Breakaway (Playmaker Duet #0.6; Prescott Family #3; Love In All Places #5)

by Mignon Mykel

  Copyright © 2017 by Mignon Mykel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a media retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book, excepting of brief quotations for use in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design and Formatting: oh so novel

  Editor: Jenn Wood

  Once upon a time, in a faraway place...

  I learned that monsters exist

  That the dark is meant for fear

  That sometimes you can't even count on yourself

  I just have to get past senior year finals, and I can break away-

  I can leave the past,

  the monsters,

  the ghosts,

  far, far behind.

  I just can't break beforehand.

  Author's Note: This novelette contains dark elements that some readers may be sensitive to. This is a story of a seventeen-year-old girl who wasn't handed the easiest of cards, and is an important piece in understanding her thoughts and actions in the Playmaker Duet, however readers should be able to read the duet without reading this piece prior.

  Due to content, this book is recommended for readers 18+.

  Additionally, some of the events in this story were done in a quicker fashion than typical (enlisting, emancipation) for sake of the storyline. While these timelines are possible, they are not typical.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Sneak Peek: Altercation

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  It is often in the darkest skies that we see the brightest stars.

  -Richard Evans

  PRESENT DAY

  I had no end goal.

  No end destination.

  There was nowhere for me to go, nobody waiting to greet me with open arms.

  For the first time in my life, I was truly and completely alone—and I was one-hundred percent okay with it.

  Alone, you couldn’t hurt—not in the physical sense.

  Alone, you didn’t have to worry about watching your back and sleeping with your eyes open.

  Alone, and the only person you had to please—to impress—was yourself. So far though, I couldn’t exactly say ‘impressed’ was the word for what I thought of myself. I glanced at the cup holder, the tiny red inhaler mocking me.

  It wasn’t like I could just…drop off the end of earth.

  Hell, I was driving a car that didn’t belong to me! My friend Carter—the only friend I had in my life, and I only met her two months ago—had one of her brothers hook me up with a means of transportation. Eventually I was going to have to get into contact with her—or her brother at the very least—and return the car.

  So maybe alone wasn’t the full truth. I had one person, maybe two, in my corner. Carter and her brother, who were two of seven, swore I was one of them. Could it be possible I actually had seven people in that dark, dusty corner?

  I scoffed at the idea. That would mean Carter and I would remain friends when the month was up and she rejoined the world, but she was going on to bigger and better—more exciting—things, while me?

  Well, I was driving to who-the-fuck-cares, and was staying for who-the-hell-knew-how-long.

  All I knew was that I was no longer Genevieve Asher Spencer.

  I still had a little over a month before I turned eighteen, but I was emancipated from the state of Tennessee and with help, I legally changed my name to Asher Spence.

  Genevieve was a foster kid who failed, and who was failed.

  Asher was strong as steel, and there wasn’t a damn thing in the world that was going to stop her—at least, that was my goal.

  I literally only had myself to answer to. I didn’t have any long lost siblings to find. I had no desire to find my birth parents.

  There was just me, driving along the spider web of freeways until I found a place that simply “felt” right. Then maybe I’d find something worth living for. I refused to believe I was put on this earth for nothing more than being a foster care kid who the system failed.

  I continued driving up I-94, passing through Chicago and going north into Wisconsin. Each time I saw an exit sign, I made a split decision: keep going, or turn. This journey was completely random and it felt good.

  Good to be driving, to be moving. I needed to be moving.

  The standstill traffic of Chicago nearly sent me into a panic attack. Too much downtime was not so great for the memories. Those visions, the reliving my nightmares? They needed to stay the fuck in the past. I didn’t need them in my future.

  Nor in my present.

  I tapped my thumbs on the steering wheel as the radio DJ faded into one of the newer radio hits. I hadn’t been too privy with music the last two months; didn’t have radio or television where I just left. Most of the music that continued to play, I’d never heard before, but after fourteen hours of the stuff I found myself humming along to the notes and melodies.

  Fighting off a yawn, I popped the top of a new can of Monster sitting in the cup holder next to me. With my eyes on the road, I chugged down the large can, taking deep breaths through my nose as I did.

  When it was empty, I squeezed the aluminum with my hand and let it join the litter of other cans at the floor of the passenger seat.

  I was going to have to find a place to stop soon. It wasn’t like I could just drive and drive and drive until I found a place to call home for however long I decided. I’d left the east coast, South Carolina to be precise, at six last night and drove through the night hours, over and through the mountains. It didn’t prove to be my brightest idea but hey, I did it, I made it, and now I was somewhere north of Chicago.

  I wasn’t sure when I started heading north rather than west, but like I said—I didn’t have an end goal.

