Something Like Love

by Monica James

  Something Like Love

  Monica James

  Something Like Love

  Copyright © 2015 by Monica James. All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: February 2015

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1507533321

  ISBN-10: 1507533322

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  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 locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  This is for Kurt and Layne.

  Gone, but not forgotten.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  “Love cannot save you from your own fate.”

  ~ Jim Morrison

  Prologue

  I’ve never really understood the saying, ‘blood is thicker than water.’ I mean, of course it is. Blood is essentially made up of platelets, plasma, and red and white blood cells. And water, well water is made up of oxygen and two hydrogen atoms. So, it makes sense that blood, is indeed, thicker than water.

  But it was only recently that I came to realize that the saying itself is not referring to the literal meaning, but more of the philosophical notion of family, and the strong ties that bind them together. And the reason for my epiphany is because I found my family. We may not have been related by blood, but we were a family nonetheless.

  A family of misfits.

  However, I left my family of misfits in hopes that when I located my blood kin, the grass would be greener and blah blah blah.

  But now that I’ve found my nearest and dearest, which I am related to by blood, I completely understand another saying—‘You can choose your friends, but not your family.’

  And the reason why this ingenious quote is now my new manta is because sometimes, the family you’re born into…just fucking sucks.

  Chapter 1

  Mommy Dearest

  There are so many words which one could use to describe their mother—caring, devoted, compassionate, loving, but most of all, a protector.

  It’s a mother’s job to protect her child unconditionally, devoting her life to ensure that her offspring grows up happy and feeling safe. But the lady before me fails on all accounts, as she was never devoted, nor was she a protector.

  Maybe the words, heartless, cold, callous and selfish could best describe her. Yet, I am utterly fascinated by her, as this is the woman who gave me life. She is also the woman who took it away.

  “What are you doing here?” she gasps. Suddenly my earlier adjectives seem totally justified.

  My face contorts at her clipped question, as she may as well have slapped me with her formality.

  “Well, it’s nice to see you too,” I mutter, realizing I have another word to add to my list—bitch.

  “I’m sorry, I just…” she stutters, nervously brushing her wavy hair behind her ears with her manicured fingernails.

  “It’s fine,” I reply, finally finding my voice. “I should never have come.” I quickly turn to leave this train wreck behind.

  As far as family reunions go, this one can be labeled a total disaster.

  “No, Mia, wait!” she says, seizing my arm, which I automatically pull out of her grasp as I turn to face her with red hot fury in my eyes.

  She wrings her hands, obviously distressed by my hostile reaction, but I can’t contain my rage. Her touch feels like manacles imprisoning my heart, and I fear if she lays her hands on me once more I’m going to be sick.

  “Don’t,” I bark, rubbing my arm where her fingers once were.

  “Sorry,” she quickly apologizes, hands raised in surrender. “Come inside. It’s cold out,” she adds softly.

  Is it? I’m totally numb and don’t feel a thing.

  “Please,” she begs when I don’t move an inch.

  It’s only when I feel a familiar pair of hands wrap around my middle do I move.

  “Come on, Red,” Quinn says, his warm lips pressed against my ear.

  Quinn Berkeley—he’s the only thing keeping me sane right now.

  I nod, thankful his hands are steadying me as I’m about to fall flat on my face. Cynthia gently guides the scowling teenager inside, and I follow apprehensively, as I still cannot believe I’m here. Quinn’s hands are like my security blanket, and by the gentle, reassuring squeeze he just gave me, he knows it, too.

  As soon as I step into the golden foyer, a pang of anger hits me straight in the guts. This house is a freaking mansion. From the polished floorboards to the white spiral staircase leading up to who knows how many floors above us, I can’t help but compare this home to the house I grew up in back in LA. My house was barely standing by the time I left, not to mention that it contained my dying father, bleeding out on the basement floor.

  Sadly for me, and the rest of the humanity, he didn’t die. And that’s the reason I’m here.

  “Come into the sitting room,” Cynthia says over her shoulder.

  I follow blindly, as I have no idea what a sitting room is.

  The house smells like cinnamon and fresh flowers, and I notice a bunch of tulips sitting on top of a mahogany coffee table as we enter. The room has a small brown sofa and two matching recliners. A fire is burning brightly. The embers, which are softly crackling, give the pretty room a homely feel.

  “Sit, please,” Cynthia says, gesturing to the brown sofa with a shaky hand.

  I look at it, and like everything else in this house, it’s fucking perfect.

  Gaping down at my ratty clothes and muddy boots, I realize I don’t belong here. I will never fit in with all the perfect white linens, floral wallpaper, and fucking fresh flowers. I never will.

  “Please, Mia,” Cynthia begs again when I stand defiantly, gazing around the room.

