Every Wrong You Right
A Redeeming Love Novel (Book 6)
J.E. Parker
Edited by
Sara Miller
Cover Design by
Letitia Hasser: RBA Designs
Contents
Prologue
1. Ty
2. Ty
3. Heidi
4. Heidi
5. Heidi
6. Ty
7. Heidi
8. Heidi
9. Ty
10. Heidi
11. Heidi
12. Ty
13. Ty
14. Heidi
15. Ty
16. Heidi
17. Heidi
18. Heidi
19. Ty
20. Heidi
21. Ty
22. Ty
23. Heidi
24. Ty
25. Ty
26. Heidi
27. Heidi
28. Heidi
29. Ty
30. Ty
31. Ty
32. Heidi
33. Heidi
34. Heidi
35. Ty
36. Ty
37. Ty
38. Ty
39. Heidi
Epilogue
Also By J.E. Parker
Newsletter Sign Up
Find J.E. Online
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Dedication
Daddy,
Nothing I write here will ever be sufficient enough.
You’re my hero, my constant, and you were the first man to ever hold my heart.
I couldn’t have asked for a better dad than you.
Thank you for loving me through everything.
And thank you for teaching me to never give up.
Love,
Punkin
XOXO
Prologue
Ty
Twelve Years Old
A storm loomed on the horizon.
Outside my window, thunder roared, and streaks of lightning danced across the black sky, illuminating my dark bedroom in flashes of white light. The century-old two-story house where I’d lived all my life groaned and creaked as the wind whipped around each of its four walls, rattling the rickety windows and paint-chipped doors.
Irritated as could be, I sat on my bed, my welt-covered back softly pressed against a stack of lumpy pillows and stared at the sliver of hallway light that spilled beneath my closed door. I ground my teeth together in frustration as the lights flickered, a warning of the blackout to come.
“Stupid storm,” I hissed, slamming my palm down on the mattress three times. “Gonna cause us to lose power, and I don’t have a single dang candle.”
The old box fan that sat in the corner to my right squealed, grabbing my attention. I kicked the hand-stitched blanket covering my legs to the ground and jumped off the bed. Moving as fast as I could, I crossed the room and ripped the fan’s power cord out of the wall, uncaring if I tore the entire outlet out along with it.
Chest heaving, I stared at the decrepit hunk of junk with disdain, wanting nothing more than to pick the stupid thing up and throw it right out the window.
Seeing the plastic crack and the glass shatter upon impact would feed the darkness that brewed in my gut, eating me alive from the inside out.
Fisting my hands tight, I clenched my jaw. “I can’t take this anymore.” Frustration filled me. “I’ve gotta find a way out. I can’t keep—”
I snapped my mouth shut when a small cough sounded from behind me.
Wide-eyed, I turned on my heel and practically tip-toed to the white crib that was shoved against the far wall. Stopping next to it, I looked down at the small body pressed against the back slats.
Laying on his belly with his cheek smashed against the mattress, my eighteen-month-old brother, Chase slept peacefully; something I wished I could do.
“That’s just gross, little bro,” I said, shaking my head at the puddle of drool pooling beneath him. “How can you sleep in your own slobber?”
I grabbed the corner of the knit blanket covering his bare legs and wiped his face before sliding him to a dry spot on the mattress while trying my best not to wake him.
Why I worried about him waking to begin with, I didn’t know. Chase could sleep through anything. Violent thunderstorms and our father’s equally drunken rages included.
Don’t think about that jerk, I told myself.
Hell-bent on not letting my mind wander into dark territory, I forced my brain to focus on cleaning him up instead of the nightmare that was my life. With his face now drool-free, I covered him with a dry section of the blanket.
“I love you, Chase,” I whispered, taking a step back. “Sleep tight, Butterball.”
Exhausted, I turned and headed for my bed.
I froze when the sound of the front door crashing open echoed through the house, drowning out the storm that raged outside. Beads of sweat immediately broke out across my forehead as booted feet climbed the wooden staircase.
Once on the landing, they stopped.
Then, silence reigned.
My heart pounded as I remained stock-still, waiting to see which direction they would go next. Turning right would take him to the opposite side of the house, while turning left would lead the man I considered the devil straight to my room.
Please go right, I silently begged.
As always, my pleas went unanswered.
A second later, his heavy steps headed in my direction, and I knew I had to act. Holding on to every ounce of courage I possessed, I lunged for the unlocked door.
My hand was inches away from the silver knob when it swung open, and light spilled into my room, casting shadows across the walls. Fear flooded my veins, and my heart climbed high into my throat as I stared into a pair of familiar blue eyes.
Eyes which were filled with hatred.
Hatred directed straight at me.
Around me, the air grew thick with anger and rancid whiskey.
