My Torin

by K. Webster

  My Torin

  Copyright © 2017 K. Webster

  Cover Design: All By Design

  Photo: Adobe Stock

  Editor: Emily A. Lawrence, www.lawrenceediting.com

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Synopsis

  PART ONE

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  PART TWO

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  PART THREE

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  PART FOUR

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Books by K Webster

  Acknowledgements

  About Author K Webster

  My Husband,

  I breathelicktastetouchsmellfeelneed you.

  Your Wife

  “Wanting to be free.

  Wanting to be me.

  Trying to make people see.

  And accept the real me.”

  ~Scott Lentine~

  I’m a freak, a misfit, an odd end.

  Abandoned and unloved.

  But my happiness is so close I can taste it.

  Until he shows up.

  Gorgeous, expensive, and all man.

  Sad brown eyes and a brilliant smile.

  And he wants me to go with him.

  His intentions are hidden.

  His motives are unclear.

  Yet, I leave with him because there’s no happiness here.

  What he promises feels too good to be true…

  A castle. A fortune. And horses too.

  It’s too easy.

  Nothing in my life has ever been easy.

  What’s the catch?

  There’s always a catch.

  Dear Reader,

  A lot of research went into this book. The characters in this story are a perfect blend of my findings during extensive research and hours of watching documentaries, as well as, my own creative spin. One thing I learned while writing this book is that every single person is unique. No two people are the same. And that is the beauty about people. Different is amazing. Embrace those who aren’t like you, for everyone has something to offer.

  I hope you enjoy reading.

  K Webster

  Freedom Mountain Church—December 25, 1999

  Pastor Joe drones on about God’s plan. Everything happens for a reason. Life is a series of tests put before you by the Lord. Perhaps five years ago, I would’ve bought into this whole excuse. But I don’t. Because it’s just that—an excuse. A reason to explain away the bad. God isn’t watching over us and testing us. He’s playing games with our hearts.

  A shriek interrupts the service and several of the church members glance my way. As a deacon and long-time member, certain things are expected of me. And this? This is one of those things I have to take care of. Normally, I’d be rising with a sigh brushing past my lips and a heavy heart. This Sunday evening, I’m eager.

  I want to get away.

  Escape.

  Show God I don’t like his plan and that I’ll dictate my own.

  I quietly excuse myself and scoot past several women who conveniently sit near me every Sunday. As if I’m on the prowl. Maggie’s only been dead a year. I’ll probably never be on the prowl again. God’s plan was to take her. And no matter how much scripture I read, I can’t quite understand why.

  Another shriek has me quickening my step.

  I rush from the sanctuary into the lobby. I’m about to head right toward the offices and church nursery when the sound beckons me from my left. Just outside the doors. With a frown of confusion, I stride outside.

  Tonight, it’s snowing—fitting that it’s Christmas Day. For me, it’s a reminder I need to drive carefully later. I’ll have precious cargo in tow. Icy snowflakes hit my face as a gust of wind swirls around me. Since I didn’t grab my coat, I shiver in my bright red Christmas vest and white dress shirt. I scan the side of the church and the parking lot that’s jam-packed with cars. Most of these people only come once a year. As though the birth of Jesus is a momentous event, but the other three hundred sixty-four days are unimportant. Next Sunday, it’ll be business as usual with the normal two hundred plus congregation.

  The shrieking resumes and I stare dumfounded at the enlarged nativity scene outside the church. I’m frozen, as if the chilly air has already gotten to me, and don’t budge an inch until I see movement.

  A hand.

  Tiny and fierce.

  Waving.

  Go.

  The voice in the back of my head sounds so much like Maggie’s I nearly collapse. My knees quake and my heart aches, but I start forward.

  A baby.

  There’s a baby—real and alive—lying in the manger.

  Unbelievable.

  I shake away my daze and hurry over to the nativity scene. When I fall to my knees in the snow that now blankets the earth a couple of inches in thickness, my heart threatens to crack wide-open. Inside the manger is a baby shaking uncontrollably from the cold. The infant is swaddled messily in a ratty blanket. A tiny bluish fist waves in the air at me as though the child also wants to know what God’s plan is that led it to being abandoned in the snow in front of a church. A note sits beneath a sandwich bag full of pennies and flutters in the wind.

  I tug the note out and read the crudely scrawled writing.

  Her name is Casey.

  She’s sick.

  This is all I have.

  Please take care of her because I can’t.

