Fighting Wrath

by Jennifer Miller

  Copyright © 2015

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover design: Wicked by Design

  Cover Photo: Dollar Photo Club

  Editing: CDK & Associates

  Formatting: Allusion Graphics, LLC

  Other books by Jennifer Miller

  Pretty Little Lies

  Pretty Little Dreams

  Pretty Little Vows – A novella

  Perfect Little Plan

  Whispering Wishes

  Fighting Envy

  To my mom, thank you for reminding me that no matter the outcome, I should never be afraid to fly.

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Fighting Envy Available Now

  Fighting Envy Prologue

  Fighting Envy Chapter One

  Coming Soon

  Sneak Peek - Jennifer Domenico

  I’m going to throw up. My hands are shaking and sweat drips down my back. It’s like every pore has chosen this moment to release every ounce of fluid from my body. The air conditioning is on full blast, but it isn’t helping. Gripping the steering wheel, then releasing it, over and over, I force deep breaths in and out of my lungs, trying to gain control. I repeatedly contemplate what could be such a simple act: starting the car and driving away. But each time I envision my sister Rowan’s face, and remain glued in place, because I cannot fail her. She deserves better than the sick existence we’re living each and every day. I can do this, I tell myself. I can do anything for her.

  That decision made once again, I think back to an all too familiar setting a few days ago. I came home from work to find my mom drunk and stoned again. How, after all this time of being exposed to this as a regular occurrence, I can keep wishing for a different reality is beyond me. With each arrival home, I feel a small flicker of hope before I open the door, and each and every time I’m disappointed. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but what I want is fairly simple - to be able to come home after a long day of work, shower, maybe have a little dinner, and get my ass into bed. Instead, I’m again confronted by the shit hole she calls home.

  The sight is overwhelming. I sigh deeply and run my hand through my hair in exasperation before setting my bag down and closing the door behind me. Feeling grateful my twin Rowan is staying at her friend Erica’s house overnight, I make my way to the kitchen. After the time I came home from work to find a strange man in Rowan’s room, about to do things I can’t even fathom, I rest easier when I know she’s not here - especially when I’m working. Since she’s gone for the night, it also means I will sleep easier. I can allow myself to succumb to a deep sleep rather than staying on alert throughout the night.

  A guttural noise arises from the other room and I am once again aware of the present. Grabbing a trash bag from under the kitchen sink, I scan the living room. Beer cans are on every available surface. White powder is sprinkled on the sparse tabletops, some of it in well-prepared lines. Dear ol’ mom is passed out, half on, half off of the couch. I’m surprised she doesn’t have several of her “friends” here. Rare is the night I walk in here and find her alone. Generally, the room is full of her obnoxious partying hard friends either awake and slamming them back with her, or dead to the world alongside her.

  As I clean up, thoughts of my sister consume me again. I’m not sure what time she’s due back tomorrow, but leaving all of this until morning is definitely not an option. I don’t want to chance her coming home to this. As quickly as the thought take forms, I shake off thoughts that this behavior, and my feelings, are dumb. I’m devoted to her and need to protect her. I know my twin is not unaware of our reality, but I still feel like it’s my job to safeguard and shelter her as much as possible. No one means more to me, and if our mother won’t take care of her, I sure as hell will. She deserves better than this shit. We both do.

  As if on cue, as I’m finally putting the last of the trash in the bag, my mom starts moving around on the couch and mumbling, a sure sign of the extent of her partying. One time, about a year ago, she started jerking around on the couch and making gurgling sounds like she was having some kind of seizure. Rowan started crying in fear. Just as I grabbed the phone to call 9-1-1, she came to and upon being told of our concern and what I was about to do, hit me for even thinking about calling for help. Ever since, when I find her passed out, I position her on her side so she doesn’t die from choking on her own puke. Although, sometimes I have no idea why I even care and think we’d all be better off if she did die – and that’s the worst part. But not for long. In two years, Rowan and I will be eighteen and we will be out of here. I can’t fucking wait.

  “Don’t you dare leave me, Bryce!” Whipping around and staring at my mom, I wonder what the hell she’s muttering about. Given the clarity and strength of her words, I’m surprised to see she’s still sleeping. Having no clue who Bryce is, I continue to glance around one last time to be sure I got everything and tie the trash bag up so I can take it outside. “Fuck you,” she yells loud and clear. I turn around again and see she’s still sleeping. As I rub my temples, feeling the call of my bed and need for sleep she continues the diatribe. “How dare you leave me because I’m pregnant, Bryce Martin. How dare you!”

