Unthinkable: (Unstoppable - Book 2) (The Unstoppable Series)

by Danielle Hill

  Unthinkable

  Unstoppable | Book Two

  DANIELLE HILL

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  About The Author

  Also by Danielle Hill

  STAY IN TOUCH

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright © 2021 Danielle Hill

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, resold or distributed in any form, or by any electronic or mechanical means, without permission in writing from the author, except for brief quotations within a review.

  This book is a work of fiction.

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

  For my sisters

  ~ Victoria, Samantha & Natalie ~

  The three badass women who’ve always had my back.

  Love you all.

  ONE

  LISS

  Thirteen Years Old

  “You swore you wouldn’t do it again, Mitch.”

  My mom’s broken words bled into the hallway where I sat perched on the fourth step from the top, my head resting against the wooden bannister. Her pained sobs intensified while my dad remained noticeably silent, no doubt conjuring up another lame excuse, preparing another fake apology. My grip tightened around the railing, the hard edges of the wood biting into my palms.

  Tears of frustration built behind my lids, spilling over onto my cheeks. I twisted my neck and pressed my forehead into the wood, hard enough that a flash of pain erupted from the spot and radiated across my face. Then I focused my attention on that. Because physical pain was easier to deal with. Easier to understand.

  How could he keep hurting her the way he did? Didn’t he see it? Didn’t he hear the symphony of her heart breaking? Every time I’d sat on these steps, I’d asked myself the same question. How could he witness the pain his actions inflicted, then do it all over again? Time and time again.

  He’d always gush about how much he loved her, how sorry he was, how it would never happen again.

  It was all lies.

  I doubted he even had a heart. And if he did, it beat for no one but himself.

  He loved being the big shot lawyer in a mid-size firm, where a rotation of secretaries kept his desk warm and his ego fat, uncaring that he had a wife and kids. With his styled blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and alluring charm, no one could resist. And neither could he.

  I hated him for it. I hated that he betrayed my mom’s trust and took her love for granted. I hated that he was so self-involved, so distant and unfeeling.

  I hated that my mom wasn’t enough, that we weren’t enough. That… I wasn’t enough.

  If he’d ever hugged me, I couldn’t remember it. I couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t looked right through me as if I weren’t even there. His family were a burden to him, at best.

  “Melinda,” he finally said with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

  The blood in my veins heated as a vision of how the next ten minutes would go played out in my head. He’d apologize, blame the stress of work, the long hours, maybe the lack of attention from my mom, or even the women he cheated with, and their relentless advances.

  I’d heard it all, every excuse in the book.

  He’d say whatever my mom needed to hear to brush it under the carpet. He knew she would. She always did, even knowing he’d do it again.

  It was sickening. I straightened my spine and brushed my hands over my damp cheeks, then laid them flat on my bent legs.

  I loved my mother, but I could never be like her.

  “This one’s… different, Mel.”

  My shoulders tensed, fingernails digging into my thighs.

  “What?” My mom’s thin voice trembled. “What does that mean, Mitch?”

  I waited, my ears straining for the words, my heart slowing in my chest.

  “I’m saying I want a divorce, Melinda.”

  Air rushed up through my nostrils, making me dizzy.

  “A divorce?” my mom shrieked. “What? I don’t understand.”

  “I’m in love with her, Melinda. And…” My father paused, clearing his throat. He sounded uncomfortable. “She’s pregnant.”

  Never, in all the times I’d eavesdropped on one of these confrontations, had I heard my mom fall apart so spectacularly.

  “No!” The wail tore from her. “No, Mitch. Please, no. Please don’t do this.” Her agonized cries cut through me like nails on a chalkboard. She begged him to stay, promised to be better for him, swore to forgive him.

  I fastened my palms over my ears. I couldn’t listen to it anymore.

  My heart beat out a dull thud against my breastbone as I drew in a breath and rose to my feet, a steely calm borne of quiet despair washing over me. I climbed the steps and moved down the hallway into my parent’s room, reaching up on my toes and closing my fingers around the handle of the suitcase in the storage closet.

  It landed on the pillow top mattress with a light plop, and then I moved—emotionless—and systematically emptied the room of Mitchell Bedford. I stuffed everything I could find into the overflowing case, then dragged it to the floor and perched a knee on top of it to tug the zipper shut. Then I dragged it down the hall.

  It bounced on each step, making a loud thumping sound, but I doubted they’d hear it. My mom’s pleading cries drowned out everything else.

  When I reached the door, I heaved the suitcase inside and gave it a shove.

  The scene that confronted me would be forever etched into my brain. My mom on her knees, sobbing into my father’s brown loafers. My dad’s head hanging back off his shoulders, his manicured fingers pinching the bridge of his nose like he just wanted it to be over.

  Two sets of eyes swung to me when the case collided with the hardwood floor. My mom’s cries abated, her pale blue eyes widening. I shifted my attention to the man formerly known as my father. A light crease emerged on his forehead as he looked first at the bulging suitcase, then at me. I met his gaze.

