by Riley Ashby
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
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
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Thank you
About the Author
Sneak Peek
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Riley Ashby
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address:
[email protected]
Cover design by James, GoOnWrite.com
Editing by The Polished Pen
This book contains themes that may not be appropriate for those sensitive to sexual assault or self-injury.
www.rileyashby.com
To my husband, who believed in me from the beginning.
My heart shrank inside my chest as he reached out his hand to the other woman who had come into our lives like a flash of lightning, completely upending everything we had built. My own skin grew warm under the hand of the last man on Earth I wanted near me, let alone touching me.
We were already halfway across the room, but I kept looking over my shoulder at him. Just a few weeks ago, he’d turned my whole world on its head in ways I’d never expected. His face was impassive, but I could see the truth in his eyes as he wrapped his arms around her—the one we had come here for, the one I had willingly sacrificed myself for despite the risks. He had warned me—commanded me even—but I wouldn’t obey.
I was an idiot.
I stared at him for the last time as I was dragged out of the room, trying to communicate with him just how important this was for me, how badly I wanted him to understand—
He turned without a word and led her out the door.
When I was fifteen, my father took me to a water park. It was the last good memory I had of my family.
Money was tight, but that was nothing new. I was used to being the kid at school who had hand-me-down clothes riddled with holes, at least a day past when they should have been washed. I kept my head down and worked hard. My teachers liked me, and that kept me out of trouble at home. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t afford to play sports; I hated P.E. and had no interest exercising beyond that. My parents were good to me despite our financial troubles. I always had enough to eat, even if it meant they went hungry themselves.
I knew my parents had other issues. I had been listening to whispered fights through the walls since I was a child. Muffled voices would escalate to shouts that I could hear clearly no matter where I was in the house. I always thought they were just normal fights, even though I would look into their room the morning after and see picture frames shattered on the floor, my dad sweeping up the broken glass to protect my bare feet.
Our trip to the water park was all the more special because it was just us, me and my dad. There would be no fighting if my parents weren’t together. It was guaranteed to be a happy day. My mother wasn’t there, but that was exactly why it was our last good family memory. It was the last time our family was whole, even though we were in separate places.
Too old for water parks, I pouted most of the way there. My excitement grew the closer we got. The heat was oppressive; it hadn’t rained for weeks, and we hadn’t been to a pool all summer. By the time we arrived, I was bouncing up and down in my seat. I spent the entire day riding the tallest slides, running through waterfalls, and drifting in the lazy river—all with my dad by my side.
When we got home, there was a strange car waiting outside our small, one-story house. My mother was loading a tattered suitcase into the trunk. My father froze on the sidewalk, clutching my hand like I was a child.
“What’s going on, Marjorie?” His tone said he already knew. My mother ignored the question.
“Sophie,” she said, opening her arms toward me. I took one step forward then stopped, unsure what to do. My father held me tighter.
“She’s not going with you.”
“It’s only for a little while.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She huffed. “She’s my daughter, Harold.”
“She’s mine, too. And I’m not the one giving up on our family.”
She cocked her head at him, her expression changing from motherly to angry. “You gave up on us long ago.”
He shook his head and looked down at me. “It’s up to you, Sophie. You can go with your mom or stay with me.”
It wasn’t even a question. I stepped closer to him, allowing his body to come between me and her.
She shook her head. “You were always an ungrateful child.”
And without another word, she stepped into the car and rode away.
I was dumbfounded, standing on the sidewalk, knocked sideways by this development. My dad pulled me inside, out of the hot sun, away from the stares of our neighbors.
“Go get dressed,” he said. “I’ll make dinner.”
He never cooked. It was further confirmation that the world had turned upside down.
We ate dinner in front of the TV, guessing answers to Jeopardy! like nothing was wrong. My hand shook as I ate, my hand clinking against the plate.
“We’ll be okay, Sophie,” he said as he sipped a beer, his fourth of the night. He offered me a taste, but I shook my head.
“Do you promise?” I whispered. Tears dripped on to my macaroni-and-cheese-from-a-box.
He reached across the space between our chairs and patted my head. “I promise.”
*
“Sophie McDermott?”
The voice in my ear was familiar. Credit card companies called with such frequency, they recycled customer service representatives.
“How far behind am I?” I ignored the fact that the call came at six o’clock in the morning. I didn’t think it was legal to call before the sun had risen. Even being in as much debt as I was, I wasn’t going to report them.
“Six months, Miss McDermott, and I’m afraid—”
“I’m doing the best I can. If you send collectors, I won’t be able to give them more than what I’ve already sent this month. Don’t call me again this early.” I hung up.
