by Paula Cox
Table of Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
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
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dirty Whispers copyright @ 2017 by Paula Cox. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
DIRTY WHISPERS
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
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
SMOKE
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
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Excerpt from Fury
Chapter One
Chapter Two
More Books by Paula Cox
DIRTY WHISPERS
Chapter One
Jude
If there’s one thing guaranteed to get your blood pumping in this life, it’s a cocktail of whisky and bare-knuckle boxing.
I feel the whisky in my bloodstream, making me reckless, making me not give a damn. I savor the sensation, feeling invincible. All around me, the crowd is cheering. The crowd filled with hungry-eyed bastards from a hungry life, eager to get their fill of bloodshed for the night, before slinking off to the strip clubs and bars and squatter’s houses where they can lose themselves all over again in drink or drugs. One man doesn’t wait so long. As I leap back in the circle, I see him between my raised arms, pushing a mound of powder around on the back of his hand and then, in one quick snort, vacuuming it all up.
I focus on my opponent. He’s a big man, at least twice my size, but that doesn’t bother me much. I learnt a long time ago that big men fall just as easy as little ones when you catch them right. Just got to find the right angle, the right amount of power. Just go to reach deep into that killer’s place and show them what’s what. A tall, wide vending machine of a man, ugly as all hell with a ten-time broken nose, all mangled and twisted.
We stand at opposite ends of the circle. The crowd screams:
“Get him!”
“End him!”
“Knock him out cold!”
“Do him!”
“Take him!”
“Fuck him up!”
Anybody’s guess as to who they’re cheering for, and against. Doubt even they know themselves. They just want blood.
The man squints at me. He’s not calm. I can tell that right away. A calm man’s lips wouldn’t tremble. A calm man’s hands wouldn’t shake. A calm man’s chest wouldn’t rise and fall so dramatically. No, this man’s feeling the pressure
. And that’s a damn good thing, because I never feel pressure. Easygoing, even when it comes to blood. Easygoing and carefree. Life’s more fun that way.
“Come on, you prick,” the man grumbles, lumbering toward me. “Come on. Come and get it.”
“You that eager to spend the night in the hospital, eh?”
My tone pisses him off. He flinches, as though my words hit just as hard as my punches.
“Cocky bastard,” he hisses.
“Yep.” I grin at him sideways. “This is one cocky bastard who’s about to show you what it means to be put on your back.”
The man growls through gritted teeth, spraying spit everywhere.
He charges.
He comes at me like a bull at full tilt, no patience, no practice, no strategy apart from the desire to cave my skull in. I watch, his charging form made hazy by the whisky surging through my body, and then, at the last moment, I weave aside. He charges straight into the crowd, is thrown back in by pushing hands, and launches himself at me. I’ve been in so many fights, sometimes it’s like time slows down. But sometimes, even time slowing down doesn’t do a bit of good. Too much whisky . . .
The man’s giant fist catches me cleanly under the chin, knocking my head at such a severe angle that the back of my skull touches my shoulder blades. The rest of my body follows, flipping over. I land in a heap, grunt, and try to rise. Dizzy, dammit. I stumble again. I look up with hazy eyes and see the vending-machine fucker at the other end of the circle, arms raised, lapping up the cheering like a cat at an all-you-can-drink milk buffet.
My gaze snaps around when she emerges from the crowd. What the . . . Maybe it’s the whisky or the blow to the head, but she looks like an angel. I’m not one for that sentimental shit, not since my first love turned into a junkie, was shipped away by her family, not since Mom and Dad drowned to death because I was too damn weak. No, that sentimental stuff isn’t for me. But this girl . . . Is she really an angel? My drunk mind wonders.
She walks timidly into the circle and kneels beside me. She’s young, probably a few years younger than me, nineteen or twenty, and breakable-looking. Looks like she’d shatter if she tripped. Her hair is long and flowing, red like fire, and her eyes are enormous saucers of green, the sort of eyes that seem to invite a man in. She wears a modest shirt and pants, not one inch of skin showing, and around her neck is a small, gold cross.
She takes me by the arm and before I register what’s happened, this angel has helped me to my feet.
Maybe I’m not thinking too clearly, but with this good luck charm right in front of me, I can’t resist.
I lean in and steal a kiss, full on the mouth. She’s caught unawares and for a few moments, she kisses me back. I feel it, I hear her soft moaning even over the gasping of the crowd. Then something in her triggers and she takes a step back, forehead creased, eyes burning in confusion and outrage. She shoves me hard in the chest.
I stumble back, away from the angel, and spin as I fall. The momentum of her shove sends me right across the circle into the vending-machine fucker. Never one to waste a golden opportunity, I aim my fist as I fly. He yelps, but it’s too late. My fist pounds into the side of his head. A sound like cracking wood fills the arena for a moment. Then the crowd erupts into cheers. The man falls boneless to the floor.
I go to the other end of the circle, arms above my head.
Then I watch in disbelief as the angel who helped me to my feet walks across the circle and kneels next to my opponent, making as if to help him to his feet.
Who is this woman? I think, intrigued despite myself.