  Do you see me now, Dad? Good.

  I held his stare without flinching and said, “Get out. And don’t ever come back.”

  Without sparing him another second of my time, I turned on my heel, walked through the door, and slammed it closed behind me.

  My mom would be better off without him, I knew that, but my entire body felt cold, suddenly encased in a thin layer of ice that had me shivering.

  If that was love, count me out.

  I wanted no part of it.

  TWO

  LISS

  Seventeen Years Old

&nb
sp; A well-aimed spit bomb sailed past my head and splattered against the cherry-stained surface of the desk at the front of the room. The head of the man occupying it snapped up, dislodging the tortoiseshell glasses perched on the end of his nose.

  “Who did that?” Mr. Pickman asked, lurching to his feet, and adjusting his spectacles.

  My head fell back with a muted groan. Great. Just fucking great. Now he’d hold us hostage through lunch.

  “Stand up right now.”

  The piercing, nasal quality to Pickman’s voice grated over every nerve ending in my ears, and I winced before bringing my head back down and swiping my thumb across the screen on my cell. After quickly tapping out a message to my best friend, Riley Mason, I slid the phone into my pocket and eased back in my seat.

  Drumming my fingernails distractedly against the scratched desktop, I watched the hue of Pickman’s sour face transform from a corpse-like grey to a bright, splotchy crimson. With his pointed ears and his sharp features twisted in agitation, he looked like a deranged little elf about to go on a rampage.

  “Ah, we’re all suddenly mute? Well, isn’t that convenient?” Pickman said, folding his tweed jacket-clad arms over his narrow chest and glowering through what had to be three-inch-thick lenses. When the lunch bell blared from the crackly speaker system above his head, a few students started shuffling, readying to leave. Something like glee sparked in his eyes, and mine narrowed. He got off on this shit. Tiny man was on a power trip lording over a bunch of teenagers.

  Hello, Napoleon Complex.

  “Stay seated.” The tone of his voice was nothing short of gloating. “You can all remain here until the culprit identifies themselves, or someone else feels compelled to do it for them. Thank the individual who felt it prudent to disrupt my lesson with their juvenile behaviour. I won’t tolerate this level of disrespect in my classroom…” His voice rose swiftly up the decibel scale as he continued ranting, and I zoned out.

  My gaze wandered idly over the array of disgruntled faces scattered around the room, eventually landing on the jackass responsible for this extended stay in purgatory. I glared at the side of Jackson Bateman’s head until it swung my way.

  “Are you kidding me with this shit?” I muttered, my voice laced with disdain. “Spit bombs? Are you eight?”

  When his lips formed a goofy grin, I had to resist the urge to jump up and throat punch him.

  “It was me,” a deep voice rumbled from the desk behind me.

  My eyes rolled backward in my head, a familiar chagrin working its way up my windpipe.

  Leon Bradshaw.

  Idiot extraordinaire, who gave the term moron a whole new meaning. Case in point: claiming responsibility for something I knew for a fact he didn’t do. No doubt he had his reasons; no doubt they were dumb AF. Twisting my upper body round, I turned to face him.

  Leon sat with his arm draped over the back of his chair, the fabric of his black tee stretched taut over his wide chest. His smoldering blue gaze—the same one that magically relieved cheerleaders of their underwear in the guy’s locker room most lunchtimes—met mine with a playful wink.

  “Don’t fucking wink at me, Bradshaw.”

  A short chuckle passed through his lips before he tipped his chin up and blew me a kiss. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it, Snow Queen.”

  I raised a hand and showed him my middle finger before spinning back to the front of the room. We had a love-hate relationship, Leon and I, in that I loved to hate him. We’d been at each other’s throats so long I couldn’t remember what kicked it all off. Not that it mattered. He’d done zilch to change my opinion over the course of the past seventeen years.

  The guy was a basic high school stereotype. A hot jock riding the cresting waves of popularity off the back of his ability to throw a ball and the fact he looked like the love child of Chris Hemsworth and Brad Pitt. With his chiselled jawline, streaked dark-blonde hair, and panty-melting smile, he wasn’t hurting for admirers, and he knew it.

  Lucky for me, I wore Teflon infused underwear and valued brains over brawn or good looks. I wasn’t in the market for a boyfriend, and even if I were, the guy would need to have at least a hint of substance. Which meant, he sure as shit wasn’t a senior at Claremont High.

  “What the fuck, Bradshaw?” My eyes swayed back reluctantly to dumb and dumber when Jackson’s hushed whisper travelled between the two tables.

  “You owe me for this, Bateman.”

  “Fuck that shit,” Jackson muttered in response. “I didn’t ask you to do it. Last time I owed you, my ass nearly landed in jail.”

  Leon snorted. “Don’t be so fucking dramatic. You got pulled over with a bag of weed on you. How long you gonna bitch about that?”