Not the way I liked to end my work day—well … one of my workdays. I never imagined spending my twenties working two jobs to support my deadbeat father. His alcohol and gambling addictions made it difficult for him to hold down a job, and when he did, he often spent the money quicker than he could earn it. I worked a minimum of sixty hours each week, serving fast food while my friends sat i
n college classes and cleaning an office building while they partied their nights away. That was part of the reason I didn’t have any friends, no one besides Jamie. He cleaned the high-rise with me in downtown LA.
I had only been on the job for a month when we met. We occasionally bumped into one another in the hallway, but we never spoke—until one day when I was harassed while walking home from work. Turned out he lived only a block over from my father and me and inadvertently followed me home each night. He had kept his distance so he wouldn’t scare me, but he was close enough to keep an eye on me and was by my side the minute some skeevy old man tried to grab my shoulder.
Since that day, he walked me to and from the high-rise, his presence giving me a small measure of comfort as we suffered under the glares of the gangbangers I called my neighbors. Their catcalls decreased—though had not completed ended—once Jamie and I started walking together.
Stopping in front of my door, Jamie gave me a hug today. I sank into his arms, for once allowing myself to take any small measure of comfort where I could get it; I wasn’t going to get any inside.
On these walks home, talking and laughing with Jamie, it was easy to forget the reality of my home life. Stinking trash turning to goo at the bottom of the bag, the recycling bin overflowing with glass bottles, and the perpetually empty fridge were the only constants in my life.
“Is your dad doing okay, Sophie?”
I nodded, feeling a little more weight settle on my shoulders as I pondered going back into the house. Familiar anxiety wound its way through my veins. Barbed wire constricted my heart, my pulse seeming to race and grow feathery in my arteries. I didn’t want to go inside just to be met with more cleaning and bills that couldn’t be paid. If I could figure out a way to do it without getting fired, I’d sleep at the office where I cleaned. The couches in their reception area were far nicer than my bed.
Things had gone downhill after my mom left us. My dad did the best he could but turned to alcohol to soothe his loneliness. Eventually he had started gambling, hoping to win back some of the money he was blowing on booze. That backfired, and we suddenly had two money pits instead of one. Somehow, he made it through my graduation. Barely. The moment I was out of school, he stopped trying to hold down a job. From that point on, all responsibilities were on me.
Putting an end to the toxic memories, I brought my thoughts back to the present. “He’s kind of renewed his desire to get better. He’s been to a few Gambler’s Anonymous meetings, showed me the medallions and everything.” I lifted a shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “Maybe the alcohol is next.”
I tried to sound optimistic, but I also knew the reality of our situation. My dad had attempted quitting gambling so many times I could have bet on the likelihood of his failure. My nagging was his only motivation to get better, and that would only take him so far.
Jamie nodded and smiled nervously. “I’m glad to hear that.” He didn’t step back, rubbing his neck.
I frowned. “What’s bothering you, J? Please don’t tell me you got a different job.” I couldn’t stand it if I lost my only friend, even if we were only friends because we happened to work together.
“No! No, nothing like that. I was just wondering … do you want to get a drink sometime? Maybe brunch on Saturday after work?”
My heart sank. I wished he had told me he was quitting. Jamie was a great friend, and now I was going to have to let him down. Guilt was the one emotion I could count on feeling consistently. I didn’t have any room in my life for feeling anything else. I had to keep myself hard and cold to avoid being hurt any more than I already was. Feeling nothing was better than coping with the idea that my only family loved the bottle more than he loved me, but I couldn’t explain that to him or anyone else.
“That sounds fun, Jamie, but …”
Struggling to find the words, I didn’t have a lot of experience in letting down potential suitors. Jamie stepped in to save me after a few painful moments.
“It’s all right. I mean, we should still get brunch sometime, but just … casual.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. I extended a hand and squeezed his arm.
“I’d like that.”
He nodded, his face red, but he still managed to offer me a friendly face; I had come to count on that to give me the strength needed to go inside my house every morning after work.
“Okay, well, have a good day. Hopefully your dad’s in a good place.”
I swallowed, nodding and trying to smile before turning my key in the lock. Jamie’s footsteps faded behind me, a little faster than usual. Glass and gravel crunched under the soles of his shoes.
Maybe I should have taken him up on the offer, if only to get myself out of the house for anything other than working. But how could I do that when I knew it would only end up hurting Jamie when I couldn’t give him the kind of relationship he wanted? He would end up much more hurt six months down the road than he was now. Convincing myself I had done the right thing, I opened the door and went inside.
