Fighting Fate (Fighting #7)

by JB Salsbury

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book is always a group effort, and I couldn’t be more excited and overwhelmed by the amazing people who helped me bring Axelle and Killian’s story to the page.

  Amanda Simpson at Pixel Mischief Design… I don’t even know where to start. What began as a business relationship quickly grew into friendship, and now you’re even dipping your toes into beta reading. Is there anything you can’t do? I think not. Your insight on this project was invaluable, and the fact that romance “isn’t your thing” yet you help me anyway is a kindness I could never adequately repay. When we get to our private island, you can have the master house. I’ll take the servants quarters. And those first few rum drinks are on me. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.

  I owe a huge thank you to Toshia Slade who has been through this series with a fine-toothed comb: editing audiobooks, proofing e-books, beta reading. I’ve managed to rob the girl of the enjoyment of The Fighting Series, and yet she’s always anxiously awaiting more. Thank you, Tosh, for all that you’ve done both for me and for The Fighting Girls. From day one, you were there, and you’ve been a steady force ever since. I’m forever grateful.

  To my favorite stalker, Kelly Fletcher, I’m forever grateful for your help on this book. It is because of you that none of my fighters sounds like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. I adore you, and I look forward to one day getting to give you a big ole hug to say thank you.

  Thank you to my dear friend Claudia Connor, who took the time to blast through this book for me at the last minute and always ensures I’m putting my best work forward. I love you, Dia.

  As always, a huge thank you to Elizabeth Reyes for encouraging me to write when I was terrified to try. I will always owe everything to you. Thank you for taking the time to invest in me. I will never forget you and remain more grateful than words could explain.

  Huge thank you to my incredible agent MacKenzie Fraser-Bub, who’s always fighting in my corner and believes in the writer I am and the writer I can become.

  Thank you to Theresa Wegand for editing the entire Fighting Series. You’ve lived through all these books, and I’m forever grateful for your guidance.

  I’m beyond grateful to my family, who’ve been my #1 fans. You’ve helped make this incredible ride so sweet. I love you all to death.

  Ginormous thank you to all The Fighting Girls who’ve cheered me on, pushed me when I felt like giving up, and who constantly remind me that romance readers are the most beautiful, compassionate, and passionate women on earth. You’ve blown me away with your support and your love for each other. Every book I write I write for you.

  Free to Fly…

  SPLIT

  A standalone novel

  by JB Salsbury

  Releases November 15, 2016

  New York Times bestselling author J. B. Salsbury delivers a contemporary romance with a suspenseful twist.

  After her career goes sour, Shyann finds herself jobless, penniless, and packing for her hometown—where unwanted memories await.

  Lucas needs the quiet life. And that’s exactly what he’s found in Payson, Arizona. For the first time in his life, he finally feels like his mind is in check. Lucas has suffered from blackouts since he was a child. He knows he’s not like other guys.

  But when Lucas meets his boss’s daughter, her probing eyes and personal questions pick away at his barriers. Shyann is everything he should never have…everything he wants. And soon the blackouts return. The last thing he wants is to expose how dangerous he can be—but he’s helpless, and it could cost him Shyann.

  Prologue

  Ten years ago…

  It’s dark. Like when I hide under my bed and can’t see my hand in front of my face. But I’m not under my bed now.

  Where am I? Cold seeps into my body. My head rings, static blares in my ears.

  I blacked out again, but this is different. Everything about this feels different.

  There’s shuffling…some kind of panic in the air. My heart pounds and with the rapid blood flow brings a sharp stabbing pain that explodes in my neck. I try to open my eyes, push at the dark and reach for light, but a sticky coating covers my face. I suck in a breath, cough against the thick sludge that clogs my nose and throat. The metallic tang of blood turns my gut. I wretch, hacking up something thick, and agony slices through my jaw.

  “Oh fuck!” The deep masculine voice rips through my panic. “This one’s alive!”

  I try again to open my eyes.