Running on instinct, I inched to my right, positioning myself between the enraged man before me and Chase’s crib.
I could handle the real-life nightmare that was undoubtedly headed my way, but I refused to let my little brother be harmed.
I’d die first.
The evil bastard glared at me, his hard eyes boring into my terrified ones. I tried my best to stand tall in response, feigning bravery I didn’t possess.
“What do you need, Dad?” I asked, my voice calm despite the fear gripping me. “Just tell me, and I’ll do it.”
It was the truth.
I would’ve done anything to get him out of my doorway and away from Chase.
The man who was my father in namesake only said nothing as he gripped the first of two belts wrapped around his hips, unbuckling one, then the other.
The first, which held his gun and a pair of handcuffs, fell to the floor with a thud. The buckle of the second jingled as he unfastened it and yanked it free of his pant loops.
I flinched at the sound it made.
Outside, the thunder grew louder, shaking the house as lightning flashed inside the room and reflected off the silver badge pinned to the shirt covering his chest.
To protect and serve, it said.
Anger replaced the fear echoing throughout my veins, and I couldn’t help but shake my head. “Such bullshit,” I muttered, stupidly.
My father took a menacing step forward. “What did you say?” he growled, his straight white teeth bared.
My anger receded.
Fear rushed forward once again.
But I stood
my ground, refusing to back down. “Nothing,” I lied, fighting to keep my face impassive, devoid of the panic that consumed me. “I didn’t say nothing.”
He knew I was full of it.
Whether he’d heard the exact words I’d said or not didn’t matter. He only cared that I’d spoken out of turn, something he was more than willing to punish me for.
Not that he’d ever needed an excuse to hand me a beating before.
Clutching the belt tight in his fisted hand, he took another step forward. “Turn around.”
When I didn’t obey him straight away, his eyes cut to Chase, and a malicious smile tipped his lips. His intent was clear, the repercussions for my disobedience.
My stomach fell to my feet in response.
Adrenaline spiking, I visually searched the room for something to use as a weapon against him. I was a big kid for my age, but my father was a bigger man. If he went after my little brother, I wouldn't be able to stop him unless I had a weapon.
The lamp atop my dresser caught my eye.
The rounded base was heavy, the glass it was made of thick. It had the potential to crack his head open if I swung it with all my might, something I wouldn’t think twice about doing.
I shifted my weight, prepared to lunge for it.
But then I froze, my feet rooted to the spot.
Even if I used the lamp to hit him, there was no guarantee it would knock him out. With my luck, which was crappy at best, the attack would only leave him bleeding and more pissed than he already was.
It was a chance I couldn’t take.
As scared as I was, my only option was taking whatever abuse he handed me. Fighting back could get me killed, leaving Chase alone.
Without me, he’d be vulnerable.
Unprotected.
That couldn’t happen.
With no other choice, I didn’t argue or put up a fight when the man I hated like no other grabbed hold of my shoulders and forced me to turn, giving him my bare back.
My legs shook as I fought to remain upright.
Focusing my gaze on Chase’s sleeping form, I fisted my hands.
You can take it, I told myself. You can take anything if it means keeping him safe.
Nodding to myself, I sucked in a breath and waited for my father to drag me into the darkest pit of hell, a place I was all too familiar with.
A heartbeat later, that’s what he did.
One
Ty
Eighteen Years Later
Karma is a bitter bitch.
That truth became abundantly clear as I stood next to my brand-new truck, eyes fixated on the Zen garden of key marks marring the pearl white paint. I'd had it for less than a week, and someone had already jacked it up.
On purpose.
Dropping the bag of Chinese takeout I held in one hand, I bent at the waist and ran my calloused fingertips along the silver scratches, watching as flecks of chipped paint floated to the asphalt surrounding my booted feet.
My anger flared.
"You have got to be shitting me!" I yelled, the tendons in my neck drawing taut. "This sure as hell isn't from a shopping cart." I glanced around the desolate parking lot, just hoping to spot the person responsible.
When I didn't see anyone anywhere, my gaze went back to the deep scratches. "Swear to Christ, when I find out who did this, I'm going to—"
"You're going to what?" a feminine voice asked, interrupting me.
My head swung to the left.
When my gaze landed on a small woman, my eyes narrowed. I didn't have the slightest clue who she was, but one look at the shiny keys dangling from her index finger, and I knew she was the one responsible.
Standing straight, I rose to my full height. "Who the hell are you?"
The glare she shot my way would've made lesser men wilt.
I didn't wilt.
But I sure as hell glared right back.
"You don't remember me?"
"No," I answered, the vein in my temple taking on a heartbeat of its own. "I don't."
She tilted her head to the side, a look of disbelief on her freckle-covered face. "You sure?"