  “Fine,” I gripe, sitting rigidly on the sofa. Quinn takes a seat near me, ensuring our knees remain touching. His simple gesture is done with intent, illustrating he’s here with me, every step of the way.

  “Let me get you some tea,” Cynthia says, fiddling with her gold charm bracelet as she stands awkwardly in the middle of the room.

  The teenager has slumped into a recliner, eyeing me something wicked. From the looks of her, I’d say she’s about sixteen, but it’s hard to tell under the layers of makeup she’s wearing. Her sizeable boobs make mine look laughable, and she’s all womanly curves, while I’m slender and toned.

  We couldn’t look more different. Well, apart from our eyes.


  “Who is she, Mom?” she asks, glaring at me.

  My gaze never wavers from her, as this little brat in front of me surely cannot be who I think she is. If she were, that would mean my mother left me alone in the care of my father while she was pregnant, and I would surely remember having a sister. It would also mean my mother made a choice to save her, but not me. She left me there to rot, and by the looks of her house and her appearance, Cynthia hasn’t looked back on her decision with regret.

  Cynthia looks awfully uncomfortable as she adjusts the belt on her gold pantsuit. I can’t wait to hear her explanation, as I, too, need to know the answer.

  “Mom?” the teenager presses, anger lacing her tone.

  Cynthia looks over at me and sighs once, before replying in a mere whisper, “She’s your…sister.”

  The color drains from my face, as hearing what I knew to be true is almost impossible to digest.

  “What the fuck?” we say in unison. Well, looks like we really are sisters.

  “Pollyanna!” Cynthia scolds. “Language!”

  Pollyanna slumps low, crossing her arms over her chest while sticking out her plump bottom lip. “Well, how do you expect me to react? You tell me this”—she scowls at me—“freak, is my sister, and I’m just supposed to be happy about it. I mean…look at her.”

  I feel myself redden from anger, but also from embarrassment.

  “Enough!” Cynthia snaps, turning to look at my sist—Pollyanna. “Go to your room!”

  “No! I will not!” she shouts, standing up, stomping her stilettoed boot. “Not until you explain to me what the hell is going on.”

  I feel like I’m going to be sick, as this situation has just gone from bad to worse. Quinn squeezes my knee, and again, the simple gesture grounds me. However, the way things are going, I’ll need his hands on me permanently.

  “You will calm down, Polly, before anyone explains anything to you,” Cynthia says, fidgeting with her gold locket necklace.

  “Fine!” She humphs, dropping onto the sofa. “I’m calm,” she replies with a sickly sweet smile.

  Her comment is laughable as no one is calm. This whole room is bursting at its pristine, wallpapered walls with tension.

  “I’ll make tea,” Cynthia suddenly says, making a mad dash for the door.

  “Cynthia, I don’t want tea,” I snap, feeling my sanity slowly evaporating with each passing minute.

  She flinches when I use her name, and as petty as this makes me, I did so deliberately.

  “Oh okay,” she replies, her eyes darting around the room.

  Finally, she sits in the chair across from me, and the air is filled with an uncomfortable silence. I shuffle, unnerved, and wipe my face when Cynthia keeps staring at me. I know I look like shit, still beaten and bruised, but I don’t understand what she’s looking at.

  Sadly, my question is answered as she gasps to herself, “You look just like him.”

  No guessing to whom she’s referring. But funnily enough, my dad always said I looked like her. And that’s why I believed he hated me so, and had absolutely no qualms pimping me out.

  So, looks like both my parents hate me, as I resemble the person they despise.

  Whatever possessed me to come here has been exorcized, and I’ve seen the light. I don’t belong here, and I was stupid to think I ever did.

  “This was a bad idea,” I say, jumping up from my seat and charging toward the front door.

  “Mia, please wait,” Cynthia pleads.

  I can hear the panic in her voice, but it’s not enough to make me stay. However, I do stop, but I refuse to turn around and face her.

  “This is just a shock, I’m sorry. Maybe it’s best you leave. I just need…time. I don’t know how to behave. Or what to say,” she pathetically confesses, expecting that to be a plausible excuse.

  She’s the adult here, and she’s also my mother. It’s her job to tell me that everything will be all right. But I guess that ship set sail long ago.

  “It’s fine. I don’t expect anything from you. I never have,” I add, closing my eyes to stop the tears.

  I instantly feel Quinn at my side, reaching for my hand and interlacing our fingers. He’s my family—the only family I need.

  “Sorry to have bothered you,” I whisper, my throat about to close over as I open my eyes.

  A front door has never looked this good before, and I rush toward it, needing an escape.

  “Mia.” She sniffles, and I barely restrain myself from punching her in the face.

  What right does she have to sniffle? I should be the one sniffling, not her. But I am done with the tears. And I’ll be damned if I shed one more tear over this disappointment of a person.

  “What?” I reply, my hand braced on the doorknob.

