Burning the Past (Southern Heat Book 3)

by Jamie Garrett

  Burning the Past

  Southern Heat Book 3

  Jamie Garrett

  Wild Owl Press

  Contents

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  1. Amy

  2. Amy

  3. Dean

  4. Dean

  5. Amy

  6. Dean

  7. Amy

  8. Dean

  9. Amy

  10. Dean

  11. Amy

  12. Dean

  13. Amy

  14. Dean

  15. Amy

  16. Dean

  17. Dean

  18. Amy

  19. Dean

  20. Amy

  21. Dean

  22. Amy

  23. Dean

  24. Amy

  25. Dean

  26. Amy

  27. Dean

  28. Amy

  29. Dean

  30. Amy

  Also by Jamie Garrett

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Jamie Garrett

  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 permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. All requests should be forwarded to jamie@jamiegarrett.com.

  Connect with me on Facebook: http://facebook.com/JamieGarrettBooks

  Click here to get an email when the next book is released, plus advance sales notice and freebies.

  Cover design by The Final Wrap.

  Editing by Jennifer Harshman, Harshman Services.

  1

  Amy

  This couldn’t be real! No! She had to escape . . . she knew it! If she didn’t, the consequences were unthinkable. Even death might be preferable to the horrors sweeping through her mind. But yet again, she found herself cowering into the cold, dark corner of the steel shipping container. Afraid to move. Hardly daring to breathe.

  She held her tightly bound hands lightly clasped in front of her chest. She wanted to pound them against the sides of the container, hoping that someone, somewhere, would hear and rescue her, but her bruised and throbbing hands reminded her that her previous attempts had proved fruitless.

  When the truck stopped, the driver obviously parked far enough away from anything—or anyone—else that she could scream her lungs out and kick and pound against the sides all she liked. No one was coming to her rescue.

  She stifled yet another surge of growing panic. She was the last one left, for now. The others, one by one, had been pulled, kicking and screaming, or limp with fright, from the container to God knew where. She didn’t want to think about what was waiting for her once she reached her final destination.

  She didn’t understand how a person could survive in such a heightened state of fear and anxiety. How long it had it been? Why was she still alive? It had been days, at least, maybe even weeks. It was so hard to keep track of time when everything was enveloped in darkness.

  Occasionally, someone opened the door to remove the bucket that she had been forced to pee in. It was difficult to remove any clothing with her hands bound in plastic cuffs. Still, she counted herself lucky. She hadn’t been stripped naked like one of the other girls who had refused to use the bucket at all. That had infuriated her captor.

  There was more than one, the men who came in each day. She knew that. They didn’t speak much. She couldn’t tell who they were. One was heavier than the others, the floor of the container trembling when he walked inside.

  The blindfold over her eyes made it difficult to count the days passing, even when they did open the door and let in the outside. Despite the order not to, she’d removed it. Once. Dim slivers of light had slipped through a few small cracks in the corners of the shipping container.

  She had paid dearly for disobeying that order. Her lip was still swollen; her right eye still felt puffy and tight. The resulting threat of retribution for disobedience hung over her like the sword of Damocles. Once, caught in the throes of despair, she had purposely disobeyed when she was told to get up and move, but she’d refused. Made them carry her. Even hoped that perhaps they would kill her so she wouldn’t have to face more uncertainty, the thought of being sold . . . of having to endure a life of captivity as a sex slave.

  Despite her occasional bravado, her body ached with her frightened trembling. The bucket nearby sent stomach-churning odors upward. The smell of her vomit and stale urine combined with the pungent odor of perspiration sickened her. She idly recalled something she had read about “stress sweat.” Though she’d scoffed at first, she now believed it wholeheartedly. She stank.

  The only good thing about feeling so disgustingly dirty and unclean was the fact that unless one of her captors was superbly desperate, her odor might at least prevent her from being raped. That was something she—

  Voices! Outside the shipping container. She held her breath. Where the hell was she? She had started out in Arizona, where she lived. She’d been in her senior year at the University of Tucson.

  Somehow—she didn’t quite remember how—she’d ended up in the container. Woken up to darkness. Movement beneath her. The sounds of tires on an asphalt highway.

  Her heart pounded. Her respiration increased. The gag of duct tape that wound around her mouth and stuck to the back of her head muffled her screams.

  Panic surged upward once again, nearly choking her with its ferocity. Every muscle in her body tightened with apprehension. The blood pounded so hard in her veins that she wondered for the hundredth time if a person really could die of fright. Her ears rang, her eyes burned with hot tears, and mumbled, panicky sounds issued from her throat. A throat burning and hoarse from trying to scream.

  No one heard her. If they did, they didn’t care.

  Where were they taking her? And why?

  She knew why. Just didn’t want to accept it.