  “We need an EMT!”

  Why are there men here?

  Mom hates men.

  I need to get up, find somewhere to hide. Mom always gets angry after one of my blackouts and with the pain, oh God the pain… I can’t take one of her punishments.

  My arms ache but I force them to my eyes to clear the dark haze that clouds my vision. Weight presses against my shoulder, keeping me down. No, I have to get out of here.

  “Don’t move.” The voice, I try to place it. A neighbor? I don’t know who else—“ETA on the ambulance! This kids gonna bleed out!”

  “What…” My voice makes no sound, only a low gurgle within my chest. I try to push up, reach out. Help me! Shadows dance across my vision.

  “God have mercy—we’re gonna lose him!”

  “Stay down!” A male voice is close. “Oh shit…don’t move!”

  I slip in and out. Voices frantic, but muted in my ears.

  “Neighbors said he’s fifteen…”

  “…fucking blood bath…”

  “Help…” I cough and reach for the fire blazing in my jaw.

  A firm grip wraps my neck. I struggle against it as it cuts off what little breath I’m able to take. “Hang on, son.” It loosens and I suck in a gulp of blessed air mixed with fluid that makes me cough.

  “He’s gonna drown in his own blood if we don’t get him—”

  “Son, can you hear us?”

  I nod as best I can, reaching for the light. Don’t blackout. Don’t give up.

  “Did you do this, boy?” The thick growl of a different man sounds in the distance. His voice deeper. Angrier.

  I’m in so much trouble. I want to tell him I don’t remember. I have a condition. Lapses in memory. But I can’t get the words to make it to my mouth.

  “They’re all dead.”

  My heart kicks behind my ribs.

  Dead? Who’s dead?

  Dizziness washes over me and I don’t fight it. Nausea rips through my gut. The thick tang of vomit mixed with blood floods my mouth. I suck air, fight through the mud for oxygen. My lungs burn. I absorb the words and pray for a blackout to come. The dark that takes away all the pain, the shadow that tucks me in and shelters me.

  The pounding pulse in my neck slows to a dull throb. The static between my ears turns to a purr. Warmth envelopes me.

  “Son of a bitch.” More shuffling. “He’s our only witness.”

  Words blur as I drift in and out of darkness. Not like the blackouts, but something different. Deeper. As if sleep pulls me then releases me like a yo-yo.

  “Dammit! We’re gonna lose him.”

  The pain is gone. Peacefulness wraps around me. I drift back into night and welcome the dark I know will protect me.

  One

  Present day

  Shyann

  There isn’t a single moment in life that compares to this one. Eh…I suppose if one day I meet the right guy who doesn’t mind playing second to my career goals maybe a wedding would compare. Or not. I mean, weddings mean family and family means ripping open old wounds, and well, the idea alone makes me want to vomit all over my knock-off Jimmy Choos.

  No, I was right the first time. This moment is a game changer. It’s hit or miss, no room for second place. Five years in college, working my ass off and pulling in more student loans then I’ll be able to pay back in four lifetimes all teeters on thirty seconds of live newsfeed.

  I shift restlessly in my seat, squinting back and forth between my phone and the
dark road through the windshield. “Should be right up here, less than a mile.” I don’t have to look away from my map app to know Leaf my cameraman is rolling his eyes.

  “Know that. Got the same address you did.” He turns left into a residential area, a decent part of town, middle to lower class neighborhood. “Besides, the place will be crawling with police.”

  I turn toward him and grin. “Police, but we’ll be the first and only news van.” I’m downright giddy! “This has to be perfect. We can’t afford to fuck this up.”

  He grunts and I glare, annoyed by his nonchalance.

  “I’m serious, Leaf. Make sure you get the right angle. I need this to be perfect. If the camera hits me funky I look like a Cabbage Patch doll.” I smooth my skirt and blouse wishing the outfit brought me more confidence, but instead feel like one of those assassin bugs that wear the corpses of other bugs as armor. Not what I’m most comfortable in but at least I look the part.

