Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Trigger Warning
Acknowledgements
Dedication
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
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Other Great Reads!
Author's Note
About the Author
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblances are purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Rebekah Vasick
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced without permission from the author.
ISBN: 9781072694557
Though Twisted City is a romance novel, it does come with some pretty deep messages that involve child abuse and sexual abuse. What happened to Eva is horrific and happens to many others, in many different forms. Not just strangers, but in marriages, families, and by those who claim to love us.
The purpose of this story is to show there is light at the end of the tunnel. Even after the most degrading, humiliating, tortuous acts one human being can inflict on another, joy and love can prevail. My hope is to let victims know they are strong, they are beautiful, and they are most certainly not alone. Don’t be afraid to reach out and talk to others. There are many support groups to help you through this.
If you are triggered by stories about child abuse or sexual abuse, this book probably isn’t for you. It is graphic in nature (not just the attack) but it is needed to get the message across.
If you or someone you know are being abused in any form, there are resources available to you. Here are just a few of the many places you can go to seek help if you need it:
National Child Abuse Hotline
Website: www.childhelp.org
Toll-free number: (800) 422-4453
RAINN (Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network)
Website: www.rainn.org
Toll-free number: (800) 656-4673
National Domestic Violence Hotline
Website: www.thehotline.org
Toll-free Number: (800) 799-7233
National Teen Dating Abuse Hotline
Website: www.loveisrespect.org
Toll-free number: (866) 331-9474
Text LOVEIS to 22522
Joyful Heart Foundation
Website: www.joyfulheartfoundation.org
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
Website (and live chat): www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org
Phone: (800) 273-8255
I think, first and foremost, I need to thank Heavenly Father for giving me this gift to write. Thank you for the inspiration and love you’ve given me and even the many trials for endless stories. Thank you for inspiring me to help others, and I hope I can through my words.
Next, I’d like to thank my rock, aka, my husband Mike. Thank you for putting up with all my craziness, the blood, sweat and tears. (Okay, no blood, but the rest was real.) Thank you for dealing with my sleepless nights and pretty much ignoring you day in and day out. Thank you for being my sounding board for ideas and ranting, for inspiring me and encouraging me when I felt I couldn’t carry on. Thank you for the many blessings! And above all, thank you for supporting me so I can live my dream. I love you always.
Next up, my publishing/romance/smut guru, Carmen Richter! I cannot thank you enough for all your hard work and the help you have given me. Who knew we would become great friends when you first taught me how to use Mailchimp? I’m glad we did. And I really do mean it, thank you a million times over for teaching me the secrets to publishing! For beta reading my book and restoring some confidence that was lost. Thank you for editing! And helping me write the “ahem” steamy scenes. Oh, and let’s not forget your awesome talent at writing blurbs. Without you, I’d still be staring at a blank page, or would have settled for, “Shit goes down, just read the book to find out what.”
Thank you, Mum, for being my first editor and pointing out some of the most awful sentences known to man. Thank you for pushing to write that one particular, painful chapter. Yes, it was difficult, but it needed improvements with all the painful, horrifying details to get the message across. Thank you for the phone calls and allowing me to rant. But most of all, thank you for being my mum. I love you.
Michele! My beautiful sister-in-law, and also one of my first beta readers. Thank you for loving my book. And for pointing out the suspenseful parts which I really didn’t think were suspenseful at all. I’m still grinning from all the encouraging (and silly) comments you made. I love you bunches!
Becca! Thank you for being there through my meltdowns, for pulling out your full-blown English and “bloody” telling me off and “bloody” encouraging me when I just wanted to “bloody” quit. Thank you for letting me spam you with my new ideas to make my book pretty as can be.
And Laura, thank you for all your support, for letting me vent and being my emotional support, for helping me make teasers and giving advice how to promote my book.
I wouldn’t have gotten this far without any of you all, I love you all, and can’t thank you enough!
Fire scorches my veins, but I pump my legs faster, eager to put a greater distance between me and my prison.
“Eva, get back here!” her voice screeches.
A surge of sickening panic jolts through me. My feet slap against the pavement and I beg them not to trip. The gash in my side burns. I press my hands against it, hoping to suppress the seeping blood.
“Eva!” she continues to scream. Her voice echoes around the street.
Tears obscure my vision, my heart thumps against my chest, and my stomach threatens to spew its contents.
“Let her go,” he shouts. “She won’t get far.”
I want to glance over my shoulder to see them fade into the distance, but fear encourages me to continue focusing on my path ahead.
I turn down an alleyway. The soaked ground squelches under my feet. Mud splashes up my legs, soaking my jeans. My head spins and I tumble down. My palms slap against the soft earth and I cry out in pain.
I steal a look behind me, expecting to see them at any moment.
