The Ocean Between Us (A Southern Heroes Novel Book 1)

by Michelle Heard

  Copyright © 2013 by M.A. Heard.

  Previously published under the title WAKE ME UP.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and various other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  The resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Designer: Sybil Wilson, PopKitty Design

  Cover Model: Drew Truckle

  Photographer Credit: Eric David Battershell.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  WARNING

  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

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  SOUTHERN HEROES SERIES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  WARNING

  Please note that The Ocean Between Us contains graphically violent scenes that may be upsetting to some readers.

  Previously published as Wake Me Up.

  Scenes have been changed and edited.

  It’s basically a new book!

  Happy Reading.

  ♥

  Goodbye, my almost lover

  Goodbye, my hopeless dream

  I'm trying not to think about you

  Can't you just let me be?

  So long, my luckless romance

  my back is turned on you

  Should've known you'd bring me heartache

  Almost lovers always do

  I cannot go to the ocean

  I cannot drive the streets at night

  I cannot wake up in the morning

  Without you on my mind

  So you're gone, and I'm haunted

  and I bet you are just fine

  Did I make it that easy to walk right in and out

  of my life?

  ‘Almost Lover’ ~ Alison Sudol.

  If I had wings, I’d fly.

  I’d soar high where only eagles dare.

  I’d let them rip.

  I’d let them tear.

  Until all that remained was me bare.

  PROLOGUE

  EMMA

  Sitting across from my mother, I keep my eyes lowered while she tells me once again what a colossal failure I am.

  This has become my life.

  I’m so bloody tired of it.

  She never has anything good to say about me. I try so damn hard, but nothing I do is good enough.

  I feel her hate-filled eyes on me while the stench of wine fills the air, making it hard to breathe.

  “Say it,” she hisses, her voice heavy with loathing.

  Knowing what she wants to hear, my insides quiver with defiance, but years of conditioning keep me from standing up for myself.

  Instead, I say, “I’ll be like Mom.”

  It makes me sick to my stomach to say the words.

  My mother is a master at playing mind games. She’s perfected the art of emotional abuse to get what she wants. Thinking back on my past, I can honestly say I can’t remember a time where she showed me an ounce of kindness. What makes it so unbearable is that I know she can be a loving mother.

  She hates me but loves my older brother. I don’t know what I did to make her despise me so much. She abuses me every chance she gets but gives Byron the world. Where he can do no wrong in my mother’s eyes, I can do nothing right.

  My mother is an alcoholic. Sometimes I think she has more wine in her system than blood. My grandfather was a drunk too. My soul shudders at the thought of becoming anything like them.

  I want to fight back and scream at her, “Stop, Mom! Can’t you see what it’s doing to you? What it’s making you do to me?”

  But I can’t. I don’t dare as it will only make things worse.

  Instead, I keep my eyes lowered, praying this night won’t get any worse while years of being subjected to this torture and fear keep me frozen to the spot.

  It wasn’t always this bad. We were never close, but after my fourteenth birthday, things got worse. As I grew older, the calculated words got sharper, and by the time I reached my eighteenth birthday, it had escalated to beatings.

  I can still handle the physical abuse. Scars fade. It’s the emotional abuse that’s the real killer. Words never heal. They become an endless echo in your mind, a living nightmare. Never losing their potency, they grow stronger over time until you believe them.

  “You just read those books. That’s all you do,” Mom snarls.

  She takes another sip of wine, and I hear the ice jingling in the glass. I wish she would stop drinking.

  “You’re throwing your life away. There’s no silver lining, no happily ever after. There’s no such thing as a fairy tale. Life is hard, babes.”

  Leaning closer to me, she hisses. “And without me, you won’t make it.” Her stinking breath wafts over me, sticking to my skin.

  Every day it gets harder to remain submissive. Unable to stop myself, my eyes dart up. I watch as she leans back in the chair. Her eyes look like they’ve been carved from stone as they rest on me.

  My mother used to be beautiful with her raven-black hair and huge brown eyes. But hatred and alcohol have ruined her, leaving her with oily hair and cruel eyes.

  “You think you’re better than me?” she growls which makes me quickly lower my gaze from hers.

  Crap, I shouldn’t have looked up.

  “You’re nothing!” she snarls.

  There’s a familiar sinking feeling in my stomach, knowing what’s coming.

  She wants me to tell her how grateful I am for her, how amazing she is. They’re just empty words, but still, she gets high on hearing them.

  You have to, Emma. It will only escalate if you don’t boost her ego. Your back is still raw from the last beating.

  Rising to my feet, I take a step toward her, while it feels as if my body is being weighed down.

