Contents
Title page
Copyright
Other Books by Elle Casey
Dedication
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
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Help for Battered Women
About the Author
Other Books by Elle Casey
Acknowledgments
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2013 Elle Casey, all rights reserved, worldwide. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without author permission.
The author respectfully asks that you please support artistic expression and help promote anti-piracy efforts by purchasing a copy of this ebook only at author-authorized online outlets that serve your country.
PIRACY = STEALING
Elle Casey thanks you deeply for your understanding and support.
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OTHER BOOKS BY ELLE CASEY
*= Coming Soon
NEW ADULT ROMANCE
Shine Not Burn
By Degrees
Don’t Make Me Beautiful
Hold Me Down*
Rebel*
Hellion*
Trouble*
Trainwreck*
YA PARANORMAL ROMANCE
Duality, Volume I (Melancholia)
Duality, Volume II (Euphoria)
YA URBAN FANTASY
War of the Fae: Book 1, The Changelings - FREE!
War of the Fae: Book 2, Call to Arms
War of the Fae: Book 3, Darkness & Light
War of the Fae: Book 4, New World Order
Clash of the Otherworlds: Book 1, After the Fall
Clash of the Otherworlds: Book 2, Between the Realms
Clash of the Otherworlds: Book 3, Portal Guardians
My Vampire Summer
My Vampire Fall*
Aces High (co-written with Jason Brant)
YA DYSTOPIAN
Apocalypsis: Book 1, Kahayatle
Apocalypsis: Book 2, Warpaint
Apocalypsis: Book 3, Exodus
Apocalypsis: Book 4, Haven
YA ACTION ADVENTURE
Wrecked
Reckless
DEDICATION
To the woman who I read about over twenty years ago and never forgot.
"Sometimes moods of indescribable anguish, sometimes moments when the veil of time and fatality of circumstances seemed to be torn apart for an instant." ~ Vincent Van Gogh
Chapter One
SHE SITS ON THE COUCH, staring out the window as the late afternoon sun tries to make its way through the glass. Dark beige curtains frame the outside edges of her only access to the outside world, while white sheers fill the middle, making it almost impossible to see what’s going on beyond the shrubs that run underneath.
Those gauzy curtains would also make it impossible for her to see what’s going on inside her house, if she were ever standing on the lawn or the sidewalk looking in. But that never happens. She never leaves the house. Not even at night. Well, once she did. But then never again. The aftermath was not worth the brief taste of freedom.
The clock is ticking.
Ticking … ticking … ticking.
It’s her only company for most of the day. Kitten lived for less than a day before her violent end came and she was put under a blanket of soil in the backyard. The rat remains hidden in the attic crawl space where he’s safe from the monster, so she rarely sees him. She hears him though, at night, and it gives her comfort to know she’s not totally alone.
There is no attic space for Nicole, though. She waits on the couch for the monster to come home. He’ll be here soon. An hour. Maybe a few hours if she’s very, very unlucky. It’s not that she wants to see him sooner, it’s just that if he’s late, it means he’ll be drunk. And anything can happen when the monster gets liquored up. Good, bad, ugly. It’s all the same. Nicole wishes that the clock would stop ticking, stop carrying time away from her and just give her a few hours of non-time to gather her brain back together, to think, to find a way out of this mess.
She takes a deep breath and sighs heavily, the familiar ache in her ribs and face reminding her of the reality she lives with day in, and day out. The clock might as well keep on ticking, because there is no escape from this mess. This mess is her life until the day she takes her last breath and is placed in the spot next to Kitten in the backyard. He already has the hole dug.
Chapter Two
“HANG ON TO THAT SODA, Liam.”
“I am, Dad.” The little boy’s skinny arms and small hands do the delicate work of carrying a full, sixteen-ounce soda up stairs and down again as they move through the stadium.
“Don’t spill it. I’m not going to buy you another one if you do, you know.”
“I know, Dad. I’m holding it good, I told you.”
Brian makes his way through the crowd, balancing his nachos, two hot dogs, and a soda while guiding his six-year-old through the sea of baseball fans standing between them and their seats. They’ve got spots near the top of the fence in left field, the best ones in the house as far as he’s concerned. His mitt is tucked under his arm. The supple pocket and fingers of leather held together with knotted laces is the embodiment of hope he carries; one day, despite ten years of trying with no luck, he’ll catch a fly-ball and be able to put it in the stand he has waiting on his dresser.
