Torn in Two
Page 32
“Dad, what is it?”
Relenting, but allowing Jake the enjoyment of thinking he’d overpowered his father, Frankie let Jake’s hands find the little paper bag. He loosened his grip, smiling up at his son who lay across his chest.
The boy sat up. His bony backside dug into Frankie’s stomach. But he bore it with fatherly love as Jake tore open the envelope and furrowed his brow, not understanding the gift.
“It’s a building?”
Jake retrieved the little, wooden model from the bag and held it in his hands, studying it from every angle.
“Not just any building, Jake. That’s the Acropolis.”
“The acrop-o-what?”
Laughing, Frankie said the word slower, breaking it down so that Jake could repeat it.
“The A-crop-o-lis.”
Jake repeated the name, still studying the wooden model.
“Is it a special building?”
“Oh, yes. It’s special for sure. It was built more than two thousand years ago. Before Jesus was even born.”
“Before Jesus?”
“That’s right.”
Pleased with the wow that had emerged from Jake’s mouth without him even realising it, Frankie delivered his second surprise with equal tease.
“I got you something else too.”
“Two presents?”
“Yep. Two.”
Before Frankie could even hint at the location of the second gift, Jake was burrowing through his bag. He pulled out an envelope and shook it beside his ear.
“What is it?”
“Open it, Jake.”
With equal impatience, Jake tore open the envelope and pulled out four oblong pieces of thick paper.
“What is it?”
“Read it. What does it say?”
The four pieces of paper were fanned out so that Jake could read the names on each of them.
“That’s Grandma and Grandpa’s names.”
“That’s right. What do the other two say?”
The boy read them with eager delight, warming every tiny pocket in Frankie’s heart, so much so that a lump formed in his throat.
“Jake Black and Frankie Black. That’s us. What are they?”
“They’re tickets.”
“Tickets? Tickets to what?”
Frankie rolled over so that Jake fell onto the blanket, lying as his mother had so many years before. Frankie admired the boy’s eyes. They were the reflection of his mother, as was the soft down on his cheek and the dimple in his chin.
“They’re tickets to a faraway place.”
“A holiday?”
Frankie nodded. Emotion gripped his throat until he swallowed.
“A holiday to where, Dad? A holiday to where?”
“To a place that was built before Jesus was born. Before electricity. Before cars and planes. Just like in that video game of yours.”
“Where, Dad? Where?”
But before Frankie could reply, a soft, trill sound came from his open bag. He watched with silent joy as Jake made a point of reading every word on all four tickets as Frankie reached for his phone.
An unknown number flashed up on the screen. Frankie hit the green button to answer the call. But he said nothing.
“Is that Frankie Black?” It was a man’s voice, thick with tears.
“Athens. We’re going to Athens?” Jake stood excitedly and carried the tickets away, unable to take his eyes off them or the model of the Acropolis.
“Yes.”
As Jake turned to face him, his excited face an explosion of glee, Frankie’s heart dropped. The tiny pockets of warmth that had shone for such a brief moment had been cast into the shadow of uncertainty.
“I hear you’re a man who knows how to find people.”
The End
Click here to Grab your copy of Her Only Hope; Book Two in the Frankie Black Files.
Dear Reader
I hope you enjoyed Torn In Two?
I hope Frankie lived up to your expectations, but more than that, I hope you enjoyed the ride of emotions and the depths of each character?
I hope this story along with those peaks and troughs of Emma’s mind, the uncertainty she faced and the girl she left behind, carried you away to someplace you never knew existed. I hope you’ll remember that place with a fondness and remember my words.
Torn In Two is the first book in the Frankie Black Files. Each book is packed with tension and emotion, each book is written with care and empathy designed to invoke tears and happiness.
It is my hope that each book will carry you off to some place new and that you’ll remember each of those places with fondness.
J.D. Weston.
Her Only Hope - Preview
Book Two - Chapter One.
“When the door slams, your world is damned.”
The voice was whispered, haunting, and teasing.
“Who’s there?”
Searching the darkness through the coarse fabric of the woven sack that had been pulled across her face, Hope Gilmour found no clue. The whispered voice of a child? A memory? Or the tarnished fruits of the dark, damp hole, teasing Hope’s imagination with its cruel tongue?
“Who’s there?”
Her world was black, far darker than the darkest night, and the silence that ensued was the quietest Hope had ever known. The first tear rolled across her skin cutting a channel through the grime and angering the resilience she had worked so hard to build. Experience had taught her that the tears that broke her wall down would flood the gates of her mind.
She pushed back, fighting the urge to release the barriers that held the tears at bay.
The sweet songs of the birds that Hope had long enjoyed sang somewhere far away, bringing joy to some other place, where the light dared to spread its golden beams. She wondered if she would ever hear their song again with clarity, and not the muted, muffled tease that tickled her mind now with sounds of what could be.
“I asked who’s there. I won’t ask again.”
But again, the sweet, feminine tone that had taunted her only moments before teased her now with silence, and she doubted if the words had ever been spoken.
Outside the hole, only the boughs of trees creaked, and the rustle of dead leaves added a layer of soft percussion with every breath of the wind. The sounds quelled the distant bird song as if they grew where two worlds met. One of natural beauty, light, and all things wild. The other of darkness, shadows, and the rotting smell of decay.
