Perception: A Bittersweet Romance Suspense Novel
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PERCEPTION
KENDRA LEIGH
Perception
Copyright © Kendra Leigh 2018
The moral right of Kendra Leigh to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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 author, except for review purposes. For permission requests, write to the author at (website)
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Except for the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles and lyrics mentioned in the novel are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Published by Evoke Publications
Cover art created by QDesign
Copy Editing by The Polished Pen
Formatting by Champagne Book Design
ISBN: 978-1-910713-10-5
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Note from the Author
Part One
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
Part Two
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
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
About Perception
A Thank You
Other Titles by Kendra Leigh
Dedication
To all survivors of violent and sexual abuse.
You are not alone.
#MeToo
Note from the Author
Perception is a bittersweet romantic suspense novel inspired by the #MeToo movement. Due to the nature of the story, it contains subject matter which deals with domestic violence, including physical and emotional abuse, and may be triggering for some people. The story depicts a journey of survival and aims to offer encouragement and empowerment to victims of abuse.
Part One
Chapter One
Jackson
THE INSTANT I CROSS THE river and drive through the boundaries into South East London, I can feel it on my skin. Revulsion. It seems to seep through the air vents like a fog, clogging my airways. A fetid reminder of all that was bad. Dependency, depravity … death. Despite the voice in my head telling me to turn around and drive the other way, I can’t, and as the car snakes through the maze of tower blocks, a torrent of memories begin to flood my senses.
The stench of pot smoke and rotting garbage mingles with the nauseating aroma of grease from the abundance of rundown fast food shops. Wailing police sirens compete with the dull thud of muffled hip-hop music, barking dogs, and crying kids. Visions of drug deals in dark corners and pockmarked delinquents with bad attitudes chatting shit about guns and blades and badass accomplishments. A youth spent in crack houses that provided a welcomed escape from home and somewhere I could earn a few quid being lookout or a runner. A youth best forgotten.
Now, as I stare through the blurred drizzle-soaked windshield, I can barely bring myself to move. Even my breathing is shallow, like the less I inhale of the place the more illusory it will be. I can’t decide whether the air still smells the same as it did back then or if my mind is playing tricks, the shit-stained memories of the past blending with the present.
Time seems to stand still, my brain absorbing the sensory overload before it decides if my body is capable of reacting. This is the first time I’ve been back to the place I once called home. It’s been far more years than I can count. Even London itself seems alien to me now. The pull of New York—my new home—outweighs any sentimentality I have left for it.
My eyes burn with the intensity of my unblinking stare, still obscured by the rain, a shield protecting me from what is on the other side of the glass. Unable to maintain it, I blink, the action stirring me from my trance enough for me to lift my hand and nudge the wipers to clear the screen.
There it is. Just one of the many ugly tower blocks in South East London. A simple eight-storey concrete block with juxtaposed windows and doors forming inadequate homes for welfare dependent families to live insufficient lives. Behind each door lies a different story, a different struggle. But behind the door of Flat 43 is a story I am all too familiar with. Mine.
Like many of the flats, the windows are boarded up now. Just a few stragglers left to re-house before the next leg of the regeneration project can begin. I’d heard the block, like many others, was scheduled for refurbishment or demolition to make way for new housing. I guess that might be the reason I’m here … to see it one last time before the wrecking ball hits. I picture the rooms I know will now be cast in shadows and wonder if they still look and smell the same: heavily-patterned worn carpets, sparsely filled bright orange kitchen cabinets, rust-stained track marks from dripping taps in the bathtub and sink unit. The acrid odor of damp and stale cigarettes that settled scratchily on my chest. Blood. Nausea grips me by the throat as I push down the surfacing memories. Swiping my sleeve across the beading sweat on my forehead, I pop the window for some much needed air.
A boy sits astride his bike not more than six feet away from the window, his eyes flicking greedily over the gleaming S-class Mercedes Benz before settling on mine. Although he can’t be more than twelve years old, there’s something about his posture that’s menacing—goading even. Behind his impassive gray eyes, beneath his swagger, I see the child in him, doing whatever he needs to survive whatever shitty hand life is dealing. But one look tells me that that child, that innocence will never emerge further than the depth of his gaze; he won’t allow it to. The boy in him is gone for good and in his place is a fearless offender of the future. A sad but foregone conclusion. How long has it taken him to perfect that look, I wonder. Who’s been his teacher, and does he really believe it will protect him from the evils of this world?