I pant for breath.
“Get up,” I order myself. “Get up, now.”
One hand applies pressure against my wound while the other heaves me up. I stagger down the alley and inspect my shirt to find it soaked in blood.
An abandoned home lies in the next street over. The attached garage is missing a window, making it a perfect hideout for drug users. They prefer to use it at night, but I can use it for a few hours to rest and address my injury.
I stumble towards it and peer into the dark enclosure. Other than a few stacks of boxes, it’s empty. I haul myself through the window and fall onto the concrete. I jam my fist into my mouth to prevent the emerging scream. But I c
annot contain my whimper. Tears streak my face as I lie on the cold floor.
The warm blood continues to flow from the slash. I sit up and remove my backpack. Inside, I have a few gauze bandages, some medical tape, and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide I stole from the medicine cabinet before making my escape. After lifting my shirt, I gasp at the gory mess of ripped flesh and frayed stitches. For now, I have to make do with tending to it as best as I can until I can seek medical attention.
With shaking hands, I pop the lid of the hydrogen peroxide and squeeze a generous amount over the wound, wincing at the slight sting as I watch it bubble and fizz like that science fair volcano project I did with Alice when I lived with her aunt and uncle. After a couple of minutes, I pull a towel out of my backpack and dab at the wound to dry it a little, groaning in pain. I give the gash one more spray of hydrogen peroxide and, when it doesn’t fizz as much, I dry it off again before applying the bandages.
With my wound disinfected and dressed, I lie on my side and curl into a fetal position. The blood loss and exerted energy cause my head to swim and I black out.
Night has fallen when I wake. Shivering, I rise from the cold ground and peer out the window.
The street is quiet.
I drag out my sweater and adorn it before climbing out of the garage. After securing my backpack, I set my feet towards the train station.
I have a little money on me, but not enough to purchase a ticket. This isn’t the first time I’ve traveled for free. As long as I can avoid the ticket guards, I’ll be able to ride most of the way. If all else fails, I can try hitch-hiking my way to Twisted City.
Other than a group of drunk men, the station is empty. I grip the straps of my backpack and hike up to the station. Preferring not to draw attention to myself, I head to the far end of the platform and sit on a bench. I try to check the schedule, but find the monitors are out.
Typical. Hopefully, the train will arrive soon.
A car approaches the station. The headlights blind me. I shield my eyes to see the make of the vehicle. A small voice warns me to hide. But where?
The headlights die, unveiling the beaten-up Volkswagen Rabbit. My bottom lip quivers and a wave of nausea comes over me. The couple exits the car, drunk as usual, and staggers towards the platform. I glance around my surroundings, searching for a place to hide. Unless I can curl up small enough to hide inside a trash can, I’m out of luck. But I can’t let them find me. I can’t go back to that hell.
A blazing light funnels along the tracks. My heart leaps when I see the train approaching.
Hurry, train! I silently implore it.
I pull my hood over my head and rest against the brick building, keeping my back towards the couple. Their voices approach, increasing the rapid beat of my heart. My limbs tremble and I hug my elbows.
“Where is that little bitch?” the woman growls. “She’s ruined my night.”
“She’ll ruin a whole lot more if we don’t find her,” the man says.
I steal a glance and see them closing in.
The group of men block their path and I lose sight of my pursuers. The men howl with laughter when one of them vomits.
The hiss of the train echoes around the station. I rush towards the doors, slamming the button until the doors open. Once on board, I glance over my shoulder to see my tormentors a few feet from me. Their eyes burn with anger as they recognize me.
She pushes him forward, causing him to stumble and fall. He curses and scrambles to his feet. They lurch forward, just as the doors close, and bang their fists against the window.
I slap my hands over my mouth and back away. Any moment, they will board and make me pay for running away.
Their fingertips streak across the window and I realize the train is moving. I tiptoe towards the door and watch them fade into the distance.
I’m safe, for now.
“Eva Brenton?” The smooth masculine voice seeps through the phone.
“Speaking,” I answer.
“I have your application here, and I’m wondering if you’re available to come in for an audition?” he inquires.
“Yes,” I squeal. After readjusting the pitch of my voice, I continue. “Yes, I’m available anytime.”
“How about next Wednesday at four?”
A warm glow emanates from my face. “Sounds great.”
“Okay, bang on the front door and ask for Mr. Cappellini once you’re here,” he instructs.
“Not to sound stupid, but which club?” I ask. “I put in a few applications.”
“Club Stang. Do you need an address? Directions?”
“No, it’s fine. I know where you are. Thank you, Mr. Cappellini.”
“See you Wednesday, Eva.”
“Bye.”
The coolness of the bar stool has long since changed since I sat down half an hour ago. My fingers tingle from sitting on them for far too long. I know I need to stretch my aching joints soon, yet I remain seated like a scolded child.