  The last week had been a whirlwind but shit, my entire life had been one catastrophe after another.

  I left one hell only to be kicked out of another. I pinched my mouth together, pissed at myself for the reminder of my fuck ups.

  I looked down to my right arm, at the still healing mass of colors swirling there. That was one good thing about being on my own—I could do whatever the fuck I wanted, and if those prestigious assholes, who could do nothing other than yell at you, didn’t want me? Well then, dammit, I was doing something for me.

  Not even four hours after being kicked out, I found myself in a tattoo parlor that was recommended by some of the tattooed men in the area—there were a number of them where I just left—and was handing over a sketch I’d been working on during the night hours when everyone else was writing letters home. I had a day or two to kill, so I spent my hours in a tattoo chair. Now, aside from the red healing, my arm was a mass of watercolor swashes and blots. When I was told there may be discomfort and that I should consider a multi-day session, I simply shrugged it off.

  Nothing could come cl
ose to what I’d already been through in my seventeen years.

  Near my wrist, the colors were more earthy, blues and greens—a reminder to keep my feet on the ground. Toward my shoulder, the colors were darker, navy and dark purple—a reminder that it was still ok to dream. In that rich, deep purple, cutting through the color and giving way to my flesh, was a beautiful mandala with intricate bead work falling from the lower petals.

  Being left-handed, the thought was the right side of the brain worked differently; therefore, I put the mandala on my right shoulder. Mandalas were said to help ease the chatter going on in one’s mind and, beyond the fact the final design was fucking gorgeous, I liked the idea behind it.

  Maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn’t.

  The underside of my arm, from wrist to elbow, was a seemingly simple arrow done in black. It was feminine and dainty, yet strong. The arrow head itself was simple, and the feathers at the end were beautifully realistic, but the shaft flowed into and through the word ‘hero,’ after another tattoo I’d seen once before.

  I’m the hero of my story.

  Off-center of the word, around the ‘e’ and extending just past the ‘o,’ was a perfectly dotted circle, with a smaller, solid lined circle coming off of it.

  An arrow can only go forward after being pulled back.

  With my right hand on the wheel now, I took my left hand and ran my fingers over the word.

  I was my own hero. I didn’t need anyone.

  After all, no one needed me.

  FOUR MONTHS AGO

  My eyes flew open at the quiet click of the bedroom door.

  I knew better than to fall into a deep sleep.

  I stayed lying on my side, my knees drawn up to my chest, as I watched the shadow move along the carpeted bedroom floor.

  This wasn’t my bedroom.

  It wasn’t my home.

  It was the longest home I’d been placed in, sure, but there was certainly no feeling of belonging here.

  “Hello, sweetheart.” His voice was thick and low, and I could smell beer permeating the air from his entire being.

  The bed dipped near my knees as he sat, pulling at the sheet, and I fought the inward cringe as his hand rested on my thigh, way too high for comfort.

  It started shortly after I was placed here, a little under a year ago. First it was just too-familiar touching, over the blankets. Eventually he grew bolder and started caressing my arms and legs. I started to wear long-sleeves and pants to bed, but he simply slid his hand up the lower hem of my pants.

  And under the hem of my shirt, giving him access to my stomach.

  He only grew bolder from there, some nights sliding his hand all the way up to cup my breasts. Like with the original touches, he started over my bra but eventually he started sliding up under the bottom of my sports bra. It didn’t matter how tight of a sports bra I wore, or if I dared to wear two to bed; he always managed to get his grimy hands on me.

  Once, I placed a call to my case worker but he intercepted.

  “Who would they believe?” he had asked me.

  Him, the man who offered a home and stability to many kids in he and his wife’s twenty years as foster parents, or the girl who was written off as a delinquent? The one who couldn’t stay out of trouble at school and would be lucky to pass with enough credits to graduate?

  So when Marie called me back, concerned that I didn’t complete the call, I told her I was doing fine and was just checking in.

  His hand moved from my thigh, to back behind my leg, his fingers resting between my squeezed-together legs. I clenched my jaw, my heart pounding erratically in my chest, as he slowly moved his hand up until his finger rested there.

  He hadn’t ever…

  Please God, not now…

  Stupid girl.

  God didn’t listen to me anymore than Santa Claus had when I was a kid.

  Because there wasn’t one.

  My eyes stung with tears I refused to let him see.

  “You want that, Genna?”

  I never spoke to him during these moments, but I found my voice shaking as I did this time.

  “Please don’t,” I whispered into the dark.

  “I bet a bitch like you has slept with half the kids in your class, haven’t you?” He removed his hand but I knew I wasn’t going to find relief. No, he simply pushed at my hip, the pressure rolling me to my back.

  My eyes burned with unshed tears.

  Please, no.