  Her thoughts were fuzzy. Her mouth incredibly dry.

  She couldn’t help it. She had to scream or her head would explode. The fear, the uncertainty of the unknown; if she didn’t die from fright, she would certainly lose her mind.

  They were moving again now, swaying gently from side to side, rocking as the transport truck drove over endless miles of highway. The hum of the tires on the asphalt provided a sense of reprieve. As long as the truck was moving, she had a chance to escape. But how?

  She crawled on her hands and knees, her hands bound in front of her, seeking something, anything, that might be used as a weapon or tool to help her escape. The floor of the container was littered with what felt like straw. Most of it was fetid and smelled of mold. And urine. Occasionally, she caught a whiff of feces.

  She wasn’t the only one who had been held captive in the container. Still, she was the only one left. She’d be damned if she gave up.

  No. Don’t give up!

  The truck carrying the container slowed. Its brakes squealed and the container rocked as the truck pulled off the highway. She tipped over and landed on her side, scrambling upright and retreating once again to the corner. Where was the truck stopping? A rest stop? Were they at her destination? The truck squeaked as it came to a halt, a blast of air hissing from its brakes ju
st before the engine turned off with a shuddering gasp.

  She heard the door slam shut.

  No!

  She forced her back deeper into the corner, pulling her knees up to her chest, hands balled into fists in front of her. She couldn’t see past the blindfold, but she nevertheless turned her face toward the door as if by sheer will alone she would still see. The lock clasp fell open, the door screaming, metal against metal—as it slowly opened.

  No!

  Amy jolted upright. Had she actually screamed, or was it just echoing from inside her brain? The curtains were open. She made sure they were every night. The moonlight shining on her bed reminded her that she was no longer inside the container.

  Up until a month ago, she had slept with a light on. Last week she had finally turned it off.

  She gasped for breath, clutching tightly at the bedding beneath her. She was in a bed. At Promise House. She was safe.

  Realization dawned and she fought to get her breathing under control, to calm her panic. When would the nightmares stop? Would she ever sleep through the night without having these dreams that felt so real that all of her senses were involved?

  She was tired. So very tired. While she had been rescued—thank God—the aftermath and the trauma, the God-awful memories had yet to subside.

  Heaving a shaky sigh, she slowly climbed out of bed. Her bedroom on the second floor of the shelter was equipped with a tiny bathroom: small shower stall, toilet, and standalone sink with a mirror in front of it. On shaking legs, she made her way to the bathroom and rested her hands against the sink. She leaned forward, her head drooping downward. She refused to look at her reflection. She already knew what she’d see there.

  Amy turned on the cold-water tap, ran her hands beneath the water, and then swiped at the sweat on her face. Despite her unwillingness to look at herself, she felt compelled. She looked up. The woman who gazed back was scared out of her mind. Wide eyes with dilated pupils. Pale skin, lips nearly colorless with fear. It was the same expression she always wore, the seemingly permanent and lingering aftereffects of the nightmare.

  She swept her fingers through her hair, pulling the damp strands up and off her neck. Despite yet another determined but unsuccessful effort not to look, her eyes were drawn to the raised, keloid scar on her neck just below and behind her right ear. Her fingers lifted to touch it. She cringed, not with pain, but with a hollow sensation that filled her with a sense of disbelieving and abject disgust before she quickly brushed her hair back down over it.

  As soon as she got a job and could afford it, she would have the scar tissue removed. Not only for aesthetics, but for her own peace of mind. Every time she saw that scar, the fear returned.

  She needed to get past this, damn it!

  For God’s sake, she’d been seeing a counselor for nearly six months. He was a nice guy. Really he was, and he was determined to help her. Every visit, he told her she must be patient. She was tired of trying to be patient. She needed to overcome her fear.

  Fear had become her life. She rarely ventured outside and when she did, she was suspicious of everything. She jumped at the least little sound, startled at anybody or anything that came up from behind her.

  Grasping the sides of the sink, Amy forced herself to assess her features.

  “This isn’t you. You’re stronger than this. You know you are.”

  She watched her lips move, heard the voice, but it didn’t even sound like hers. She cleared her throat and tried again. “You can do it. You know you can.”

  Yeah, right.

  With a sigh, she turned from her reflection and flipped the light switch, slowly making her way back to her bed. Sleep would elude her. She knew it, but forced herself to sit on the bed anyway. Don’t turn on the lights. Deal with it. Get through it.

  She looked out the window and into the backyard. Tonight was a full moon. The shine was bright, displaying the outline of the trees that surrounded the backyard of the shelter.

  She tried to concentrate on that light, on the sedate movement of the leaves against the gentle night’s breeze, but despite her efforts, her thoughts traveled backward.

  She’d decided to get a cup of coffee. Such an innocent decision. That’s where she’d met him.