  “It was fucking yours.” Jackson’s gaze darted to the front of the room briefly, before swinging back to Leon. He tapped his knuckles against the desk and shrugged. “I’ll go tell Prickman it was me.” Prickman being Mr Pickman, otherwise referred to as Prickman the Douche. For obvious reasons.

  “No, you fucking don’t,” Leon shot back. “Too late for that now. Besides, you’re on a last warning and you know it. I got this one, dickhead. I’ll let you know what I want in exchange. Already got something in mind.”

  “Yeah, I’ll fucking bet you do. Skunk?”

  Leon leaned sideways. “I want the good shit.”

  And there it was—Pretty Boy wanted some free weed. The boy had goals.

  Jackson rolled his eyes, mumbling under his breath as he turned away.

  “Mr. Bradshaw, remain seated. The rest of you, collect your belongings and leave my classroom.”

  Groans of relief mixed with the sounds of scraping chairs and squeaking footsteps as students stampeded to the door in a mass exodus. Not particularly feeling like getting my ass trampled this morning, I held back.

  Jackson was still muttering as he passed by my desk, and I shook my head, wondering how the hell he’d avoided being held back a grade, or five.

  Bending down, I tugged the sides of my bag open and tossed my belongings inside with little thought to organization.

  “Snow Queen?”

  My chair jerked under me as Leon’s foot connected with the back leg.

  Pulling the bag onto my lap without looking at him, I yanked the zipper closed and muttered, “What?”

  “I’m still waiting.”

  I kept my expression neutral as I angled my head back. “For?”

  His forearms slid over the table as he shifted forward in his seat. “An apology for Friday night. Or a fucking thank you. I’ll take either.”

  I scoffed.

  “Hey, I came running when you called and instead of thanking me for it, you chewed me out and insulted my masculinity.”

  “Your masculinity?” I repeated with a disparaging smirk.

  “Close that fucking trap before you start!” he shot out before I could plunge his manliness into further disrepute. My teeth caught the inside of my lip.

  Riley drank too much and took off with some players from a rival football team that weekend. When I’d figured out where she was, I’d called Leon and asked for his help to get her home. It was a last resort. I’d instantly regretted it, and likely would for a while.

  Leon was acting like he’d taken out ten burly footballers single handedly.

  While I could admit to myself that the guy knew how to handle himself and he’d actually put on quite an impressive display on the old battlefield, I wasn’t about to tell him that. Fuck no.

  “Still waiting,” Leon murmured, strumming a beat across the desk with the blunt edges of his fingers.

  “Better get comfortable, Pretty Boy. You’ll be waiting a very long time.”

  He exhaled and dropped back in his chair. “Would it kill you to show some gratitude, Alissa?”

  I shrugged. “I’d rather not find out.”

  His mouth formed a reluctant grin as he pushed back, the front legs of his chair leaving the ground. “You’re an ungrateful brat, you know tha
t?”

  “And you’re a cocky asshole. Guess we all have our flaws.” I hit him with a pointed look. “Do you remember sticking your size ten in that giant trap you call a mouth and making Riley feel like an even bigger jerk than she already did? Want me to thank you for that as well, jackass?”

  The chair legs hit the ground with a clatter and Leon scratched at his whiskered jaw, his expression contrite. “Yeah, I feel like shit about that. I didn’t think.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Do you ever?”

  “Sheath your claws, Snow Queen. You already strung me up by the ball sack for it once. Can’t a guy make a mistake?”

  A snorted breath left my lips. “In your case, yeah… seventeen years’ worth.” When he opened his mouth to respond, I added, “None quite as big as the one your mom made nine months before you were born, though.”

  Leon’s eyes narrowed. “You’re fucking cold.”

  “I’d say the nickname you bestowed on me gives it away.”

  Tipping his head to the side, he studied me, his sea-blue eyes unusually serious. “Do you hate all men? Or is it just me?”

  The unexpected question drew a sudden breath from my chest, and I averted my gaze.

  No, I didn’t hate all men. Just most of them.

  Because most of them made decisions with the head between their legs instead of the one on their shoulders and wouldn’t recognize fidelity if it slapped them around the face with a wet vagina.

  Leon Bradshaw fell into that category.

  For years, he’d claimed to be in love (whatever the hell that word meant; from what I could gather, it was open to interpretation) with Riley, yet it had never stopped his dick from wandering into other girl’s open mouths. Amongst other holes. The fact he and Ri were never officially together meant nothing; he’d said the words, then shat all over them. Lies poured from his gilded tongue like every other playboy I’d ever met—including the one who’d fathered me.

  “Miss Bedford, why are you still here?”

  My disoriented gaze snapped up to find a pot-holed face glaring down at me. “Just leaving,” I mumbled. Thoughts of my dad always left a bitter taste in my mouth, dredging up old memories I’d rather keep buried.