Unsure of what he wants, I tip my chin in question.
I shake my head, partly to decline his offer, the rest at his sheer audacity. “I don’t have any business here, kid.”
“What you doing here, then? You looking for someone?”
Not liking the question, I turn away from him, back toward the tower block, without answering.
What am I doing here?
The boy perseveres, moving closer to the car and pressing the sole of his shoe against the driver’s door. “I know everyone round ’ere. If you’re looking for somethin’ special, I’ll point you in the right direction … for a price.”
“I don’t need your help, kid. Now fuck off, will you.” Whatever my reason for being here, it’s not to get cozy with the local reprobates.
Smirking, he shifts his hand from the handle bars, pushing aside his jacket to reveal the knife tucked into his belt. “Everyone needs somethin’,” he mutters threateningly as he yanks it free and points it at me, “and I could do with a fifty.”
Without a second thought, I flick the lever, opening the door in one vicious thrust, the impact forcing the boy to lose his balance. The bike shifts from beneath him as he crashes to the ground, losing his grip of the knife and his bravado, his face contorting with a blend of anger and fear as he frantically grapples for it.
Stepping out of the car, I casually press my heel to his wrist just as his fingers close around it. “You want to be careful who you’re wielding that thing at, kid. If you were ten years older, I’d consider gutting you with it. Now do as you’re told and fuck off.”
There it is, the child in him; just a slight flicker of the jaw, a tremble of the lip, but it’s enough to cool my boiling blood. I bend to retrieve the knife and offer him my hand. Dubious eyes assess me briefly before accepting my offer to pull him to his feet. Scanning the area quickly for onlookers, I reach into my inside pocket for the bundle of cash there and, pulling a wad free, thrust it into his hand and close his fist around it.
“Use it wisely,” I warn. My gaze moves to the knife in my hand. There’s a case for giving it back to him—he might well need it for protection than anything else around here, but what kind of man would I be to hand him the weapon that could kill him. Without further thought, I pocket it. “You’ve got to help yourself in this life, kid. Get the hell out of this shithole before you end up using one of these and ruining yours for good.”
The disbelief and gratitude on his face suddenly seems to shine a light on my miserable day. Shit, I’m turning soft. His mouth opens and closes a few times as he fumbles for words, but before he can find them, I drag the bike to standing and push it at him, mouthing the words, Fuck. Off. This time he takes my advice and, nodding once, throws his leg over the bike and pedals furiously away.
The drizzle begins to soak through my customary black suit, the uncomfortable dampness reminding me where I am but still offering me no clue as to why. An involuntary shudder races up my spine—no, the last thirty years hasn’t changed the way I feel about this place. I skim the palm of my hand over my buzz cut, dispersing the raindrops, then straightening my tie, I turn back to the car and climb in.
Just as I’m about to drive away, I spot a figure in the distance. Bundled up in a scruffy shit-brown trench coat, head bowed and face concealed behind the upturned collar, it shuffles toward me, heading for the tower block.
Either I’m seeing things or the past really is coming back to haunt me—and in the worse possible way. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes in the hope that I can erase what must surely be an illusion, but a second look confirms my fears. Although the figure seems smaller than my memory serves, the bulk, the predatory gait, the entire demeanor is unmistakable. And my previously boiling blood turns to ice.
* * *
“Can I get you anything else?” The bartender’s face comes into view, nodding once at the tumbler of bourbon in my hand.
My fingers have been clenched around the glass for the last thirty minutes, at least. What the fuck? I haven’t had a drink in … in years. Pushing the offending fluid away, I ask for a glass of sparkling water. I need to get a grip.
The drive back to West London’s Chelsea is a blur. That I’ve made it back in one piece, without killing myself or someone else, is nothing less than a miracle. What in fuck’s name was I thinking going back there? Hell, I don’t even know why I’m here in London at all. I was at a loose end, that’s why—too much time on my hands. That’s what happens when your bosses, who also happen to be your best friends and only family, disappear on their honeymoon.
As his Chief of Security, my life has pretty much revolved around the CEO of Wilde Industries, Ethan Wilde, for some years. Now he’s like a brother to me; respect and trust are the first words which spring to mind when I picture the handsome bastard’s face. And since he met and married his wife, Angel, another word has popped into the equation. Love. A word I’ve only ever reserved for one other person in my life—my grandmother. God rest her soul. I’d risk life and limb for the pair of them, and although it’s a sentiment that’s almost cost me—several times—I know it’s reciprocal.
