by A. P. Marie
The Breaking
The Curse of the Regina Book One
A. P. Marie
Copyright © 2020 A. P. Marie
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Kingwood Creations
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
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
Epilogue
Afterword
About The Author
Chapter 1
Suburbia
Cereal sans milk. Peanut butter without the jelly… or bread. Hell, a bed with no pillow. These are the things you learn to live without when you have been alone as long as I have. I can think of worse things. I pull up to the townhouse that matches the address on the crumpled sheet of paper in my fist. It’s a nice house, it has that “Brady Bunch,” Middle American feel to it. A nice family lives here. One mom, one dad, 2.5 kids, and 1 family pet. You can almost smell the stereotype. Not that I would know what any of that actually feels like, but I see it enough in my line of work. It’s amazing the people who call for my services. It’s never the people you expect.
See, I sell a very specific blend of chemicals. Actually, several very specific blends of chemicals. I wouldn’t consider myself a drug dealer, per se. In reality, I’m a survivalist. Whatever it takes to survive is what I’ll do. Right now, in this town, selling chemicals is what will keep me alive for another week. So that’s what I’ll do.
I walk to the front door in my “business attire.” For home visits it’s a requirement that I stay dressed up. Any nosy neighbors will see me in my suit walking to the front door with a brief case and assume I’m here to sell bibles or life insurance. That’s what I want them to think. That’s the goal. It’s easy to forget random salesmen or women going door to door and that’s what I am banking on. The first rule I learned when I went solo was the necessity for conspicuousness. I must always be utterly forgettable.
Ringing the doorbell, I wait for my soon to be customers. Barbara and Tom (or whatever their names are) answer the door and usher me into their living room. I don’t actually want to know their names. It’s easier that way. They’re all Barbaras or Debras and Johns or Toms anyway. Barbara is clearly nervous having me in the house which doesn’t surprise me as I sink into their overstuffed couch. She must be the one in need. It usually works out that way. The spouse is always the one to make the call to me and usually the most determined to receive my services. As she sits on the chair facing me I see her grimace in pain. Bullseye.
“What were you on?” I ask, watching her try to hide her discomfort.
“Percocet for 2 years.” It’s not the woman that answers, but her husband. Truth.
“When did they stop refilling the prescription?” I don’t ask because I’m curious but because I need her to talk to me.
“6 months ago.” Again, it’s the husband that answers. And again, it’s the truth.
“How bad is the pain?” This time I turn towards Barbara, my body language clearly stating that I am speaking to her, in an attempt to elicit a response from her own mouth. That’s all I’m waiting on.
“Manageable.” She replies with a tight smile. Lie. “I really don’t think this will be necessary after all.” Lie. Perfect. That’s all I needed.
I finish the deal, give them the meds, take my money, and leave Barbara and Tom to their white-picket-fenced-lives.
Okay, so maybe I’m technically a drug dealer. But I have a good reason, I swear! You see, in the last several years, prescription drug abuse has sky rocketed. Thankfully, doctors are catching on and making it more and more difficult to get prescriptions for addictive drugs. Unfortunately, many people, like Barbara, who really need the medications are falling through the cracks. So, I sort of-kind of-maybe help them out. I have a contact that can get almost anything for me. Families, or individuals, find me when they can no longer get prescriptions from their doctors or afford the prescriptions and I make it a possibility. I don’t feel bad about what I do. Really, I don’t. You see, I have this… thing. It allows me to know when someone is lying to me and it makes sorting out the people who really need the drugs and the abusers really easy. I don’t sell to addicts. I don’t sell to other dealers. I just try and help people. Make no mistake, what I do is illegal. Probably morally wrong. Could certainly land me in jail in every city I have ever lived in. But it’s also essential. I can guarantee Barbara is going to have her first restful night of sleep in a long while tonight.
My “job” pays reasonably well. In reality, it could pay more. I never ask too much from the people I “help” because I know many of them really need my services. I get what I need but not more. There is a major cost associated with this line of work though. Remember the dry cereal, but it’s more than that. It costs me human interactions. It’s lonely work. I’ve been alone for as long as I can remember, so I should be accustomed to this by now. Don’t get me wrong, I know people. I have associates, but I can’t settle in any one place long enough to really set down any roots. Hell, I’ve never even had a boyfriend, which I’m sure not many 20 years olds could boast. The only exception to my self-proclaimed hermit status is Caiden. He doesn’t really count though.
I get back in my car and let my hair out of its tight up do. Waiting until I’m out of town to strip the suit jacket. The deal I just made is enough to finish out my rent for the month and a little extra, so I head to the mom-and-pop grocery store down the street from my apartment. I normally conduct my business farther from home, but I could really tell that Barbara needed my help, so I made an exception. By the time I pull up to the grocery store I’m in jean shorts and a tank top with my long brown hair flowing down around my shoulders. No one would recognize me as the “saleswoman” who just left Barbara and Tom’s, or that’s my hope anyhow. Luckily, the store is empty except for the cashier and a stock boy. It’s harder to remain anonymous this close to my apartment so I just try to blend in with the other 20-somethings that all attend the local college and frequent this neighborhood. It’s worked so far and because of that I have stayed in this town longer than normal.