  Fake it ’til you make it, Shyann.

  “I got just as much riding on this as you do.” His voice is more animated than his usual lazy hippie-drawl. He eyeballs me for a second. “Sure you’re ready for this?”

  I swallow my nerves. “Of course I am. I was born ready for this.” My toes curl up, already cramping in my Timmy Shoos. Not sure they were even worth the thirty bucks I’d spent on them.

  “Good to hear, ’cause…” He squints at a grouping of emergency vehicles in front of a single-level home and slows to a stop. “It’s go time.”

  I lean forward to gaze out the front window. An officer glares at our news van. Typical. An ambulance sits in the driveway, and the back doors are open and the cavity inside empty. “They haven’t brought her out yet?”

  “Shit! Let’s hurry!” Leaf scrambles between the seats into the back to grab his equipment.

  “Do you have any idea what this means?” I pull the mirror down and frantically swipe on some lipstick. “It only happened, what, like—”

  “Fourteen minutes ago.” The van door slides open with a loud whoosh.

  I was at the station the second the call came over the police scanner. Code 240. Aggravated assault. Female. Unconscious, strangulation, no sign of forced entry.

  After a string of serial assaults on women in Phoenix, less than 150 miles from the mountain town of Flagstaff, the similarities of this assault were too unique to ignore. Assault on women wasn’t unusual, but whoever was committing them over the last few months wasn’t sexually assaulting his victims. They were, as the Phoenix police had announced, “unusual in nature”. And now, we had one in our town.

  Possibly.

  It’s a long shot, but it’s a shot worth taking.

  Reporters from Phoenix won’t be here until morning. If this is what I think it is, we’ll be picked up live for the nine o’clock news. Only a few months out of school and I’ll be live in a top ranking—number eleven to be exact—media market newscast.

  Hopping from the van, heart pounding in my chest, I circle the front to find Leaf lining up a good shot. Butterflies explode in my gut as I shrug on my Burberry raincoat. The tag says Blurrberry and the signature plaid pattern is off by a black stripe or two, but a chance at national exposure calls for my very best fake designer clothes.

  “This is it.” I pop in my earpiece, and check the time. “Nine o’clock news starts in ten minutes. We have to be ready.”

  Leaf mumbles something I ignore and I start planning my intro.

  “Ladies and gentlemen…” I clear my throat and lower my voice. “The scene before us…” No, more emotion. That’s the key to this job, being completely emotionless, but infusing enough fake emotion so the viewers relate. Only the best broadcasters can do it, and I’m determined to be one of the best. “Big city terror ravages the town of Flagstaff as what is speculated to be the eighth victim in a serial assault on women—”

  “Shyann, you there?”

  I adjust my earpiece at the sound of my producer Trevor’s voice, then speak into my mic. “We’re here.”

  “Leaf, move left. If they bring out the woman on a stretcher we’ll get a perfect view.” I shuffle into position. “There, perfect. We don’t have time to interview neighbors, but we’ll do the live feed and then you two get some faces on video. Tears, fear, all the shit that makes a good story.” He clears his throat. “Shyann, straighten your coat. You look like you just rolled out of bed in it.”

  I glare at the camera and at the sound of Trevor’s chuckle then roll my eyes.

  “No smart-ass retort, baby? I’m shocked.”

  My body heats with embarrassment and anger, which is kind of nice seeing as we’re headed into the autumn months and my cheesy coat is doing very little to fight off the evening chill.

  Trevor, my semi-boyfriend, loves humiliating me on screen. He swears it keeps me humble. Says I’m hungrier than most, driven beyond what’s healthy. He also says I’m ruthless and have the emotional capacity of a gnat. Maybe he’s right, but I refuse to see my striving for success as a negative thing.

  “Wake up, Shyann!” Trevor’s voice powers through my earpiece.

  “I’m awake, asshole.” I press it and dip my chin to listen, not wanting to miss a single word of direction.