  Kneeling at her feet, I take hold of her free hand while focusing with all my might to not show any emotion on my face. Contempt rises in my throat as I lift my eyes to hers, praying that I look like a loving daughter.

  Hatred slithers through me, threatening to squeeze the last bit of life from my heart.

  The clamminess of her alcohol-drenched skin sticks to my hand, and I struggle not to yank it back. I swallow hard on the bile ri
sing in my throat as I force the words out.

  “I’m so lucky to have, Mom.”

  Her eyes gleam with satisfaction as she pulls her hand free from mine. Holding the empty wine glass out to me, she orders, “Fill my glass. Half ice, half wine.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  Taking the glass, I scramble to my feet and rush to the kitchen. I hate pouring wine for my mother. It feels as if I’m enabling her addiction. But I need the few minutes of reprieve before I have to go back to her.

  While I keep busy with the task, I tell myself that it’s only two more days.

  On my twenty-first birthday, I got access to the trust fund left by my grandfather. Even though my mother has to approve all the transactions until I’m twenty-five, I at least get a monthly allowance. It’s given me the freedom to leave this place and make a life for myself somewhere far away.

  Staying here in this house is no longer an option, knowing that I won’t survive it.

  Chloe, my best friend, helped me get a passport and study visa so I can escape to America. While we were studying, she drove me wherever I needed to go so I could get all the paperwork done. Without her, I’m not sure I would’ve held out for as long as I have. She’s been my saving grace from the first moment we met in high school.

  I would’ve loved to get a job and move into my own place but living in South Africa makes that hard. Jobs aren’t easy to come by, and not having a car makes it near impossible. If this country had decent public transport, it would’ve solved the problem of getting to work and back.

  It’s one of the reasons I’m going to America. I’ll be there on a study visa, but with a little luck, I hope to get a job. The main reason is to get as far as possible away from my mother.

  “What’s taking so long?” Mom yells from the living room, yanking me out of my thoughts.

  Picking up the glass, I rush back to her.

  “Sorry, Mom,” I whisper as I place the wine down on the table beside her chair.

  “When are we eating?” Dad asks, coming out of their bedroom, wearing a pair of shorts. His big stomach wobbles with every step he takes.

  He spends his days off in the sunroom at the back of the house with his nose buried in newspapers. He chooses to ignore the abuse, which is ironic actually, seeing that he’s a policeman. He protects others but never me. He’s too weak to stand up to my mother.

  Life has taught me that the people who are supposed to protect you are the ones who will hurt you the most. It doesn’t help that South Africa’s policemen are all corrupted, so I can’t even go to them.

  “The food should be ready, my love. Take a seat at the table,” Mom says sweetly. As she gets up, she grabs the glass of wine and makes her way to the kitchen.

  I follow behind her so I can help carry the dishes to the dining room.

  Placing the glass of wine on the kitchen table, Mom grabs a dishcloth then opens the oven door. I pick up the oven mittens, and as I’m about to offer them to her, she takes hold of the bowl of rice.

  “Shit,” she cries as she drops it.

  I watch in horror as glass shatters and rice spills all over the floor.

  For a moment there’s only silence as fear slithers down my spine.

  No!

  I fall to my knees and start to scoop up as much rice and broken glass as I can. A shard of glass stabs into my palm, but I ignore it. I have to clean up this mess.

  “Look what you’ve made me do,” Mom snarls, throwing the cloth at me.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I whisper, dread creeping into my voice.

  Knowing what’s about to happen, I should get up and run.

  I want to rise to my feet, so I can at least defend myself, but self-preservation wars against years of psychological manipulation.

  I hate myself most in moments like these.

  “You’re so pathetic. I’ve been slaving over a nice meal all day long, and this how you thank me?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I whisper again. Saying anything else would only make things worse.

  Grabbing hold of my hair, and yanking me to my feet, her fingers claw at my scalp. I drop the rice and pieces of glass I’ve managed to gather, and my hands fly to the back of my head, grabbing hold of hers.

  The words I’m sorry get stuck on the tip of my tongue as she starts to walk toward my room, pulling me along. My scalp stings where strands of hair are being ripped out. The saliva in my mouth thickens with trepidation, and my heart begins to beat faster in my chest.

  She shoves me into my room, and I pray that she’ll only deny me food, locking me inside the room. But my prayers are once again ignored as she storms down the hallway. Trembling, I stand beside my bed, with wide eyes glued to the door.

  Hearing her footsteps coming back toward me, my breaths speed up as hopeless tears sting my eyes. Grinding my teeth, I swallow the tears down, knowing it will only make her angrier if I cry.