My jaw ticked, the anger simmering in my gut close to boiling over. "Lady, I'm not in the habit of saying shit I don't mean."
"You—"
Her eyes dropped to my fisted hands. Wide-eyed, she snapped her mouth shut and took a step back.
Even though I was madder than hell, I didn't like the fear that flashed in her eyes.
Not one damn bit.
I was an asshole, but she was a female.
It didn't matter if she keyed my truck or punched me square in the junk, I'd never lay a finger on her.
Only pussies abuse women.
That's a fact.
Not wanting to scare her—even if she is batshit crazy—I fought to suppress the rage rolling off me in waves. "I won't hurt you," I assured her, sliding my hands into my pockets. "But I'd appreciate it if you’d tell me who you are, followed by an explanation as to why you decided it was a good idea to go all Picasso on my property."
The fear lining her face vanished.
Sassy determination took its place.
She sauntered my way, swaying every curve she possessed. The way she moved was meant to be enticing, but nothing about her above-average looks caught my interest. Beautiful or not, she wasn't my type.
Not even close.
Her blonde hair was too light, her mocha-colored eyes too dark.
Everything about her was in stark contrast to the raven-haired beauty who'd embedded herself in my tainted heart the moment I met her.
She may be pretty…
But she isn't my Angel.
When she stopped next to me, her body inches from mine, I turned and faced her head on. Dropping her head back, she peered up at me. "Guess I can't fault you for not recognizing me." Her gaze raked over my face, down my throat, and across my chest. "Seems a lot of things have changed since high school."
I didn't know what she was talking about. Eleven years had passed since I graduated high school. I was lucky if I remembered to wash my bed sheets once a week. There was no way I'd remember some random chick from over a decade ago.
"Listen, lady, I have no idea—"
"My name is Wendy," she said, cutting me off. "Wendy Rowan."
Wendy… Her name tumbled around in my head, my brain scrambling to recall who she was. Familiarity nipped at me, but I couldn't place—
"Oh shit," I mumbled, recognition suddenly slamming into me.
Images of a little girl, one with puffy red cheeks and chocolate-stained lips, slid through my mind. Gut-wrenching flashes of her tear-stained face and trembling chin followed.
Reading the horrified look that swept across my face, she crossed her arms over her chest. "You remember me now, don't you?"
I did remember her, along with all the horrible shit I'd done to her.
The taunting, the teasing…
The merciless emotional torture.
Ready to face the music for my past actions, all of which would haunt me until the day I die, I stared at her, the apology I should've issued years before hovering on the tip of my tongue. "Wendy, I—"
Before I could utter another word, she placed her small hands on my wide shoulders and rammed her bony kneecap straight into my groin, jamming my balls high into my gut.
Swear to Christ, I saw stars.
My knees buckled, and I dropped like a rock to the scorching hot asphalt. "What the fuck," I groaned, cupping my crotch as unbearable pain stole my ability to breathe. Fighting back the urge to vomit, I rocked back and forth, saliva pooling in my mouth.
She moved closer, her shadow looming over my crouched frame. For a moment I feared she was about to kick me in the face.
"You bastard!" she screamed, her voice shaking. "It's because of you that everyone started calling me Wide-Load Wendy in sixth grade! A name, which I might add, that followed me throughout school!" She jabbed a pink-tipped nail down into my pec. "You"�
��she dug it in harder—"are nothing but a bully."
Was a bully, I thought. Not one anymore.
"Because of you," she continued to holler, her grief pouring from her like a fountain, "I hid in the bathroom at lunch so you couldn't find me. You made me cry every day!"
As hard as it was to look up at her, one of the many people I'd hurt, I forced myself to do it anyway. I had to see her face as she screamed at me, releasing years of pent-up pain. As much as part of me wanted to, I couldn't run away from the scars I'd inflicted on her.
When our eyes met, a piece of me broke.
The streaks of pain shooting up into my stomach and down into my legs were nothing compared to the shame that consumed me, threatening to crush me under its formidable weight. "I'm sorry," I mumbled, aware that my words meant nothing. "So damn sorry."
"Sorry?" A humorless chuckle spilled from her lips. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
Nearly choking on the spit flooding my mouth, I shook my head.
Nothing I said would make any of it better.
I knew that.
"I want you to say it!" Tears poured from her pleading eyes. "I need you to say it!"
I pushed to my feet, ignoring the way my head spun. "What"—I sucked in a breath—"do you need me to say?"
Her pointed chin wobbled. Wrapping her arms around her torso, she hugged herself tight. "My name," she answered, all the fight she possessed waning. "I need you to say my name."
Every Wrong You Right: A Redeeming Love Novel (Book 6) Page 1