I sighed as I dropped my purse on the kitchen counter, looking around at the mess left for me to clean up—after eight full hours of scrubbing toilets and polishing door handles. The sink overflowed with dishes, which seemed impossible considering it was only the two of us. I wasn’t even here for most meals. Luke, my German Shepherd, was the only bright spot of my life, and he didn’t come to greet me this morning like he usually did.
I rubbed my temples. Fifteen minutes of cleaning, quick walk with the dog, then I would go to bed. I was due at the restaurant in five hours. I could get at least three hours of sleep, do some more cleaning, then walk as fast as I could, past the catcallers and drunks lining my neighborhood street, to another shift of work.
“Is that you, Soph?” Luke’s bark punctuated the end of my father’s question. Something was bothering him.
I closed my eyes and raised my face to the ceiling. “Who else would it be?” I muttered under my breath. My father’s voice had come from the living room, and I knew he was speaking from the exact chair he had been asleep in when I left the previous evening. I could smell the scent of it from here, weeks’ worth of body odor and cigarette smoke rolled up in spilled whisky and soda.
Louder, I called, “Yes, Dad, it's me.” I forced a smile as I came into the room. “How are you, Daddy?”
He sloppily grinned up at me. “Glad to see you, sweetie. Need to introduce you to someone.” His eyes trailed across the room, and I followed him. “Well, two someones.” He chuckled.
My breath caught at the sight of the men standing rigidly in the corner.
Their suits told me everything: well-cut, tailored specifically to them. These didn’t come off a rack. They reeked of wealth I would never know, thanks to the money their employer must have taken from my father the other night. They were here to collect a debt, and we had no money to give them.
I focused on the man in the chair, my only family left in the world, who had let me down once again. Luke growled at the men under his breath. One of them looked at him nervously, but the other seemed entirely unconcerned.
“I thought you stopped!” I cried, angry at myself for the tears that came to my eyes. I was right to be suspicious, but it still hurt to know he had failed once again.
This. This was why I didn’t go out with Jamie. Because even if I wanted to, I could never afford to go out with him. Because even if I stashed enough money, I would have to pony it up when my father inevitably lost another card game or needed another bottle of liquor. This was why I always tamped down that feeling of optimism or happiness whenever my life seemed to be going right. It wasn’t worth feeling anything if you were just going to be let down again and again and again.
Dad shrugged, looking not the least bit apologetic. “Just like I stopped drinking?”
I gritted my teeth, my fingernails biting into my palms as my hands curled into fists. Even as I did it, I knew this anger was just another useless emotion. I had brought it on myself, and it woul
dn’t get me anywhere.
I had three rules to live by, and I reminded myself of them every day. Today was just another in a long line of incidents that proved why I had them in the first place:
1. Never trust an addict.
2. Never trust your feelings.
3. If you can help it, never feel.
The taller of the two men, the one unconcerned with Luke, stepped forward and grabbed my father by the arm, yanking him out of the chair. He winced in pain as he was pulled up by his shoulder.
“We need to go,” he said, pushing my father forward. Dad stumbled and fell to his knees. Instead of compassion for a sick, old man, the only emotion these men could manage was disdain. They didn’t care about him at all. He was just another debtor, one more schmuck to beat the piss out of for defaulting on a debt. Pathetic as he was, my father couldn’t even raise a hand to defend himself as the tall man grabbed him by the neck and wrenched him to his feet.
The guilt was there again, like a punch to the gut. I didn’t even know why I felt guilty, but it bubbled up from my stomach in form of bile.
“Stop!”
My lips moved of their own accord. I cursed myself. This wasn’t my fault. Wasn’t my fight. But he was still my father. Whatever these men had planned for the man in front of me, he wouldn’t survive it. Withdrawal would kill him, since they certainly weren’t going to be indulging his vices. He’d vomit up his guts, and there would be no one around to take care of him.
I didn’t owe him anything, but I couldn’t let him die. Even as a beer bottle dangled from his hands, he brought me water and crackers when I got sick with the flu senior year. He had raised me, and I couldn’t just let him suffer. I clenched my eyes and spoke before I could think of what to say. “I'll go.”
The same man who still held my father spoke. “Mr. King is expecting your father, Miss McDermott.” He shot a pointed look at the other man, who spoke next. “We'll be taking him.”
“He's not going,” I said firmly. “I'm sure your … employer will be happy enough with me.” I ran my fingers through blond hair that fell to my waist, wrapping it up with an elastic band. “I'll just be a minute.”