“Think we’ll catch a ball this time, Li-Li?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Liam nods confidently, “I’m pretty sure we will. I’m feeling pretty lucky.”
“Me too.” Brian smiles. He knows the chances are slim, but he’s a man with a dream and a glove that’s been oiled every month for over fifteen years, ready and waiting. This could very well be the night his childhood dream comes true. And if not, it doesn’t much matter. It’s the hoping and believing that makes it fun. Passing on the legacy of that dream to his son is just the icing on the cake. He could come to Marlins games for the next twenty years and never be disappointed, regardless of whether he ever leaves with a scuffed baseball in his hand.
They find their seats and sit down, putting nachos and hot dogs in their laps. Sodas go in the cup holders on the arms of their chairs.
“Hey, Brian! Hey, Liam!” says an old man one row down and to the left, standing to greet them.
“Hank! How’s it going?” asks Brian, leaning over to shake the man’s hand. It’s rough from the wood-working he does. It was just luck that got them talking about the Marlins one day at a wood-working club meeting, and they’ve been attending the games in nearby seats since. Brian and Liam are regular attendees at Hank’s famous barbecues too.
“Same old, same old.” Hank shifts his attention to Brian’s son. “Gonna catch a fly ball tonight, Liam?”
The little boy nods his head while shoving the end of a mustard-covered hot dog in his mouth. “Mmmm hmmm.” He gives the old man a thumbs up and blinks hard and slowly; both eyes go down together since he hasn’t yet mastered the art of winking.
“Good boy. You’re going to give it to me if you catch it, though, right?”
Liam shakes his head, his expression serious.
Hank feigns disappointment. “You’re not? How come?”
Liam puts up a fist of victory, swallowing the wad of hot dog he only partially chewed. “Catch the ball! Live the dream! Baseball forever!”
Hank laughs as Brian ruffles the hair on top of his son’s head. “That’s my boy.”
“Hey, you men have a good night,” says Hank.
“You too. And tell Lidia we said hello,” says Brian.
“Will do. Hey … you hear from Helen lately?” Hank asks in a quieter tone, looking over to see if Liam is listening. He’s not; he’s too busy checking out the activity on the field as the players take their positions.
“Yeah. She’s coming to get Liam tomorrow after school. She’s taking him overnight before she has to go out of town again.”
“Good, good, good … that’ll be good for him to see his mom and spend some time with her.”
“Yeah, of course. She does her best. Her schedule’s kind of crazy right now, but it’ll ease up.”
Hank nods, respect in his eyes. “You’re a good man, Charlie Brown. Not only a great father but a very understanding ex-husband too.”
“Thanks, Hank. Good luck.”
Hank lifts a questioning eyebrow.
Brian slides his glove on and holds it up. “Bring yours?” he asks.
“Nah. I’ve got the old fashioned mitt right here.” He holds up cupped, work-roughened hands and smiles, moving his bushy mustache up in the process.
“Just don’t get in our way tonight, Hank. We’re feeling lucky, and it’s dog-eat-dog up here in the nosebleed section.”
“That so?” Hank looks at Liam. “You feeling lucky tonight, little man?”
Liam nods. “My dad and I are ready. We polished the stand before we came.”
Hank nods in appreciation. “Well then, you’d better catch a ball tonight.”
The announcer interrupts their conversation, so Hank waves once and takes his seat. Brian rests his glove in his lap with his hand loosely inside.
Liam looks up at his father, a blob of ketchup on the corner of his mouth and some mustard on his nose. “Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“Do you really think we’ll get lucky tonight?”
Brian smiles. “I think we have just as good a chance as anyone else out here.”
“Maybe better because we have your lucky glove, right?”
Wrapping his arm around his son’s skinny shoulders, he faces the field. “You got that right.” Brian holds up his glove sideways and Liam gives him the high-five he’s waiting for.
Chapter Three
MAYBE I’LL GET LUCKY TONIGHT and he’ll cheat on me and sleep somewhere else. Nicole says that to herself as a joke. He definitely cheats on her, but he never sleeps anywhere else, probably because he worries she’ll decide to go out again. He should know better. She’s too well-conditioned to dare doing that again. Besides, the locked doors make it kind of difficult.
She glances over at the table by the door that’s lit with the streetlights’ glow coming through the transom window. The framed picture is there, mocking her. She’s tried to get rid of it several times, but the monster won’t let her. It has to stay, he says, to remind her of what she’s done.
