by C. B. Stagg
Scars Like Wings
Copyright © 2017 by C.B. Stagg
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short passages in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, dead or alive, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1979045988
Cover designed C. B. Stagg
Formatting by C. B. Stagg
Edited by Christina M. Scambray
A Note to Readers
Book four? It doesn’t even seem possible. I started this journey thirteen months ago, hoping to cross Publish Novel off my ‘Before 40’ bucket list! And here we are! If you’re here, that means you’ve read the first three books in the Fairy Tale Life series (if not, this book may not make complete sense, so please read them first!). The plan right now is to end this series at book 6, but you know what they say about the best-laid plans…
As an independently published author, the greatest gift you can give me is reading my book. The second greatest gift is reviewing the book on Amazon, B&N, or where ever you purchased it. Authors like me rely heavily on reviews to keep getting our books into the hands of readers like you. If you’re reading this on Kindle, just keep flipping to the very last page and you’ll have an opportunity to review the book right there while it’s fresh in your mind!
Also, follow me on Amazon, Facebook, check out my Instagram, take a peek at my website. There are so many more stories I have to tell, so don’t miss out on a release!
Yours, Charly Stagg
http://www.cbstaggauthor.com @CBStaggAuthor
Available Now:
An Ordinary Fairy Tale (A Fairy Tale Life Book #1)
If Wishes Were Horses (A Fairy Tale Life Book #2)
Five Minutes to Midnight (A Fairy Tale Life Book #3)
Scars Like Wings (A Fairy Tale Life Book #4)
Coming Soon:
Life on the Ground (A Fairy Tale Life Book #5)
To my family…
I love you more than anything else in the world!
Prologue
Bennett
I’D SEEN THIS GODFORSAKEN desert through a vast array of lenses during my short tour of Iraq. From a dark amber lens combatting the unforgiving sun, to protective goggles scuffed to near opaqueness while handling explosives, to night vision when the threat of an invisible enemy loomed in the shadows of darkness. But the pink hue coating the visor of my helmet was not one of optimism and positivity, which are so often associated with a rose-colored tint. No, the slick veil of blood spatter marring my vision revealed the desert for what it truly was: an evil hothouse with dust demons dancing on the scorched terrain. The armpit of Satan himself.
It was Hell on Earth.
"The trauma pack! Get the trauma pack!"
A man with an American accent fired back and forth with a staticky radio voice. Damn! Was our convoy hit or was his distress call for someone else? The man mumbled like he had a mouth full of cotton balls, preventing further comprehension on my part. I hoped the sorry SOB on the other end understood what he was trying to tell them. The tone behind his words sent chills down my spine. I know panic and unadulterated fear when I hear it, but fear or not, the persistent ringing in my head made everything sound like I was a million miles away.
Any attempt to wipe my eyes was futile. Hard as I tried, nothing was happening. My arm lay at my side like a sleeping dog. Move, damn it! The only things cooperating were my eyes. But even then, they were next to useless. My eyelids were wet and sticky. When I blinked, they stuck together like soggy postage stamps. Everything was clingy, bonding to the closest object, cemented by some unknown substance.
But I was falling apart at the seams. I struggled to see, to move, even to draw a breath. I felt high, like that one time in high school I’d eaten a friend’s ‘special’ brownies, going back for seconds and thirds before I knew things weren’t right. Something in my brain wasn’t connecting with the rest of my body. What we have here is a failure to communicate. The words from Cool Hand Luke fluttered in and out of my semiconscious, yet panic-stricken mind.
Mercifully, I shook free from the confines of my bucket and was better able to assess the situation. Part of my problem was the 250 pounds of solid muscle pinning me to the hot, dry land.
“Off!” I screamed, though the voice didn’t carry the weight of a US Army sergeant. It was more like a choked whisper… my pathetic attempt at authority. “Now.” I tried again, getting the same result.
“Sgt. Hanson? That you?” The question tumbled from his lips and the tremor in the voice put me on high alert. Panic. More panic. The disembodied call came from somewhere above me, but I didn’t have the neck strength or inclination to identify the man behind the words. His accent was American, which provided a sliver of relief to my growing anxiety.
The voice leaned down into my face.
Commander Daniels.
The man had been with Chance and me since Day One and was like a father to me. He was career army and had to be the most intelligent man I knew. He said he saw himself when he looked at me, a compliment I found equally flattering and terrifying. But this wasn’t the man I knew. Fear radiated from his eyes, and his hands shook so violently he struggled to operate the radio in his hands.
“You okay, Commander?” I had to ask. He was paper white. His knees buckled and he landed on the ground beside me. It tore me up to watch a man I had such great respect for—one I looked up to and emulated—topple over like a house of cards.
“Yeah, I need to check on my squad.” The old horse cavalry rules kicked in. Feed your horses, your men, and yourself. In that order.
“Let me just… ” He scuttled away, calling to someone behind him, his command unintelligible. Were these men poor communicators or was it me? Everything sounded like it was happening under water.