Considering my job is illegal I try not to stay in one place too long. I like to think of myself as a gust of wind- stirring up, seemingly from nowhere, and you’re never sure where it has gone off to after it has left. I scope out the store as I walk down the aisle. The stock boy is young. Eighteen maybe? That’s bad for me and I can feel his gaze on my ass as I walk down the aisle. I try to remain invisible, but let’s be honest, some “attributes” are hard to ignore. The stock boy certainly seems to think so. He does not appear to be a threat though, so I ignore him.
Now, you may be thinking that all of this slinking around is a little bit of overkill and maybe it would be, i
f cops were my biggest worry. They are still out there somewhere. I figure I’ll have to be overly cautious to avoid them all of my life. Even if I really have no idea if they are still looking for me.
They found me when I was 13. I had been staying with a particularly shitty foster family. You know the story. Stereotypically drunk father. Naïve mother. You get the picture. I had been thinking about running for the last 3 or 4 families anyway but they sort of forced my hand. I try not to remember that particular encounter in life. I feel it’s best not to dwell. Suffice to say the episode left me hospitalized but the hospital turned out to be the perfect place to make a break from. I’ve been running and alone ever since. I never did figure out who they were, but they have shown up periodically since that encounter. Always lurking, menacing, and stalking from the shadows. I’ve had a few close encounters with them, but I have managed to stay ahead of them by the skin on my teeth, so far.
I pick up the rest of my groceries and head to check out. Mr. Stock-boy’s eyes still devouring my legs and ass. I get it, dude, you like chicks. Chill. As I walk out the door towards my car, I notice a white van parked across the street. The occupants are clearly scoping the grocery store I just left and since there is no one else inside besides workers I assume I’m the target. That’s how you stay ahead of them. Always assume they found you.
Instead of heading to my car I turn left immediately and start walking down the street away from my apartment. Sure enough, the van starts up behind me and pulls into traffic. If the direction they were parked is any indication they expected me to turn right. Coincidentally, if I were going home, I would have turned right. I walk at a leisurely pace for a block and a half trying to look like any Jo-Shmo on the street. I turn right at the next intersection and as soon as I am out of sight I take off in a dead sprint. I have scoped this entire area. I know every hidey whole for a 20-block radius. Once they lose me, they’ll have a hard time finding me.
Chapter 2
Escape Route
“What the fuck?” I can hear Caiden’s muffled expletive from the static filled intercom outside of his apartment complex.
“It’s me!” I call back. Caiden hates late night guests, and I know this. But clearly, this couldn’t be avoided. “Open up.”
“Emily? I’m buzzing you up.” His reply is immediately followed by the click-click that notifies me that the front door to the complex has been unlocked. I pull the door open and rush inside. I managed to dodge the white van hours ago and I have spent most of my time since retracing my steps to ensure I wasn’t followed. I can’t go to my apartment to gather my belongings. It’s not an unusual exit for me so I haven’t left anything I can’t live without, but there are a few belongings hidden at Caiden’s place that are going to be necessary in the coming days.
As I near the top of the stairs leading to Caiden’s apartment, I can see him leaning in his doorway. Caiden is a spectacular male specimen. He’s leaning against the door jamb to his home wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung blue jeans. He looks like a carved statue standing in his doorway. His dark brown hair reaches the bottom of his ears and gives him a boyish playfulness, his strong jaw and straight nose look like they came right off a marble statue, but it’s his chest and abs that draw my attention. He has a broad muscled chest that tapers down into his 8-pack abs. His chiseled form leaves a very distinctive trail going even lower. It’s damn near impossible to resist seeing where that upside-down arrow leads.
“Emily.” He exhales as he catches sight of me. My name on his breath sounds like a plea, or a prayer.
He catches me up in a giant bear hug as I traverse the last few steps on my way to him and he swings me around in a small circle. Being in his arms is the nicest place I can imagine. I never had a “home” or a “family” to speak of, but this is what I imagine it must feel like. The comfort he exudes, paired with my giddiness from his hug, elicit a small squeal and a giggle from me. Despite the last few hours of stress and running, I feel myself relaxing into him.
“Caiden.” I whisper back with my arms locked around his neck. Caiden has one of those personalities that is impossible to ignore. He is one of the happiest and most playful human beings I have ever met. He has this other quality too, which is super endearing, especially for me. I have never, not once, known Caiden to lie. And I’d wager that means more coming from me than it would from most others. He is completely honest with everybody he encounters. Some people don’t particularly enjoy this trait of his but for me it is like the most refreshing breath of spring air. The immediacy of my newest problem causes me to draw back from his hug. "It's a code red, Caiden."