  I freeze. Every part of me stiffens up and I drop the bag and stare at my mother. I hope she says more, I silently beg her to go on. She’s never spoken his name - my father’s name - not ever. She’s long made it known that even the mere reference of him is strictly off limits. Hell, even before she started getting stoned all the time, she was angry and bitter and would quickly become enraged at any question about him. He was not an allowable topic of conversation. For us, it’s as if he never existed at all, for her, he’s been a very bad memory. I still remember Rowan crying and wishing out loud that he were available to attend a daddy, daughter dance at school. All she wanted was for our father to show up at the door and take her so she could be like the other girls. I think that she held onto that hope all night, until she knew the dance was actually over. I tried to distract her with playing games – Hungry Hippos was her favorite – but nothing worked. And mom, well she comforted her daughter by raising holy hell – yelling and screaming at Rowan. Telling her to shut up, to stop crying and sniveling over a father that never wanted or loved her.

  As soon as my mom’s gone
on one of her famous booze runs the next day, I search through everything she owns. Drawers, closets, her dresser, a junk drawer full of paperwork; nothing is off limits. I don’t know how much time I have, so I rush through everything trying to put it all back the way I find it. I hit the jackpot when on a second run through of her closet, a box way in the back hidden underneath piles of clothing and shoes calls out to me.

  I know it’s what I need. Opening the box with trembling hands, I exhale a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. Not far into the pile of papers are our birth certificates, and picture after picture of my mom with a man that I see when I look in the mirror. Where our features are sharp, Rowan’s somehow manage to look softer. There is no denying the man in the pictures is our father. Under the pictures is a stack of letters. I rifle through what must be dozens of them written by my mom to him, all defaced with a ruggedly written return to sender. Daring to open some, all are various versions of her begging him to come back, threatening to sue him for child support, and the most difficult to read are those in which she says she will get rid of us if he will just return. Reading these confirm everything I have ever thought and felt. We are expendable annoyances in her life. But seeing it in black and white feels different. It hurts deeper. Penetrating my heart like a butcher knife, until the twisting blade stirs every feeling I’ve ever had and makes me angrier than I have ever been. How amazing that Rowan and I were not given away long ago. That we’ve survived and made it to the age of sixteen feels like a ridiculous accomplishment. Every moment of neglect and abuse are experienced in one burst of explosive emotion.

  Imagine my surprise when after some intense computer research, with the help of a techie friend, I find out that Bryson Martin lives only a couple towns over from ours in California. My first feeling is one of sickness. How can he be so close and have nothing to do with us and not help us? I then wonder if perhaps my mother has been lying all along. Maybe for some reason he didn’t think we were his. Maybe he didn’t even know about us. Given the woman she is, it wouldn’t surprise me if she had been stepping out on him. So maybe that’s why he left us. Can she be so different now from what she was like then?

  Whatever the reason, I know I need to find out. If there’s even a remote chance that he can help Rowan and me, then I need to try. And so, despite the numerous mixed feelings I’m experiencing, I must do this. I’m going to confront the man that left us behind. It’s worth trying for her.

  Flash forward to right now, only a few days since she muttered words that are likely to change my life. I think part of me expected to feel relief, or to be more complete by knowing his name, but all it did was make me want to know more. I’ve had a thousand what if thoughts, but no more. Time to have my questions answered.

  Taking a deep breath, I put my face in my hands and rub for a minute, then step out of my car. As I slowly make my way to the front of my father’s house, I take in the blue picture perfect house with the white picket fence. It has white shutters and a swing on the porch. My knees are shaking so hard, I’m surprised they don’t knock together. Clenching my hands into fists and gritting my teeth, I make myself keep putting one foot in front of the other, taking one small step at a time. Seeing my sister’s face in my mind is all the motivation I need.

  Startled when a light comes on in the window at the front of the house, I stop. A boy and girl walk into the room and set something on the table. Following them is a woman with pretty brown hair and a smile. She rubs her son on the head as she walks by, and as she sits down, she smiles at who I’m assuming must be her daughter. Taking in the family scene and the young children I think perhaps I have the wrong house and momentarily consider turning around until he walks into the room. I suck in a breath as I watch him set a large plate on the table and say something that makes them all laugh.

  I must make a movement of some kind because suddenly I’m struck stupid when his head turns toward me. I’m close enough that my eyes connect with his, and I see his brow furrow. I see his mouth move, and he stands abruptly. If anyone else looks my way, I don’t notice. All I see is him.

  Suddenly, the porch light illuminates the area and I find myself blinking at the bright light. My father, the man I’ve spent endless hours daydreaming about stands before me. Endless scenarios in which he comes to our rescue play out quickly in a flash and I feel overwhelmed and unable to speak. The bright light at his back makes me unable to make out his features, and he almost looks like the savior I’ve seen countless times. What I don’t realize right then, is that the bright light that is almost angelic in sight, is just camouflage. It briefly hid the reality that smacks me in the face with a brutal harshness I didn’t expect. It would become the defining moment in my life where my constant anger, became so much more.