  Sickness roils in my belly and I almost vomit up the feast we had earlier in the fellowship hall. What kind of sick monster leaves a child like this? Quickly, I pull the baby into my arms to try and warm it. It shakes violently. I jerk up to my feet and rush toward the building, all the while the baby squawking in my arms. As soon as I make it inside, away from the bone-chilling cold, I tug away the blanket to look at the baby properly.

  It stops wailing and stares at me.

  Pale blue eyes.

  Soulful.

  Sad.

  So much life in a little one’s expression.

&
nbsp; I swallow down the emotion and the thoughts begging me to claim this infant as my own. If Maggie were here, she’d already be on the phone trying to figure out how we can adopt the baby girl. Pain slices through me.

  Maggie isn’t here.

  Maggie is gone.

  She was always the stronger half. Without her, I’m a ghost of a person. Certainly, not strong enough for this too. I can barely manage what I’ve got.

  “I’m sorry, little one.” I hug her to me and push through the sanctuary doors. “Joe, call nine-one-one. I found a baby.”

  The baby starts crying again and I refuse to look at her eyes again.

  Little Casey.

  She’ll go to a home. A loving home. With two adoring parents. Babies are adopted every day and she’ll be no different.

  It just won’t be by me.

  Because I don’t have my Maggie.

  And without her, this child would never have what she deserves.

  She deserves more than abandonment by an unfit mother. She deserves more than a widower who’s sick and infected by grief and depression. She deserves life—just like that which flickered in her eyes.

  She deserves more.

  And I’ll send her back out into the world where someone else can give it to her.

  Present

  Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

  “Casey,” Dr. Cohen snips, her eyes narrowed in irritation.

  I click my pen once more and shrug. “Yeah?”

  “I asked you how school was going.” She’s calm once again, composed after her brief freak-out. It’s my goal in life. How many times can I make Dr. Cohen lose her cool during our sessions?

  So far, the most was five.

  And that day, she cut our session short.

  “School’s fine.” I give her the canned answer she wants to hear. I don’t tell her I hate my teachers. That I hate the students. That I hate everything. I especially don’t tell her that yesterday I looked up on the Internet to see how to take the test to get my GED. I’ll be eighteen in two months and I don’t plan on sticking around after that.

  “Define fine,” she encourages, her pen poised to take notes.

  Click. Click. Click.

  I chance a look at her. Her eye twitches.

  “Like super fine,” I sass and then laugh.

  She uncrosses her legs and leans forward. “Dear, this isn’t a game.”

  Ahhh, that’ll be the first time she’s said that line today. She always says it. Every single time.

  “School is fine,” I say with a huff. “Boring as usual.”

  Her dark eyebrow lifts in question. “Boring?” She shuffles through the file in her lap. “Your newest progress report says you have a D in English.”

  Click. Click.

  “Yeah, so?”

  Her lips purse together. “You need a better grade in there. How do you expect to go to college and—”

  I cut her off by incessantly clicking my pen.

  Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick.

  “I’m not going to college.” I lift my chin but instead of meeting her glare, I glance at the clock. Almost time to bail.

  “It’s time to grow up, Casey,” she chides. Dear, this is not a game. I know she wants to say it. Her lips twitch as it barely sits contained in her mouth.

  I smirk. “I’m almost eighteen.”

  If a psychiatrist were allowed to roll her eyes, she’d do so right about now. Somehow, despite my poking, she manages to refrain.

  “You know what I mean.”

  I do know what she means. Unfortunately, she could never possibly know what kind of growing up I’ve had to do. I was born to a crack cocaine addicted woman who abandoned me in a nativity scene at a church. It’s so cliché, but this isn’t a Hallmark movie with a happy ending. This is my crummy life. Turns out, babies who are born to addicted mothers are also addicted. Low birth weight and heads that are small in circumference. Babies with drugs in their system begin the withdrawal a couple of days later. Shakes. Uncontrollable crying. General unhappiness. My birth mother sent me into this world in the shittiest way possible. She left me unable to fend for myself, a runt against other babies my age, and at an utmost disadvantage.

  Nobody adopts a baby like me.

  The only child screaming their head off in the room.

  The child nobody could make happy.

  I grew up with equally unhappy caregivers and when I was old enough, I started bouncing through the system like a ball in a pinball machine. Except for me, I didn’t win a prize at the end. No blinking lights and excited music. For me, it was always nothing.

  When I turn eighteen, I’ll finally be prepared to go out into the world and find my happiness. It’s there. I just have to locate it.

  “I’m not smart enough for college,” I admit, my voice melancholy.

  She softens as a sigh escapes her. “Dear, you’re smart enough. Just not focused enough. How is the new medication I prescribed you? Can you focus?”