Caiden releases me from his embrace. All except my hand, which he uses to pull me into his apartment.
"Your bag is still sitting where you left it." He hurries to his bedroom to grab my "in case of emergency" bag that I store here.
My friendship with Caiden runs back several years. In the beginning we were just associates. I needed him in my line of work more often than I can recall, but he needed me too. After several years of tense negotiations between us, a friendship developed. We are of a kindred spirit. Caiden has been on his own since he was 16. At 26 now, he has plenty of experience making the same decisions I do. Decisions based on survival.
Where I sell prescription drugs, Caiden makes counterfeit paperwork. Anything you might need he can make-- for a price. He sells driver's licenses, social security cards, birth certificates, passports, work visas. You name it, he makes it. I'm sure you can imagine how useful that paperwork has been in my life.
When I moved to this town, I needed somewhere to stash my emergency bag. Usually I buy bus station lockers, storage buildings, whatever I can find, really. This was the first time I trusted a person enough to store my bag with. It's been in the back of his closet for the entire 4 months I was able to stay here.
"I'm just going to have to grab the bag and go. They came in pretty hot this time." I remark as I take a look around his living room. I try not to say my "goodbyes" to him or his apartment which has become a type of home to me lately. I want to pretend I will be back even though the chances are very slim that I can return here in person for quite a while.
This apartment, with Caiden, has come to mean more to me than almost anything in my life. This was the first place I ever recognized the value of settling down or having a family. If I’m being honest, it’s also why I stayed in this town for so long.
It's a weakness. I let my desire to belong affect my decisions, and it has cost me. Had I moved on before I was found, I could have taken the bulk of my belongings with me. As it stands, all I have are the bag Caiden is retrieving and the extra car I have stashed away. Shaking my head in disgust at my own mistakes, I remind myself –again- of the dangers of becoming close to another human being.
"Emily, I'm going with you." I glance up and Caiden is standing so close to me I can feel his breath on my cheek. It speaks to how sloppily unobservant I have become that I didn't even notice his approach.
"Funny, Caiden. I'll miss you. I swear I'll call you as soon as I can." I reach for the bag in his hand preparing to make my exit but Caiden holds it away from me.
"I'm serious, Emily. I'm coming. You need someone who can protect you. You don't even know who is after you." Caiden is more accurate than he can possibly know. See, Caiden knows about my job. His mind is probably on law enforcement or rival "drug dealers." Unfortunately, the people stalking me are much more sinister than that. Which is why I need to be absolutely certain that they never know that Caiden exists, or what he means to me. I reach again for the bag and this time he relents.
"You can't Caiden. If we both disappear they'll know we're together. Stay put. I'll contact you soon. I promise." He knows I'm right and it’s clear on his face that I've won. He'll let me go and for some reason it stings like betrayal. Impulsively, I step into Caiden's arms for one more moment of peace before I'm thrown to the wolves. There is something so comforting about his embrace and I'm clearly t
oo weak to resist. I'm not a complete idiot. I can recognize that this could have been home, in another life.
Chapter 3
New Acquaintances
It's amazing what your brain discovers when you aren't paying attention. For instance, in the last several years Caiden and I have become fairly close. At first it was a relationship of convenience. When I needed to stay away from my apartment for any amount of time I could crash at his place. Then I started finding myself at his apartment even when I wasn't hiding out. I would just come over to have dinner with him, or maybe watch a movie. The whole progression was so natural that I never really noticed when we crossed that line.
In the beginning, we would sit on different couches in the same room. Then different ends of the same couch. Then next to each other on that couch. Eventually, it became normal for me to end up with my feet or head laying in his lap as we watched a movie. Even the hugging. Originally, we were strictly no touching. I don't even remember when that changed but now it is commonplace for us to hug each other in greeting or at departure.
For whatever reason, it took this goodbye for me to recognize how familiar we were becoming. My brain, the one use to keeping us alive, tells me it's a good thing I have to leave this area. That relationship was causing me to make mistakes. My heart though, the one use to not living, beats out a painful rhythm emphasizing the growing distance between us. That relationship was causing me to really live, or to begin believing that another type of living was possible.
I make my way down the block and get a cab to the local airport. I've had an extra car stored in the long-term parking for the last four months. I have the spare keys in the bag I just picked up from Caiden along with a few changes of clothes, a reasonable sum of money, and new papers. It's not a lot, but enough to start a new life in a new town and it's all I could set aside. The cabbie doesn't even turn around as I tell him my destination which is perfect. He isn't paying me any attention and that's why I love late night cab rides. He drops me off at the airport and I make my way to my spare car.