Footsteps approached and raised the tempo of Hope’s heart bringing rhythm to the ensemble.
“With the falling sun, the footsteps come.”
That voice.
“Who’s there?” Hope hissed in the darkness. “Who are you?”
But no reply came. Only the steady drip of water into a nearby, shallow pool. An image of her prison appeared in Hope’s mind. Rock walls, smoothed by years of moisture filtered through the earth leaving a damp sheen across the mildewed limestone. A sparse bed of leaves spread across the ground, blowing this way and that only when the trapdoor opened and a lick of wind found the corners of darkness that light dare not touch.
A heavy chain rattled on wood and a cool breeze scattered leaves across Hope’s bare feet. The image in her mind grew and although the darkness deprived her of sight, with her eyes closed, she could see it all with such clarity.
Heavy breaths of a man. The soft touch of wood on stone as the door closed, ceasing the breeze and returning the hole to darkness. A shuffle of boots on the dry ground and the scrape of material like a waxed jacket.
Then silence.
Even the boughs of the trees outside ceased to creak, and the whistle of the wind faded away as if both worlds held their breath.
An anxious shiver ran through Hope’s body from her bound hands held high above her head, across her naked flesh, and to her fingers and toes. A whimper escaped her lips, loud in the silence, and the image of her prison faded away as she sought to find his form in the grey b
eyond her mask.
From nowhere, a cold hand found her naked stomach. Her soft, young flesh was sensitive to his sharp, calloused skin and long fingernails that pressed as if feeling for something. It was as if, with just a little more pressure, the fingers would burst through her skin, reach inside, and tear her apart. But then the pressure subsided, leaving only tender fingertips that caressed the outline of her form and pressed against her beating heart.
An exhale, too long and slow to be anything but desire, came from the man. The stench of his foul, stale breath clung to the material of her hood. But no matter how hard Hope tried to block his touch from her mind, her imagination teased her with wonders and possibilities. Her body tensed as if she might break free of her chains and overpower him. The fantastical scene played out in her mind. She would fight back at the earliest chance. He would have to untie her soon, and then she would take him by surprise. She would show him that she wasn’t just an ordinary girl who might cry and let him have his way. Hope was stronger than most.
But her musings were futile.
The sour breath faded, leaving her to breathe the stale air of the hole. She waited for the touch, the first intrusive touch of a desperate man.
But there was nothing.
No calloused hands explored her body. No heavy lustful breaths on her skin. Just the silent lick of the cool breeze on her body, the creaking boughs of long dead trees outside, and the decaying smell of the hole.
With her remaining senses heightened, Hope heard the sounds of heavy boots on dirt, a grunting of effort, masculine yet mature, and a wax jacket scraping against the bare walls.
He’s leaving.
“Stop. You can’t leave me here.” Her voice was high and wavering. The wall that held back her tears started to crack. “You can’t leave me here alone.”
And then the wall broke, releasing the flood of emotion, and the once strong voice that people had stopped and listened to, her authoritative tone, split. A sob emerged, loud and sorrowful, and her voice lowered to a whisper of denial, resignation, and self-pity.
“No. You can’t leave me.”
The heavy door slammed into place with a boom that echoed off the hard, rock walls.
Be strong.
The image of Hope’s incarceration returned. The cold and damp walls she felt with her hands chained behind her back. The dirty floor that she felt beneath her bare feet.
Pushing the image to one side, Hope created her own place. A sanctuary. It was her bedroom. The room was large and furnished. A bed had been placed against the wall opposite where Hope stood restrained. To her right, a fireplace took pride of place, simple but powerful in her mind’s eye. As the image evolved, the dark, damp hole in the ground became a warm home to quell the truth outside of her Hessian mask.
Fear of the unknown weighed heavily, but Hope adorned the imaginary room with her family. Beside the bed was a small nightstand with a photo of her father. An old, wooden dressing table had been placed beside the fireplace. On it, beside her jewellery box and perfumes, was a photo of her as a child and her father. They were both smiling.
And Greg. Greg was there. He was lying asleep on the bed. His aftershave was strong. He always wore too much. But just knowing he was there, that he could see her and that she could feel him, warmed her for the tiniest of moments.
With her inner wall broken down, Hope let the tears roll. She issued no accompanying sobs or whimpers, finding solace only in the memories of the people she’d left behind.
“When the door slams, your world is damned.”
Hope whispered the words aloud to herself as if for the first time understanding the sentence she’d heard just moments before when she’d awoken. Her words faded away, seemingly absorbed by the silent shadows.
And she stood, naked, bound, and afraid, but with a facade that was resolute, determined, and fierce.
For a short while.
“You’re not alone,” came the whispered reply.
Also by J. D. Weston
The Frankie Black Files
Torn in Two
Her Only Hope.
When She Wept.
The Stone Cold Thriller Series.
Stone Cold
Stone Fury
Stone Fall
Stone Rage
Stone Free
Stone Rush
Stone Game
Stone Raid
Stone Deep
Stone Fist
Stone Army
Stone Face.
Copyright © 2019 by J. D. Weston
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