As I fidget, waiting for my lecture to end, my clothed feet slip over the footrest. Though I keep my head low, my eyes spontaneously pursue Alice as she paces the length of the kitchen and its interconnecting living room.
Throughout the afternoon, the temperature of the apartment has risen to a staggering heat. Adorned with jeans, a t-shirt, and a midnight blue hoodie, I feel like I’m sitting in a sauna.
What was I thinking when I decided to wear a hoodie this morning? Oh, that’s right. My plan was to take it off once I warmed up. Not once had I anticipated Alice’s frenzied reaction to the phone call I received last night, which now detains me on this stool.
“You’ve been here for a grand total of three months,” she says, “and already you’re landing yourself in trouble. Of all the clubs, you pick this one.”
As she passes, she generates a slight breeze. But, regrettably, it isn’t enough to cool me. Hot moisture secretes under my heavy locks and a drop of sweat slides down my back.
A hairband cuts into my wrist. If only I could muster the courage to release my numbed hands, I could tie my hair up and cool off a little (a feat I can ordinarily accomplish in a matter of moments) and relish in the comfort of not perspiring into a puddle of my former self.
I’m sure my face is as red as my hair. But, alas, here I remain. I’ve never seen Alice so enraged before. She’s terrifying like this.
Her once-graceful hands move with fierce velocity as she berates me, reminding me of a gymnast twirling an invisible baton. I wait for her to perform a cartwheel across the floor, though, much to my chagrin, she never does.
She halts in front of me, forcing me to readjust my posture and free my numbed hands.
“Are you even listening?” Her shimmering sea green eyes transform into an ominous forest green.
“Yes, of course I’m listening.” Pins and needles strike my hands as the blood returns. I massage them together to ease the pain.
“Angelo Cappellini,” she scoffs. “You sure know how to pick them.”
“It’s not like I plan on dating the guy,” I point out.
“You know it’s dangerous there, right?”
I roll my eyes. “For the last time, yes, I do.”
“So, why that club?”
The heat has become intolerable. Before I answer her, I free myself from the captivity of my hoodie. I tug it over my head and let my long hair spill down my back. “Because no one else has asked me to audition and it’s my chance to live my dream,” I tell her. “I’d be a fool to turn it down.”
She continues to glare at me as I pump the heat from my t-shirt.
The color of her eyes restores to the sea-green I know so well and she becomes her usual benevolent self again. She rests her palms on my shoulders.
“Babe, I get it, and I still think you should pursue your dream.” She sighs. “But this is Angelo Cappellini we’re talking about. You might as well sign a contract with Satan himself to live your dream. All I’m suggesting is that you wait a little longer.�
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“What about money?” I remind her.
She releases my shoulders, allowing her hands to fall limp at her sides. “I earn enough to support us. There’s no need to send yourself to the wolves for money.”
“I can’t live off of you forever.” I lower my gaze to her tattered clothes. Her moth-eaten, beige knitted sweater has sizable holes to expose her skin, her faded blue jeans have tears in the knees, and her toes wiggle through the large holes in her socks. “When was the last time you bought yourself new clothes?”
She follows my gaze down her front and smooths out her sweater. “Well, isn’t this fashionable nowadays?”
“Yeah, I suppose you could say you paid a hundred bucks for those jeans. The sweater, however…” I poke a finger through a hole, drawing it away from her skin.
She yanks it back. “Hey! Don’t make it worse.”
As I fold my arms across my chest, I tilt my head to one side. “We need more money. I need to go for this.”
Knowing she is defeated, she hangs her head, letting her lank locks fall around her face like a heavy set of curtains.
I gather up a lock of her hair to inspect the split ends. “When was the last time you went to the hairdresser?”
She snaps her head up, yanking her hair free from my fingertips. “You’re insulting my hair now?”
“Sorry. I’m not trying to insult you, but this is my point. If I had a job, you could get a haircut.”
Her shoulders rise and fall with a heavy sigh. “I can’t stop you, can I?”
My palms join in prayer position under my chin. “Please, Alice, we need the money.”
“Fine, but I’m coming with you.” As I open my mouth to protest, she raises her index finger to quiet me. “This is the only way I’ll accept this, Eva.”
“Okay, you can come with me,” I agree.
By 2:30 p.m., panic sets in. If I want to make it to my audition on time, we must leave in an hour at the latest, and I am far from ready.
As I stand in front of my small wardrobe, cloaked in one white towel with another wrapped around my head, I search aimlessly through my pitiful collection of clothes. Only five of the fifteen hangers actually have clothing. The other ten are huddled together: naked, cold, and neglected.
Twisted City: (Twisted City Book 1) Page 1
