the hate that shows in his psychotic eyes. I consistently rack my brain but still have no recollection of ever meeting this man. All I can think of is that some kind of fucked up karma is making me pay my dues for not being taken with rest of my family that day.
Maybe this is it. Maybe he’ll put me out of my misery. I’ve been down here for at least a day, maybe a day and a half. My shoulders ache from being hung on this beam for so long. The rope has rubbed my wrists raw and I’m almost certain my shoulder is dislocated.
The first beating he gave me when I got here was mostly blows to my ribs and face. I’m no doctor but judging by the pain in my lungs I’m certain my ribs must be broken. My left eye is mostly shut from the swelling and looking at the amount of blood on the floor I’m certain my back looks like Freddy himself came out to play.
If he kills me, it’ll be over. The pain would be over. I don’t mean the physical kind, but the tragedy that left me cold and numb a year and a half ago. The life changing day that took my once vibrant self and shattered her into nothing but the shell I am today.
I prefer to keep myself there, numb. It’s like a place I inhabit and the population here is one. I ignore everyone because I don't want any love, I don't want pity, and I don't
want hugs from people I don't know anymore. Who does that? Hugs strangers? I debated making a big sign to hang around my neck that says “DONT FUCKING TOUCH ME”.
As the months went by it turned out that the permanent miserable look on my face and bitchy attitude made its own sign. I know I could have been nicer to people, shit maybe that's why I’m here now. I understand it wasn’t anyone's fault that my family was taken from me but becoming a miserable bitch was out of my control.
When you lose what's most dear to you it’s hard to sit around and tell yourself the old ‘think of the glass half full, not half empty’ and let’s not get me started on the ‘everything happens for a reason’ bullshit. People drive me insane, no words will ever make my life better and it certainly will not bring back what I have lost.
If he would just kill me, I could sail on through to the afterlife to be one again with those I lost. Forget this hate, the fury and this fucked up individual in front of me. Forget everything that happened and everyone I want to hold responsible. Forget the blackness in my head, the empty bottles of Vodka and the overflowing ashtrays of stress.
Forget it all.
The psycho’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
“You’re still not listening! Maybe you’ll remember after a little nap you stupid bitch”
I see the two by four back in his hands swinging towards my face.
Then it’s black.
Chapter One
“It’s great to see you again Ms. Green. Let’s have a look at the progress you’ve made since last week and so long as we don’t see any excess swelling or signs of infection, we can get you on your way.”
Doctor Revere studied me as he took a seat on his customary black leather swivel stool. From the moment I met him there was a connection of some sort. As if he could sense that what I was here to do needed to be done, not wanted, needed. He has been a big part of my life these past two months. Those kind grey eyes wouldn't harm a soul, his slight build and thinning light hair streaked with grey spoke nothing of the magic that was his hands. The man’s hands were as graceful as a dancer and kinder than a nun.
As kind as he is I’m sure he still goes home at night and speaks to his wife about what a troubled, miserable bitch I am. For weeks I was distant and horrible to the good doctor and his staff. However paying a pretty penny to rent one of the clinics small townhouses, a personal shopper and their part time nurse apparently grants you some sort of immunity to retaliation around here.
I have cursed a few of the staff members, they never curse back.
Money talks.
One would think that after all the shit I’ve been through that I would have sought after the kind of doctor that wielded a pen like Doc Revere did a scalpel, and coveted their notebooks as he did his million dollar graceful hands. (If I were him I would have those babies insured. He probably does). Truth is I have no interest in therapy. If I did I would have to admit to myself and someone else that something is wrong and I am broken enough that I need fixing.
That's not going to happen.
The day I let someone pick my brain will be shortly after I’ve died and possibly donated my remains to scientific research. Therapist? Not fucking happening. If a new shrink ends up anything like the phony bitch that I woke up to in the hospital after my attack I’ll hang myself.
I don't need therapy, I don't need a hug, and I don't want your goddamn pity. What I needed and sought out was the incredibly talented Doctor Carson Revere. A leader in facial reconstruction, skin grafts and scar removal. He’s been my slightly bluer sky on a hurricane day. Or year. However you want to look at it.
I felt the bandages being pulled from my face, not painful just uncomfortable. Not once had I truly thought about surgery prior to the hell that has become my life. My face was okay before. High enough cheekbones, small nose, clear skin and bluish green eyes that popped against my fair Irish skin. I’ve never really been one to complain about looks, not on my face anyway.