Several pairs of dusty, black boots shuffled uncomfortably close to my face, but they did manage to lift him off—the soldier and the person who knew my best and my worst—from my chest. I choked down steamy air and a fair amount of sand, trying to replenish my oxygen supply as the men placed him on the ground a few feet away. It was hard for me to get a good look, but even using only my peripheral vision, it was clear something was terribly wrong.
“Chance?” In my head, I already knew it was him, but now I was sure. His body, or what was left of it, sat awkwardly wadded up like a piece of discarded paper. Most of one leg appeared to be missing and the other was gone altogether. A river of thick, metallic-smelling plasma flowed through angry vessels, pumping from a jagged hole in his torso with surprising force. Blood and flesh covered the ground. I reached out to touch him, ignoring the flaming stabs of pain shooting through my body as I moved. With tremendous effort, I was able to scoot close enough to reach his hand with the tip of my finger.
The wind picked up and sand started flying around, swarming like angry wasps. The unmistakable sound of helicopters followed and before I could blink, I was surrounded once again by grimy boots coming at me from all angles. With every ounce of energy I had, I lunged to say goodbye to my friend. When I squeezed his hand with a painful finality—one last contact between brothers—something slipped from his grip. I didn’t even have to look to know what it was. Chance’s most treasured possession, his good luck charm. The fact that it was the last thing in his hands before he died was an irony not lost on me. I
swiped the small, worn photo from the blood-soaked desert floor before it could blow away, grasping it as if my life depended on it.
Moments, or maybe hours, later, I was carried off on a makeshift stretcher and loaded onto the first of three, possibly four, helicopters waiting beyond the dunes. Taking one last look at the destruction that had been our convoy—on a simple mission to pick up supplies from Camp Doha—I could see the puddle of blood where I’d lain seconds before. Was all that mine?
Chance’s body had already been loaded into one of the other choppers; one used for cargo, not medical transport. He was gone. With that realization, the adrenaline formerly blocking the reality of my condition seeped away. From somewhere deep within my defeated soul, a guttural scream emerged before my mind took control. The scene before me, worthy of a Wes Craven film, faded into darkness… but not before one small detail was seared into my mind. Amidst the puddle of blood, now mixing with the sand to create an ominous, rusty-red mud, one thing remained. The blistering wasteland of that vile Middle Eastern desert took a souvenir from the United States Army. Still dressed in desert camo, with the black combat boot still laced up and tied as if it had been done just seconds before, lay half a leg—perfectly intact, owner yet to be determined.
Chapter 1
Jillian
“STATE OF TEXAS vs. Jillian Walker, case number 85-0492-DT-510.”
Judge Norma Jean Kirby (yes, she uses both names) pushed her glasses up onto her long, narrow nose as her ancient bailiff shuffled back to his designated area. The judge herself resembled an ostrich, with large, oversized marble eyes and feathery grey hair cropped short against her head. She showed more scalp than was acceptable for a woman, only adding to her bird-like appearance.
Her long, thin neck, extending from her judicial robes, was in need of an iron, reminding me of something my mother always says: Nothing reveals age quicker than the neck and the hands. She could easily add female baldness to that list, I thought, then snorted. I covered the faux pas with a cough.
“Ms. Walker, I have been provided paperwork stating that you and the state have come to an agreement with respect to how the allegations being brought against you will be handled. Is that your understanding?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” I’d worn a demure, grey pantsuit with a light pink silk shell beneath the fitted jacket. The string of Mikimoto freshwater pearls, a gift from my parents for my sixteenth birthday three years earlier, were a last minute addition to my ensemble. My frosted blonde hair, neatly pulled back away from my face, drew attention to the one-carat diamond earrings Daddy had brought to the hospital just a few weeks earlier. They were meant to make me feel better about what he referred to as ‘my unfortunate ordeal.’ And they had.
“Do you understand that the allegation is driving while intoxicated?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” I kept my voice even, unemotional, and my face devoid of expression. Contrite is the word our family attorney, Jamison, used. While tediously preparing for this trial he used that word, along with remorseful, humble, and apologetic. Virginal may have been thrown in there too, though I can’t really remember. The fact was, my father paid him a higher end, six-figure salary to create an illusion of sophisticated innocence. What neither of them realized was—between my years of cotillion, finishing school, state dinners, and even my recent summer internship at the capitol—I was bred for this. It was in my blood. I had this thing in the bag.
“This charge carries with it a potential incarceration of 180 days in jail, do you understand that?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Perspiration was starting to affect my grip on the handles of the god-awful walker I’d be forced to rely on for the foreseeable future. I had to admit, though, it was a hell of a lot better than the wheelchair I’d been relegated to up until only a few days ago. How much longer, people? We’d hammered out all the details with the district attorney’s office weeks ago. This was some kind of deja vu hell.