  His hand came back to me, this time with his palm over my mound and his fingers digging in between my thighs as I tried pressing my knees together.

  “You’re probably dripping wet, a pretty cunt like you,” he whispered into the dark. All I could see were the whites of his eyes as he watched his hand in the shadows.

  His fingers slowly moved over me, my clenched thighs no match for him. If anything, it only made his fingers press deeper.

  I was so focused on what he was doing to me, I didn’t notice as his other hand went to the fly of his jeans but I certainly heard as he maneuvered the zipper down. My eyes wide, I moved my gaze from his eyes to his lap, where his hand was fisted around his engorged penis.

  No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening…

  He stood from the bed but my eyes were fixed to his bobbing penis.

  “You want that, do you? Do you want it in your mouth, sweetheart? I want my cock in your mouth.”

  He moved to straddle me in the bed, his knees trapping my arms at my sides. He smelled musky and sweaty, and my heart began beating so fast, I thought it was going to run out of energy.

  He fisted his penis again and lowered the tip to my face. I squeezed my lips closed.

  He moved the head of his penis over the seam of my lips, slowly, and something wet dropped into the crease of my lips. I could no longer hold back the tears; they slowly began leaking down my cheeks.

  “Not tonight? Ok.” He let go of himself, not before swiping it over my lips again, and I watched, terrified, as it bounced back up towards his rounded stomach. With his thumb on my lips, he swiped at the wetness he left behind. “Lick it, Genna.”

  I shook my head.

  “Lick it, Genna,” he demanded again, his whispers growing louder. Never would he speak above a whisper. Probably because he was afraid to wake his wife. I was the only kid in the house right now, but their college aged bio son had moved back in at the end of his school semester.

  Only one more month, Gen. One more month until graduation.

  One more month before I would try to file for emancipation.

  I prayed—I fucking begged—that the next month could fly by but it was beginning to look like my prayers were going unanswered.

  Still straddling me, he stuffed his still hard penis back in his pants but he wasn’t done. He moved down in the bed, his hands fisting in the top of my pajama bottoms and with one strong yank, pulled them down to my thighs, causing my legs to fall apart. I covered a sob with the back of my arm, pressing it into my mouth.

  My entire body flinched when he ran a finger through me down there. I tried drawing my knees up, but he simply lowered his body so he could rest his arms on my thighs, effectively holding my legs down.

  “Look at this pretty clit.” He placed his thumb over me, pressing and rolling circles over it. “I bet all the boys like it. You’re like a fucking flower down here.”

  With his thumb busy there, I tried to bring my mind somewhere else, anywhere else. This wasn’t happening.

  Oh my God, this isn’t happening.

  But it was.

  It was happening and I was powerless to do anything about it.

  His thumb was still rubbing roughly over my clitoris and my lower half was getting tight with the hard friction. I could feel my nipples tightening at the surge of energy flowing through my body.

  Before I could prepare, before I could even fathom it, he speared two fingers into my vagina. I gasped into my arm and
my eyes slammed shut at the intrusion. I quietly sobbed into my arm, from both pain and disbelief.

  “Damn, so tight.” He was moving his fingers in and out of me. I wasn’t extremely experienced but it was evident my body wasn’t prepared for this intrusion. I snapped my mind to anywhere else, trying so damn hard to not think about what he was doing to me.

  When I get out of here, I’m going to go west. Find a beach somewhere.

  Or maybe I would do something artistic. I liked to draw and take pictures, but I kept those things hidden. It was one less thing that could be taken from me.

  Heck, I could take pictures and paint while on a beach.

  I tried to imagine the sound of the waves crashing, the feel of the sand under my toes. If I tried hard enough, I could hear children laughing as they played with their parents—parents who wanted them.

  Lucky fucking kids.

  Tears were pouring down my face now and as hard as I tried to not notice them, I kept focusing in on the wet streaks and when I came back to now, to reality, I was very aware of what the man who I was supposed to call my foster father was doing to me. His fingers were sliding in and out of me roughly and his thumb was moving around in frantic circles.

  My body was tight and was reacting.

  My fucking body was reacting.

  My vagina involuntarily clenched around his probing fingers and, paired with his thumb now flicking over my clitoris, my body shattered in an orgasm, all while I sobbed into my arm, my other hand pressing hard into my eyes and forehead.

  When he was through, he didn’t even pull my underwear and bottoms back up.

  No, he just removed himself from the bed and whispered over his shoulder. “I’m sinking into you next, girl.”

  The door clicked shut behind him, and I curled into a ball, crying my heart out.

  After that night, I fought with myself daily—did I bring it to Marie? I should; I knew that what was happening was wrong and if I didn’t do something about it now, who knew how far he would go?