  Just the image of his face in her mind sent her heart racing, and not in a good way.

  No, don’t go there . . . don’t go there!

  She couldn’t stop herself.

  She’d just finished with her semester finals and was taking the day off, deciding to get a cup of caramel mocha when she’d wandered past the coffee shop. She’d never been there before, and idly studied the menu on the wall behind the counter filled with a myriad of choices, sizes, and prices. She waited in a short line to order, standing patiently behind a lanky man in front of her. Young, black hair, a bit on the long side but not long enough to pull into a ponytail.

  He stood maybe nine inches taller than her five feet two. His shoulders filled out a soft brown leather jacket nicely and then his torso tapered to a narrow waist. His jeans cupped his ass very well. Very well indeed. What did he do for a living, construction? Why did she care? He could have worked anywhere. She let her imagination run wild, smiling to herself as she imagined all sorts of fanciful careers that the man might enjoy—until she inadvertently bumped into him, prompting him to turn around.

  Her first thought was dismay. He looked like a surgeon from that TV show, Grey’s Anatomy. What did they call him? McDreamy. A younger version but just as handsome, especially when he grinned down at her as she muttered a tongue-tied apology. God, she had never seen anyone so good-looking. The green eyes had instantly captivated her. And those dimples! When he winked at her, she felt the heat of a blush rise into her cheeks.

  That was new also. She’d never blushed in her life. He’d accepted her apology and asked if she wanted to sit down and have a cup of coffee with him. She had accepted but immediately regretted it. She wasn’t interested in developing a relationship, especially not with someone as wildly attractive as he. Her first thought? Trouble, with a capital T. Even now, she’d never been able to figure out why she’d been so intrigued.

  She’d ended up applying for a job at that exact coffee shop, and then she’d seen him regularly when he came in for his morning cup of caffeine.

  That had been just the beginning.

  Hindsight was a wonderful thing, wasn’t it?

  With a sigh, Amy rose from her place on the bed and stepped to the window, attempting to distract herself. She was glad to be back in her old room at Promise House. After the fire this past October, she hadn’t been sure she’d be able to, or even want to, return. But then again, she had nowhere else to go. She didn’t want to go back to Tucson. Ever.

  Still dealing with the aftermath of her own traumatic experience, the fire, being relocated to the local Red Cross shelter . . . it had all but overloaded her already-stressed mind. She’d tried to be supportive and encouraging to Meg, the owner of the shelter, but she had been nearly frozen with anxiety. Promise House was her sanctuary. Her personal sanctuary. She had nearly lost it.

  Ever since, Amy had worked on getting stronger every day, to use the tools that her therapist gave her, but it was much easier said than done. She of all people knew how powerful the mind could be. There was nothing to be afraid of, not anymore. But the night of the fire, when she first learned about the death of one of the other residents downstairs, she had thought they were after her.

  Again.

  She still had nightmares nearly every night. Woke up sweating, gasping for breath, remembering how it felt to be locked inside that steel shipping container. Sometimes, the memories and fear overwhelmed her, leaving her hiding in her room for days, afraid to even step into the backyard.

  She didn’t want to be this way. She was stronger than this. She knew it. She had been strong.

  Before.

  Her parents had gone ballistic the first time they’d met him. After he dropped her off at home later than
usual one weekend, she had gotten an earful. Her father had told her to shape up or ship out. He’d used exactly those words. After that, she started pulling double shifts at the coffee shop, even considered finding another job. The more money she could make, the faster she could move out.

  Only a few weeks later, the two of them had ridden to the party on his motorcycle. The moment she stepped inside the abandoned warehouse converted to a party spot, she wanted to leave. But—

  No, don’t think about it!

  Amy groaned, pushing on her forehead with the palm of her hand, as if she could physically hold the memory back. There was no point trying to go back to sleep. She glanced at the clock. Five thirty in the morning. Soon, daylight would break over the woods behind the house. Another balmy and warm Georgia day.

  She looked forward to it. During the day, she had better luck keeping the darkness inside her mind at bay. During the day, it was easier to keep herself distracted.

  It was the dark of night that was her enemy. The darkness that held her back from complete recovery. Her physical wounds had healed and scarred over. Would her mind ever find peace?

  Would she?

  2

  Amy

  “Amy!”

  She’d watched the sun travel across the sky from her window all day, never leaving her room. Now, footsteps hurried down the hall, approaching her room.

  “Amy, you up here?”

  Sloane. Amy stepped up to her door and opened it. “Yes, I’m here. What has you sounding so excited?”

  Sloane was the only one who could come close to understanding what Amy had gone through. She was so grateful for her friend. Sloane was always available to her, to listen when the fear took hold, to encourage her, to support her. Amy didn’t know what she would have done, what condition she would have been in if Sloane hadn’t befriended her.