  “Where will you go?” she asks, her heels clicking on the tiled floor as she takes a step toward me.

  “Oh, who cares where she goes! She’s not welcome here,” snaps Polly, who no doubt is overjoyed to see the back of me.

  The fact Cynthia has not refuted Polly’s statement makes me believe that she’s right, that I really am not welcome in their home.

  “Mia?” Cynthia presses.

  “Anywhere but here,” I reply, ignoring Polly’s malice, the cool breeze slapping my cheeks as I yank open the door.

  Quinn is silent throughout the whole exchange, but I can tell by the way he’s chewing on his lip ring that he wants me to stay and talk to her, as there is a reason why we came here. As much as she doesn’t deserve an explanation, I’ll give her one because once I do; it’s the last thing I ever intend to say to her. When I leave this house, they both will be dead to me, and I will no longer miss something I never had.

  “Oh, by the way.” I sigh over my shoulder, casually meeting her uneasy gaze. “I shot my father…but he didn’t die.” Her eyes widen to the size of saucers as I continue, “So now he and his drug dealer friend, Phil, who used to be my boss, are after me, and they probably know I’m in Canada. I’m also on the run from the police.”

  As my mother gasps at my news, I can’t help but spit, “I came here to warn you. So, consider yourself warned.”

  Chapter 2

  Cross my Heart

  “Red, wait!” Quinn yells, desperately trying to catch me. But my feet keep running, and even if I wanted to, I’m unable to stop.

  A sister? A fucking sister?

  With that thought plaguing my brain, I charge out of the house and take off to I don’t know where—it just feels good to be free. But now as my decision to run like the wind catches up to me, I realize I’m lost.

  I slow down when I reach an open field filled with wildflowers, because I have no idea where I am.

  “Feel better?” Quinn puffs from behind me.

  Pushing my sweaty hair off my brow, I bend low, placing my hands on my knees, attempting to catch my breath. My ribs are protesting in pain, as they are still tender and sore, courtesy of the life-threatening beating I received from Justin Miller—the megalomaniac psychopath. Just thinking about him and what he did to me has my breathing escalating into panicked gasps.

  “No,” I reply breathlessly. “I do not.”

  Quinn stands in front of me as I pant into my knees, trying to slow my heart rate to a semi-normal pace.

  I know I’m being a spoiled brat, but I honestly can’t handle the gentle look in his eyes. I don’t want kindness. I want to fight. But I don’t want to fight him, and that’s what will happen if I face him.

  I need to hurt something, as my temper is slowly overtaking my sanity. This is why I learned how to box. It was a perfect way to get all of my rage and anger out, so I don’t hurt another. But sadly, the only thing to box right now is Quinn’s face.

  “Leave me alone, Quinn,” I say from between my knees.

  The only response I receive is a laugh—great. He’s not going anywhere, and I’m about to faint at this angle, so I rise to full height, meeting his stubborn, emerald eyes.

  “Hit me,”
I spit, my gaze never wavering from his stunned expression.

  “Excuse me?” Quinn asks, taking a step back.

  “You heard me. Hit me,” I repeat, angered that we’re still talking, as the thought of violence is better than having to deal with this sinking, hollow feeling in my gut.

  “What the fuck?” he gasps, shaking his head. “No. I will not fucking hit you. Why would you even ask that of me?” he asks, anger lacing his voice.

  “Because then I won’t feel so bad when I hit you,” I reply, taking a step toward him, my shoes squishing in the mud.

  “What? You want to fight me?” he incredulously asks, retreating.

  That’s the last thing I want, but I’m about five seconds away from losing it, and I refuse to allow her to be the reason why I finally snap.

  But I nod. “It’s the only way I know how to deal with”—I point angrily in the direction of the house—“that.”

  “How about you talk to me?” Quinn retorts.

  “No,” I stubbornly growl, violently shaking my head.

  I can’t confess my rejection out loud, as the words will make me weak, and they will shatter the last tether of humanity I have left.

  “It’ll hurt a lot less if you do,” he says, taking a small step toward me, his hands raised in surrender.

  “That’s where you’re wrong!” I shout. “If I confess what a pathetic loser I am for wanting at least one parent’s approval, you’ll look at me with pity in your eyes, and I couldn’t bear it,” I finish. My confession feels just as I thought it would—like utter shit.

  “It’s okay to be vulnerable,” Quinn says, his eyes softening. Thankfully he’s stopped advancing forward, as I need some space.

  “No, it’s not,” I reply, running a hand through my tangled locks. “I’m sick of being the victim. I don’t know what I expected coming here,” I whisper, closing my eyes in defeat. “I mean, I wasn’t expecting to be welcomed with open arms. I know my life will never be like that. It’ll never be normal.” I open my eyes, and the reality of my life comes to a boiling point. “Everything is so fucked up, Quinn.” Tears of rage collect in my eyes.