  Apparently, being a crack baby also means I’m at a neurological disadvantage according to Dr. Cohen. I’ve been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and anxiety.

  Click. Click. Click.

  I glance at the clock again. “I don’t like that medicine. Makes me numb.”

  “It’s supposed to make you numb. Well, focused anyhow. It’s supposed to calm the stray thoughts running rampant in your mind so you can focus on what’s in front of you.”

  Would this be a bad time to tell her I only took one and then sold the rest to my foster brother?

  Probably so.

  “Yeah, okay.” I flash her a bright smile that’s fake but gets me by when I need it most. “Oh, man, look at the time,” I say with a faux pout. “Looks like we’re done until next month.”

  She nods and scribbles something down in her file. I don’t wait for her to say any more. She’s already said too much. I dread my meetings with her. They don’t help. We run in circles. She wants to help me with something I don’t need help with. It’s a waste of everyone’s time.

  As soon as I close the door behind me, I slip into the ladies’ room before having to go out and deal with my foster parent, Guy. Worst name ever. Sometimes I call him Dude instead just to fuck with him. The guy is the biggest asshole on the planet. How someone gets into the field of helping children and teens out, but who clearly hates it, is beyond me. Sure, I’ve been at a few homes where the men leer, but usually they leer at the other girls. Not the tiny, messy-haired runt. The sun-kissed, pale-blond sprite of a girl with eyes too huge for her face.

  Once inside the bathroom, I set my backpack down on the counter and peek at my reflection. The gloss is gone from my lips, so I rummage around in my bag for it. Taking my time, I paint my lips a shiny pink. Throughout the years, I’ve stolen makeup from people and places. It’s my therapy of sorts—painting myself into someone I want to be. I decide my birth mom looks just like me and the darker and more dramatic the wings of my eyeliner, the further from her I look.

  My stomach grumbles, but I attempt to ignore it. I didn’t mention to Dr. Cohen that a girl named Monique shoves me against the lockers every day in gym class as she rifles through my bag to take what little money I have. I’m too proud to eat the free lunch, so I starve every day at school. Tonight, I hope Guy cooks something good. That’s about the only thing he’s good for.

  “Two more months,” I promise myself with a sigh.

  I pull my backpack on and leave the bathroom to go find my guardian. He sits in the waiting room, his eye on one of the moms in the room. She’s bent over trying to talk sense into a young woman who looks a few years older than me. The people here have true psychological problems—I somehow got stuck here. Crack baby and all.

  Snapping my fingers, I motion with my head. “Dude, let’s go.”

  Irritation morphs his features, but then his gaze is back on the hot mom’s ass. I’m glad he’s into tits and curves b
ecause that means he’ll never turn his lascivious gaze my way. I push out the door and pause for a moment. It’s early November but exceptionally warm today. The sun shines warmly on my face and I have the urge to pop a squat right here on the steps and bask in the rays.

  I can never stay warm. I live in hoodies and jeans. Under blankets and near fires. My physician says it’s because—you’ve got it—I was a crack baby.

  Thanks for that, Ma.

  Cars whiz by out front but what has my attention is a shiny penny sitting on the concrete. I’ve read the articles of when I was found. The media affectionately named me Cocaine Casey—the mystery baby who was addicted to drugs. A blanket, a simple note, and a bag of pennies, the only things to my name. The government, since they couldn’t locate my birth mother, officially named me Casey Doe. Of course, I hate that damn last name and opted for a different one. When anyone asks, I’m Casey White. The baby found blanketed in snow.

  White.

  Clean.

  A fresh start.

  When I’m legally able to, I’ll change my last name to what I want.

  I approach the penny and bend over to pick it up, but someone snatches it up before I can get to it.

  “Hey!” I cry out.

  I lift my gaze and meet the most intense pair of brown eyes I’ve ever seen. For one moment, the man stares at me as though he can see straight into my soul. All the ugly, sad parts.

  I can’t blink.

  I can’t think.

  I simply stare back.

  Someone beside him gasps while Guy grips my elbow and jerks me away.

  “Don’t be such a freak,” he snaps and hauls me to his piece-of-shit van. “I swear I can’t take your scrawny ass anywhere.”

  I tug my arm away from his grip and stomp over to the passenger side. Once I’m in the vehicle, I look up to see the man staring my way. His arm is extended toward me and the penny in his palm shimmers in the sunlight.

  Too late, buddy, it’s yours now.

  I give him a shrug and a slight wave as Guy backs the car out of the parking spot. The moment his country music starts blaring, I shove my earbuds into my ears and turn up Meg Myers so I can drown out the world. I close my eyes and try not to count down each second until my life finally begins.