“The paperwork I have been given tells me the proposed resolution is that you be admitted into what is called a pretrial diversion program. As a result, there will be no plea and there will be no actual charges brought against you… at this time.” Those last three staccato words fired from her sickly thin lips like bullets. “Is this clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Your natural face is sour lemons, Jillian. You must always smile. With my mother’s words echoing in my subconscious, I did what I was taught to do in a public setting; smile with the bottom half of my face, so as not to look overly impressed or excited. Never let the smile cause your eyes to wrinkle. I was good at this. I went through the majority of my life in just this manner.
What a colossal waste of my time. Yes, I understood I was not being charged. Of course, I understood I would never serve time. My father was Harrison Walker. Former representative and now governor of the great state of Georgia, eyeing the presidential seat once Bush’s term was up. There was no way I would be charged or whatever. In a matter of months, weeks maybe, this little incident would be just a tiny hiccup in my otherwise perfect life. I glanced down at my new diamond-encrusted Tag Heuer to check the time.
“So, he explained you have the right to a trial and by signing this agreement, you are waiving that right. However, you also understand, the state still reserves the right to file a case against you if you fail to meet the terms laid out in the contract. Am I correct in assuming this?” My head snapped up to meet the disapproving eyes of the judge. Damn.
I nodded once more, biting the inside of my cheek to keep my eyes from rolling back into my head. She shook her head slowly. Judges made decent money, didn’t they? One would think she’d have all that extra skin on her neck nipped and tucked. It was distracting. My mother knew a guy. Hell, she had her own parking space at her plastic surgeon's office in Atlanta.
She turned to speak to her bailiff and I shuffled in place, a grimace temporarily replacing the pleased expression I’d had plastered on my face for going on half an hour. My pain meds were wearing off, and the painful pressure that standing so long was putting on my midsection was building like a siren. I was becoming increasingly grateful my attorney had insisted on flats instead of the stilettos (purchased in France from new designer Louboutin) I’d originally chosen as the crowning jewel of my courtroom attire.
“Now that these charges are formally on record, you need to be notified formally of the charges being brought against you.”
This again? Really? It’s a done deal, lady!
This backroom deal had been made before my sweet little BMW Z1 Roadster had even been towed away from the accident site. I’m sure my father never anticipated my having to stand at the defense table with a broken pelvis, while some queen of the boondocks county judge made me relive one of the less than stellar moments of my life over and over.
The portly and poorly dressed assistant district attorney stood from the table where he’d been slumped in an uncomfortable chair that looked to be circa 1940, and lumbered toward me. From what I could see out of the corner of my eye, I was relatively certain he’d been working the New York Times crossword puzzle while Judge Turkey Neck droned on and on.
“Can you please state your name for the record?” His voice was much too high for his bloated body and he was sweating profusely. My disgust turned to relief when he stopped a few feet from the table where I stood, placing me just out of his perspiration splash zone.
“Jillian Walker, sir.” That sir at the end was to show respect, of which I had none.
“Ms. Walker, you are being charged with driving while intoxicated, an incident occurring on April 1, 1992. I am asking your attorney to acknowledge this accusation, waiving a more formal reading, and enter a plea for the record.”
“We acknowledge the reading and we enter a plea of not guilty.” Jamison patted me on the back, causing my shirt to stick to my skin where he made contact. The month of May in Texas wasn’t exactly known for its pleasant weather, but the room was cool. I, on the other hand, was not. The pain was
becoming unbearable.
“Your Honor,” the mealy DA addressed the judge, who now appeared about as bored as the rest of us. “The defendant has been accepted into the DIVERT program and we are in agreement with that decision, assuming the following conditions.” He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief he’d retrieved from his back pocket and focused his beady eyes on mine.
“Pretrial Diversion will be for a term of 18 months, and will require community service and drug and alcohol conditions.”
Community service? Was he kidding?
“But I was told I could pay a fine!” I shrieked. My momentary loss of control earned a stern look from Jamison and I popped my pleasant smile back into its place.
“And based on a prior inadmissible charge, the state also requires Ms. Walker only drive to and from school and community service and she may not be on the roads between the hours of ten p.m. and six a.m.”
Excuse me, what? Seems if that little misstep from last year was inadmissible… it would be inadmissible… but here it is, being admissed. This wasn’t part of the plan either.
Not liking being caught off guard, Jamison’s hackles rose and he moved in closer to the DA, letting his proximity and intimidating size betray the syrupy, Southern drawl he’d been using to charm the court.
“Now, let’s stop for just a minute here.” He closed his portfolio and strolled into the empty space separating the judge from the accused. “I think it’s important to mention, Ms. Walker has been an active member of her community, both here in College Station during her time at Texas A&M University and back home in Savannah. She was a model student at her high school in Georgia, maintaining a 4.0 average all four years, and likewise, has been no less impressive while attending school in Texas.” Yeah. One would think my position as Director of Philanthropy within my sorority would count for something.
“She comes from a well-known family, and they have high expectations for her future. Surely, Your Honor, as you can see, this is merely one bad decision made by a respectable young lady with a bright future ahead of her.”