  “There’s my girl.” He laughs obnoxiously.

  He’s not a bad guy, matter of fact he’s a lot like me—motivated to do something big in order to make a name for himself. He’s ambitious and detached from petty things that get in the way of success. Now that I think about it, that’s where our similarities end. “How much time until we’re live?”

  “We’re opening with your story. Tell us the basics, then standby. We’ll do the local news, but pop in as developments unravel.” He clears his throat and mumbles something to someone in the studio. “Can you be ready in five?”

  I flash five fingers and then roll one to Leaf and he nods. “Yeah, in five. We’re ready.”

  “Alright, I’m picking up Leaf’s feed. Looks like he’s got a good visual of the police and the front door. If we can get them bringing the body out, that’s our money shot.”

  “Body? The victims in Phoenix all survived the assaults.”

  “I guess she could be alive, but if so why are they taking so long to get her to the hospital? Either way, the shot’ll be epic if we get it.”

  A fissure of discomfort slithers through my chest at the casual way we deal with death in the news. Sure, on screen we’re the caring and empathetic news reporter, but inside we’re rejoicing to get a shot of a dead body…? No, I push all that shit back and focus.

  “Let’s do this—whoa!” The heel of my shoe sinks into the ground. I flap my arms for balance and barely recover. The earth is mushier than usual after a couple days of rain, and even though this is one of the more developed neighborhoods in Flag, it’s still a city in the mountains, which means lots of natural ground.

  “You better be alright, we’re on in three.”

  Thanks for the concern, dick. “I’m good.” I put on a mask of professionalism while my skin practically vibrates with nervous energy.

  “Standby.”

  I take my position, smooth my hair, and focus on my words.

  If all goes well I’ll get out of this hole-in-hell town and into a bigger market, which is one step closer to anchor. No one just out of college gets this kind of an opportunity. My professors always encouraged me to go for an anchor job, my half native American blood making me look just dark enough to be considered a minority, but light enough to be desirable. It’s total bullshit, but I don’t make the rules, can’t hate a girl for taking advantage though. I have very specific career goals and if using my ethnicity helps me to get there, so be it.

  My momma always said I was meant for big things. I can still hear her voice in my head. You’re too big for this world, Shyann. Said I came out of the womb with goals and never stopped reaching for them. My chest cramps at the pride my momma would feel if she were alive today. She’d always pushed me to chase my dreams. God,
I hope she can see me now.

  “We’re on in five…four…”

  I straighten my coat and look directly into the camera as Trevor counts down in my ear.

  This is for you, Momma.

  “…you’re on!”

  “Terror struck this quaint Flagstaff neighborhood as big city crime moves north. After several assaults on women in Phoenix, all with identical trademarks, police have now moved their investigation to neighboring cities as another victim surfaces. The name of this most recent victim hasn’t been released, but her age, socio-economic profile, and details of the crime fit other victims of who Phoenix police are now calling The Shadow. All the assaults are committed in the evening hours, with no witnesses, and the perpetrator is masked and wears gloves leaving no evidence behind. The call to this house came in shortly after eight pm when the woman who lives in this home behind me was found bloodied and unconscious—”

  “There’s movement in the doorway,” Trevor says.

  “…after a frantic nine-one-one call.”

  “No! Let me go!” A young girl, a teenager, is practically carried out of the house by an officer. Leaf swings the camera to her. She’s curled into the chest of an older police man, her shoulders bouncing as she sobs.

  “Shyann!” Trevor’s voice booms through my earpiece making me jump. “Keep talking. Leaf, get us a visual on the girl.”

  “Oh, uh, it seems a…” The girl’s face twists in agony and I swallow past the thickness in my throat. “A girl who—”

  “Mom, no…please, mom!” Her guttural shriek pierces the air.

  Another fissure slices through my chest letting air into an old wound.

  Emotionless. Stay distant, Shyann.

  “Seems to be the victim’s daughter—”