  My head whips to the side as a fist slams into the right cheek of my face. Pain explodes from my chin all the way to the top of my head making my stomach clench with nausea. I swallow the stale sour taste that quickly arises in my throat. Curses spew out of my mouth as blood dribbles down my chin. I do my best to move my feet quickly and put my hands up to fend off another shot, but it gets by me anyway. This one lands in my gut and momentarily takes my breath away. Trying to instill my prior MMA training helps a little, but in some ways it’s damn useless. This isn’t at all the same. This is an ugly, dirty, no rules fight, plain and simple.

  Shoeless and shirtless, the cold concrete under my feet and the air brushing my bare skin enlivens my senses. I blink the sweat out of my eyes and swipe my nose quickly with the back of my hand. The yelling and cheering from the sizeable group of people surrounding us sounds muffled. One voice occasionally stands out here and there. “Yeah! That’s it Randy! Fucking take him down,” someone yells to my opponent, but I ignore it. I ignore them all.

  The next blow I receive is a kick to my side that makes pain radiate to my toes. I have to keep myself from falling to my knees as the pain burns through my body. A slow buzz begins in my ears, and I grit my teeth trying to fight back what I feel coming. What I know is coming. It was only a matter of time, and the truth is, I’m not even sure why I try to fight it. Lately, it doesn’t seem to matter. It’s inevitable.

  The anger.

  No. Not anger. That’s not deep enough, not vast enough. The definition of anger is to be annoyed; irritated – and that doesn’t even begin to describe this feeling. No, when this happens, this feeling can only be described as rage. It is ignited in my gut and quickly explodes into an intense heat that slowly consumes my entire body. It makes my nostrils flare and my breaths shallow. It makes my teeth grit and my fists tighten. If it could be seen, I think it would be like lighting a match. A stick of wood completely stagnant initially, until it hits the striker, then it’s burning hot. It’s wild and breathtaking in its beauty, but it can easily get out of control. Especially when stoked.

  It’s violent.

  Uncontrollable.

  My opponent’s eyes connect with mine and when his widen, I’m confident he sees the feral look within mine that was absent before now. During our fight, he’s been a random face to me, a random fighter. Like a hooker that snags her tenth john of the day, he’s just a means to make money for her, and in truth, as far as that goes, this is no different. But in addition to the cash, the reason I agreed to do this, the reason that no one else knows but me, is that I need to do this. It’s a release for me. My self-prescribed therapy. A way to let go, at least for a little while, of the intense anger I carry around on a daily basis.

  Feeling well and truly pissed off, and ready to end this fucking dance, my opponent’s face begins to morph into people from my past. Faces that taunt me; faces that haunt me.

  I see the teacher that ridiculed me in a classroom full of peers. Belittling me, embarrassing me, and treating me like the trash she believed I came from. Trash that my mother and her humiliating public antics didn’t contradict.

  I see my old boss at the car wash, picking on the vulnerable teenager who was doing his best to h
old his own life and his sister’s together the best way he knew how. Once again I can almost feel the smacks on the back of my head he’d land when I didn’t move quick enough to his liking. Other times they’d come when I’d show up to work late, usually due to my mom’s behavior, or because I was running late from school. It didn’t matter; there was never any mercy shown, no forgiveness.

  The next face is the perverted sicko who was physically removed from my twin sister Rowan’s bedroom one night when our mother was passed out from an alcohol and drug induced bender. Thoughts of that pervert and what he likely intended to do, and what could have happened to Rowan if I hadn’t arrived in time, have physically made me sick over the years — even given me nightmares.

  Finally, I see my father. The man that rejected me — rejected us. The man that should have been there to protect us, to take us away from it all, but instead abandoned us and moved on — with a new family.

  The fire is well stoked now. Seeing nothing but red, I inhale deeply and while exhaling, completely lose my shit. Lightning quick punches to my opponent’s stomach and chest take him by surprise, but those hits are nothing compared to the bomb I land to his unprotected face. He falls over and all I can hear, all I can feel is a roar in my ears. There’s crimson fire in my veins and voices in my mind telling me to hit harder; kick harder. Show him how it feels. I want to show them all how it feels. Hate has become a sixth sense, and I let it take over, I fucking welcome it. And I beat the ever-loving hell out of the man before me as the crowd around us goes crazy cheering and begging for more.

  At some point, two men grab me from either side and briefly pull me off of him. Roaring in anger, I break away from them and move toward Randy. Straddling his body, I cock my arm back to land one more punch, but before I can I’m pulled away from him once more.

  “Enough,” a voice screams directly into my ear. “Enough Tyson. He’s down. You’ve won. Get it fucking together.”