If you would have asked me a year ago why I would seek out a cosmetic surgeon my best guess would be to tame the stretch marks I could never get rid of. Other than that road map on my abdomen, I didn't complain. Shake what your momma gave ya! That's my take on life.
Sure my slightly wider nose was never quite as sharp as my mothers and my stomach gives a little jiggle if I don’t keep up on my Pilates routine, but that's life.
I’ve always been the “petite” girl, definitely didn't win any high jump competitions in school with my 5’5 frame. Not a whole lot up top, however my relatively small but still fleshy ass makes up for lacking in the tits department. Or so I tell myself. Either way I never cared and my jeans fit me well. I’ve hovered around 115lbs for the better part of my adult life and I’m okay with that and the rest of my appearance.
Past tense was okay with that.
Hopefully the good Doctor has granted my wishes. When I contacted him three months ago he didn't seem eager to oblige me in my quest for a new face. The attack didn't leave me disfigured, but the broken nose and excessive swelling from the facial fractures weren’t pretty. As cliché as it sounds desperate times call for desperate measures. I needed a new face and a new identity if I was going to survive much longer.
Numerous phone conversations, two Skype calls and finally a month later he agreed to perform the surgeries. Doctor Revere is an incredibly busy man but I think seeing my still slightly banged up face on Skype really helped him with his decision. Or maybe it was the fact that I offered him double to get the job done that really got the ball rolling. I’ll never know and at this moment I really do not care.
Now, three months later I couldn’t be happier that this is the man I chose to help me build a new life. (Not that I’ll show him my smile, it’s been missing for years). My once wide nose is still the same size but much sharper. The slight pudgy crooked chin that never seemed to match my high cheek bones has been re-shaped beautifully and my jaw line much smoother look. To top the whole look off my once beautiful blonde locks had been dyed the week prior into one of the darkest shades of brown they had and I have been ironing it pin straight ever since. Add in the past few months of Nevada sunshine and we’re golden.
“Everything looks absolutely wonderful to me Ms. Green. I could not be more pleased with the results, you’ve healed beautifully! If you don't have any questions or complaints we can get your paperwork finished and send you on your way”.
He regarded me with those kind eyes. Always looking at me as if he’s waiting for me to say something he can carry a conversation to. It’s how everyone looks at me.
I hate it.
This miserable bitch I’ve become does not do small talk or platitudes unless absolutely necessary. That's not to say that I’ve lost my manners, most days the please and thank you's are still as ingrained in me as they used to be. I just have absolutely no desire for idle chit chat. If it’s not important or does not need to be said I keep my mouth shut. I really wish others would do the same.
Talking is overrated. In a way that has always been my thought on the subject. Once upon a time get a bottle of Grey Goose into me and the words would flow, maybe it would be wine or a case of beer, I’m not picky. Consume some alcohol and throw on some music and add a few good friends. Now let the useless chatter begin.
That was then, this is now.
I regard the doctor over the mirror as I took in the new woman I was supposed to be. Thirty looked pretty good, but not in an overly flashy way that would make me stand out. That's my new rule. No flash. No gaudy jewelry, no flashy hair-do, No bright colored or skimpy clothing. Not that any of this was really my life before, I just have to work extra hard at remaining as dark, drab and un-interesting as I can be.
“You did an excellent job Doc. Other than the tenderness around my nose I have no complaints.”
The Doc shuffled some forms around for me to sign. “I’m thrilled you think so MS Green.”
Upon handing me the final few forms regarding payment plans th
at he knows I don't need, I grab my bag from the table to retrieve his money. One of my deal breakers in this life, pretty much everything is cash only. If I can’t pay cash, or it can’t be bought with a pre-paid credit card then no deal. I’m thankful a lot of people here are used to large amounts of cash. I don't know if it’s because were less than hours from Vegas or if the good Doctor is familiar with this routine but either way I’m looking forward to cashing out and hitting the road.
A few months in one place without my new identity are too long. Although my cash service with the Doc was under the fake name I’d used MS Harley Green, the trouble is that there is no such Harley Green. Or if there is it’s certainly not me.
I’d come up with a name quickly while on the phone trying to see Doctor Revere. Stuttering when asked, the beginning of my real name was naturally about to spill form my lips. I thought fast to come up with a name that I could not only stomach, but would remember.