The sound of a car coming down the street makes her entire body go tense. She’s gotten very good at detecting the type of vehicle that approaches by the sound of its engine. This one roars loudly, so she knows it’s a truck. She gets up from the couch, her body stiff, and shuffles towards the front window. Twitching the curtains to the side the slightest bit is enough to tell her. Yes. It’s him.
She twists around and looks at the clock behind her. It’s late. Where has the time gone? I must have been dozing off again. Dammit! He’s been to the local bar after work.
Rushing to the kitchen, she gets a beer out of the refrigerator and scrambles to open the drawer where the opener is kept. Her hands tremble as she fits it into position over the bottle and uses it to lever the cap off. As the top flips over, she loses her hold on it, and it falls to the floor in the dark kitchen, rattling around on the tile.
She puts the bottle down on the counter and nearly cries when some of the beer foams up and comes out the top to spill over the edge.
“Find the cap! Find the cap! Where are you, dammit?” She moans, patting the floor desperately with her hand, nearly weeping with relief when her fingers finally make contact with its jagged metal edges.
The engine goes silent. A moment later the truck’s door shuts with a muffled clunk.
“Shit, shit, shit!” she whispers, grabbing the dishtowel off the hook and hurriedly wiping the bottle and counter down. They cannot be wet, no matter what.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the front porch comes through the door.
She quickly hangs the towel on the hook, dropping the bottlecap into the trash on her way out of the kitchen. Positioning herself in the front hallway next to the picture, she takes a deep breath and lets it out as the lock turns and the door opens. Her entire body is trembling and sweat is coming from every pore.
The monster is home.
Chapter Four
IT’S THE LAST INNING AND the Marlins are at bat. Bases are loaded and their team is down by three runs. Liam looks up at his dad, his sad puppy-dog eyes saying everything Brian’s thinking. “I guess it’s just not our day today, Dad.”
“Next game, buddy. Next game.” Brian looks down the field at the batter standing at the plate with his bat back and his head tipped down. This guy hasn’t hit a fly ball worth anything in three years. Game over.
“What if we never catch one, though?” asks Liam, no longer paying attention to the game. “What if we come to every single Marlins game there ever was and we still don’t catch a ball?” He seems almost stressed about the idea.
“I don’t know. I don’t even think about that, because I know it’s not going to happen.” Brian pats his son on the leg. “I have faith, and my faith tells me if I’m patient enough and if I believe enough and want something bad enough, good things are going to happen. I’m going to get that ball. We’re going to get it.”
“And catching a fly ball is a good thing,” says Liam, smiling once again, no longer stressed.
“Damn … darn straight.”
“Uh-oh. You said damn.”
“Nah, I said damndarn, which technically isn’t a swear word.”
“Mom
would say it is.”
Brian frowns, feeling a little guilty. His ex-wife works so hard and she can’t be around as much as she’d like. She’d hate to know that Liam’s recently controlled potty-mouth is going downhill again. “Well, Mom’s not here, so we’ll just go with Dad’s definition for right now. I won’t say it again, I promise.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
“You can tell. We don’t keep secrets from Mom. She’ll understand. We’re at a game.”
“And anything can happen at a game, right Dad?”
“Yep. That’s the way it goes.” He points out to the field. “Let’s see if Wilson can hit a home run.”
Liam snorts. “He hasn’t hit a home run ever in his life, Dad. He’s not going to hit one now.”
Brian laughs. “How’d you know that?”
“I’ve been studying the stats book you gave me.”
Brian nudges him as he watches the pitcher wind up. “I didn’t know you knew how to read.” He holds back a smile.
Liam nudges him back. “Stop teasing me. You know I can read. I read you the newspaper this morning. That article about what’s-his-name.”
“See, I told you you couldn’t read.”
Liam rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”
The pitcher winds up and sends a curveball over the plate. The umpire signals a strike and Wilson steps back for a moment before getting into position again, the bat hovering over his right shoulder.
“He shoulda swung at that one,” says Liam, shaking his head in disappointment.
Brian smiles at his son, amused at how he’s copying something Brian knows he does all the time. Running commentary on the game is one of their favorite parts of the sport, and at six, Liam’s already an expert.
“What do you think’s coming next?” asks Brian.
“Fastball. I’ll bet he swings at it too.”
Brian pushes his hand into his glove. “I guess I’d better get ready, then.”
Liam’s eyes are glued on the batter. “Come on, Wilson. Hit that ball to my dad. We’re ready for ya.”