Chapter Two
Emily
A quiet life, I think, as I kneel next to Patrick. That’s all I ever wanted. A quiet, peaceful life.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Sometimes at night when I close my eyes I imagine that Patrick is not my brother, my tormentor, my abuser. I imagine I find the strength to leave him. Find the strength from God, maybe; or maybe not. Anywhere I can find it. I become stronger than I ever dreamed and I tell him: No more. I won’t live with you. I won’t let you hit me. I won’t be a part of this madness.
But here I am, kneeling beside him in an abandoned warehouse.
That man . . .
He kissed me. Just kissed me. I don’t know why I helped him to his feet. He just looked hurt and sometimes, I can’t bear to see things hurt. But I didn’t expect him to kiss me, that’s for sure. But it felt good, didn’t it? You kissed him back before you remembered everyone could see, you don’t know this man, it’s not who you are. I tell myself I didn’t, but I’m lying.
I steal a glance at him now. Around mid-twenties, with an easy, carefree smile despite the surroundings. Dark red hair, cut short, with a shadow of red stubble. No freckles. His hands are covered in tattoos, making him look dangerous, the sort of man you cross the street to avoid. And yet I helped him.
He walks through the crowd to the organizer, a large man in a suit sitting on an umpire-style chair overseeing the fights. The organizer hands him down an envelope and the man nods. He weaves through the crowd, to the makeshift bar in the corner, hands the barman a note and takes a bottle of whisky. He swigs it and then drops onto a barstool.
“Patrick,” I whisper, prodding him as gently as I can in the arm. “Patrick, it’s time for us to go. I think they want to set up for the next fight.”
Part of me wonders what it would be like if Patrick never got up. Maybe that’s a nasty thought to have about your brother, but Patrick is a nasty man. Even now, as I kneel down, pain throbs from my ribs where his giant fist beat me last night. And for what? What did I do that was so dreadful, so unacceptable, so evil that I deserved to be punched? I forgot to rinse off the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Patrick’s the only family I’ve ever known and I tell myself I love him, but I’m not so sure of it.
Slowly, his eyes blink and he rolls onto his side. Propping himself up on his elbow, he squints at me. “What the . . .” He shakes his head, groans. “What the hell happened, Emily?”
“You lost,” I whisper. “The other man hit you and you went down.”
As if that needs explanation.
“Oh.” He grunts as he tries to stand, wobbles, falls back down. “Are you going to help me or not, for fuck’s sake?” he snaps.
Biting down my pride—sometimes it seems all I do is bite down my pride—I take him by the arm and help him up. It’s not easy. He weighs at least ten tons and he doesn’t help himself, flopping in my arms like a dead fish. After around a minute of panting and pulling, he wobbles to his feet. He waves me away, as if already forgetting that I’m the one who just helped him up. He looks around the arena with big dumb eyes, mouth hanging open stupidly, and then he glances at the victor and then to me. I see the cogs working in his face, trying to figure out how, exactly, he got beat.
“We should go,” I say quickly.
He ignores me. I see the moment it dawns in his features, a sudden tightening.
He wheels on me. “You helped him up!” He makes himself big like a Silverback standing at its full height, intimidating. I shrink down, feeling like there’s nothing in this world I could do against somebody so much larger than me. “You did! I remember! Why the fuck would you do that, huh? And . . . And . . .” He spits onto the concrete. “You kissed him, too!”
He takes a few steps until he’s standing directly over me. I know his expression well. It’s the I’ve-got-you-now expression. The expression that says there’s jack I can do to stop the beating that’s about to come. I want to delve inside of myself, find the strength, find some iron, but he’s three, four times my size and I know if I fight, the beating will only be worse. None of the crowd steps in to help. He might’ve lost, but he’s still big.
I want the blood-flecked concrete to open up and swallow me, but life isn’t a fairytale and Patrick lifts his paw, ready to strike.
“You’re a slut,” he says. He states it matter-of-factly. I hear the little gir
l in my head, the little girl who believes all the cruel things he says: You must be a slut if he says it like that. He sounds so sure. It’s absurd, I know. But sometimes self-doubt doesn’t listen to reason.
He clenches his hand into a fist. “You made me lose.”
I feel rooted to the ground. His fist sails at my face. I wonder if he’ll break any bones, a detached part of my mind wonders.
But then a tattooed hand catches Patrick’s wrist. Patrick turns; the man is standing right next to him. “Hit a woman, eh?” The man growls. “Hit a fucking woman?”
Patrick tries to pull his hand away. The man flings himself forward and brings his fist around in a wide arc. Crack! For the second time tonight, Patrick goes down.
Chapter Three
Emily
All I can think when Patrick goes down is: I’m going to get it later.
When you’ve lived with an abuser for as long as I have—my entire life—you start learning the tricks. One of the tricks is to always appear to be on their side, even when they’re in the wrong. Especially when they’re in the wrong. All I have to do is make sure to appear to be on his side, and maybe I won’t get it too bad when he finally wakes up.
But when I make to kneel beside him, the tattooed-hand man takes me by the arm. Not hard, but not soft, either. A firm grip.
“No way,” he says.
I spin on him. “I have to make sure he’s okay,” I insist.
He stares at me with dark eyes. “That piece of shit was about to hit you. Look how damn small you are. He would’ve laid you out and for what? ’Cause you helped me to my feet? Pathetic. No way I’m letting you go with him. Who is he, anyway? Your boyfriend?”