So, while the Wildes bask in the solitude of a deserted island somewhere, I’m here doing fuck knows what. Visiting ghosts from the past, in a shithole I’ve long since forgotten, was definitely not on my agenda when I woke up this morning. The car just seemed to take me there. Curiosity. That’s all it was. And we all know what curiosity did.
I pick up the glass and down the water, the cool effervescence washing away the last of the agitation and dark unrest my little outing has left gnawing at my psyche. A few days back in London is more than enough for me. I’m off to pack. It’s time I went home to New York. Curiosity can kiss my ass.
“Fuck me, if isn’t Jax Dean.” The scratchy, heavy-smoker tones of a familiar voice stop me in my tracks.
It’s been a while since anyone referred to me as Jax, and the sound of it is yet another sharp poke in the ribs, reminding me of a life I’ve gladly left behind. I close my eyes, mentally chastising myself for not leaving sooner, then accept the inevitable and turn in my seat to face Natalie Leonard.
Even now, in her early fifties, Natalie is still a striking woman, albeit in a hard, distinct sort of way. To look at she’s the picture of elegance—perfectly presented, not a blond hair out of place. Everything, from her immaculate wardrobe to her fine jewelry and customary entourage which flank her sides, smacks of culture and an upper-crust lifestyle. It’s only when she opens her mouth that you see the woman beyond the Prada. It’s not so much the thick East End accent or the expletives that roll off her tongue like the alphabet so much as the authority she commands and her intimidating demeanor. Five minutes with Natalie and even the sewer rats run for cover. Despite her obvious wealth, you could never accuse her of ostentation; she has money—lots of it—but she’s never forgotten the working-class roots she comes from.
She and her husband, Frank, made their early fortune in haulage—some of it legit, some of it less so. More recently, the last decade or so, has seen her grow bored of the mediocrity of haulage and dabble in more stimulating, unorthodox businesses. I’m not proud of myself, but it’s through this that I know her.
“Natalie…” I feign enthusiasm “…what a pleasant surprise.”
She nods, her lip kinking into a cocksure smirk as if it amuses her. “It’s a surprise alright. You’d left us for pastures new, last I heard. New York, was it?”
“Mostly,” I offer simply; my permanent location isn’t something I’m eager to share with the world and his wife. “Believe you’re living it up in L.A. these days?”
“Mostly,” she tosses my reticence back at me. “When I’m not sweeping up after Frank and the dozy fuckers he’s left in charge here. You in town for long?”
“Getting out of here tomorrow,” I rep
ly without hesitation, the prospect of returning to New York stirring a sudden fluttering of excitement. “I had some leave time to kill and … some loose ends to tie, but tomorrow can’t come soon enough.”
Natalie nods thoughtfully, the smirk on her lips and her narrowed calculating eyes assessing me.
“The sun suits you.” The compliment is aimed to divert her attention away from whatever she’s plotting so I can excuse myself politely and get the hell out.
“Course it does. I look amazing. I’m not sure earning an honest crust is doing you any favors, though. You look … bored. It’s creasing your face, Jax.”
I laugh at her candidness. “I’m doing fine, creases and all, thanks.”
“Oh, come on, you must miss the excitement.”
“Nope.” Okay, part of me does, but I’m not about to admit it.
“Have a drink with me, Jax.” It’s not a question, and before I can protest, she turns and heads toward a table near the window, dismissing all but one of her mean team—a big guy I recognize as her number one.
Reluctantly, I follow, standing by the table while she settles into a chair, the big guy sitting next to her. “Much as I’d like to stick around and get giddy about the old days, I’ve got somewhere I need to be. Maybe some other time, Natalie.”
“Sit down, you antsy fucker. Five minutes ain’t gonna kill you.”
I’m not so sure, but I pull out the chair opposite her and sit down anyway, folding my arms across my chest. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but five minutes is all you’ve got. I’ve got packing to do.”
“Fucking hell, Jax, when did you get so uptight? You are being rude, so yank that pole down from up your arse and engage some fucking manners.”
I feel the edge of my lip curl into an involuntary smirk. As much as running into Natalie is an inconvenience I could well do without, I’d kinda forgotten how funny she can be. My shoulders relax as I uncross my arms and sit back in my chair.