  You’re leaving soon, Emma. This won’t be your life forever.

  You can endure this for forty-eight hours. Then you’ll finally get to escape this hell.

  Storming into the room, she raises her arm, and I quickly turn my body sideways as the belt lashes over my shoulder. The stinging pain is fleeting.

  “Spare the rod, spoil the child,” she hisses.

  When she strikes at me again, the urge to grab the belt from her almost overwhelms me.

  I want to fight back with every ounce of my body, but instead remind myself of how disastrous that will be.

  The last time I grabbed the belt from her, she lost her shit, and after beating me unconscious, I had to stay home from school for two weeks to hide the bruises from the world.

  It was the worst two weeks of my life.

  Another blow to my back forces me to my knees, and I grab hold of the side of my bed to keep myself from sprawling over the floor.

  An agonizing blow almost rips a scream from me, but I press my mouth against the back of my hands to smother it. When she finally stops, my back feels flayed to the bone.

  As she drops the belt next to me on the floor, I cringe closer to the bed. Her hand brushes gently over my hair, making my body shudder violently with revulsion.

  “This is for your own good, babes. If I don’t keep you in line, who knows what will become of you.”

  I’ve grown accustomed to the hateful words, and the angry beatings, but it kills my soul when she touches me while justifying why I deserved to be punished.

  I keep still until she leaves, and hearing the door shut behind her, I let out a shaky breath. Once I’m able to climb to my feet, I gingerly pull my shirt over my head. Turning my back to the mirror against the wall, I look over my shoulder at the new slashes that have been added to my skin.

  A numb feeling settles in my heart, and I know I won’t last two more days. I have to leave as soon as they’re asleep. I’ll stay at the airport until my flight.

  I switch off the light and crawl onto my stomach on the bed so nothing will touch my aching back.

  An hour later, when the door opens, I quickly shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep. As she switches on the light, she lets out a heavy sigh before coming closer and placing something down next to the bed.

  She leaves, not bothering to switch the light off.

  I wait a few minutes before I turn my head to the side so I can see what she’s placed on the floor.

  Feeling degraded and broken down, I swallow the useless tears back as I stare at the plate of chicken bones. It’s supposed to be my supper.

  What have I done to deserve this? Why does my own mother get so much pleasure from torturing me?

  Instead of finding any answers, I bury my face in the pillow and countdown the minutes until I can safely escape this hell.

  CHAPTER 1

  EMMA

  The last three days have been exhausting. Sneaking away from the house in the middle of the night like some criminal was the most daring thing I’ve ever done. While sitting at the airport, I chewed my nails to the ne
rve out of fear that I’d be caught and dragged back to that hellish prison.

  I unlock the door to the flat which will be my new home for the next six months. Not knowing whether my roommate is home, I slowly walk inside.

  Closing the door behind me, I leave my bags at the entrance. “Hello, is anyone here?”

  Silence greets me, and I let out a sigh of relief. It will give me time to get settled before whoever I’m sharing the flat with gets back.

  Crap, I should’ve asked Miss Jessie, the landlord, about my roommate. For a moment I contemplate going back to her but decide to put it off until I go out to explore a little of the town.

  Opening the door to the first bedroom, and glancing inside, I see a pair of men's sneakers beside the bed. It’s clear I’ll be sharing with a guy unless the girl has big feet, which I doubt.

  Actually, I hope it’s a guy. I don’t think I can handle living with another woman so soon after all I’ve been through with my mother.

  The second door opens to a bathroom, and I’m glad to see that it has a shower.

  Grabbing my luggage, I walk to the last room, which I assume will be mine. Pushing the door open, my eyes greedily take in all the space.

  There’s a closet against the wall, and a big bed stands opposite it. I’ve never slept in such a massive bed. I just want to face-plant onto it and sleep all my worries away.

  “Wow,” I whisper. “This flat is amazing.”

  Even though my parents live in a mansion in Clifton, one of Cape Town’s wealthiest neighborhoods, my bedroom at the back of the house was small and only held a bed. There wasn’t even space for a dresser, and I had to keep my clothes in the closet of one of the guest bedrooms. It was just another way for my mother to make me feel like an unwanted burden.

  For the first time since I left home, a smile forms around my lips and excitement starts to bloom in my chest.

  I hate my parents for doing this to me, for making me run to North Carolina, the other side of the bloody world. But I’ve had enough. A person can only take so much abuse.

  I have to prove to myself that I can survive without them. The trust fund isn’t huge, and with the exchange rate being so bad, it doesn’t leave me with much of a monthly allowance once it’s converted to dollars. I’ll only have enough for rent, one meal a day, and paying for my studies.