I Never Asked You To Save Me: Book 3 The Wakefield Romance Series

by Hewitt, Theresa Marguerite

  I NEVER ASKED YOU TO SAVE ME

  BOOK 3

  THE WAKEFIELD ROMANCE SERIES

  BY

  THERESA MARGUERITE HEWITT

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  Thank you for downloading/purchasing this ebook. This ebook and its contents are the copyrighted property of the author, and many not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

  This book contains mature content that may not be suitable for those under the age of 17.

  The Wakefield Romance Series icon illustrated by Kaylee Holdsworth.

  All characters are fictional. Any and all resemblances are purely coincidental.

  Published by Theresa Marguerite Hewitt at Smashwords.com

  Copyright ©2013 Theresa Marguerite Hewitt

  To my Readers:

  Thank you!

  I can never say it enough. From those who enjoy my Facebook posts and give me non-stop encouragement, to those who follow my blog and YouTube; I will never be able to show you all of my gratitude. Your support through my learning journey is what makes me a better writer and person over all.

  To HM3 (FMF) Charles Ferguson:

  Thannnkkkkkkk youuuuuuuuu. From messaging me in the wee morning hours when you were deployed to texting me on the two weeks when you were home, to helping me with the dumbest questions; you never gave up on me! Thank you, thank you, thank you UpChuck. ;-) Your help and guidance has educated me and given me insight into a world others think is a walk in the park. Thank you for making me strive to do something more. Thank you for serving our country, for having the guts to do what others take for granted and for being an awesome friend! I owe you one!

  To my family:

  Thank you for letting me chase down this dream. This is for Jerry Jr. If you were still with us, I’d hope you’d be proud of your little sis. I love you.

  To Sam Baker:

  Thank you for being an unwavering pillar of support and guidance. You’re the bomb.

  To CW:

  Thank you for being my Aussie cheerleader and taking time out of your life to help me. I could say something smartass-ish like “Put another prawn on the Barbie”, but I’ll hold back!  lol

  To the War fighters:

  Thank you! No one will ever know what you have been through till they walk a mile in your boots, but I for one cannot show my gratitude enough. Thank you for facing the storm and being strong. My only wish for you is to make it home safe and that maybe one day, this government will wake up and take care of those who defended our freedom the way they should.

  HOOYAH!

  Thank You!

  Thank you for your purchase!

  The profits from this ebook sale are being donated to the following charities:

  The Wounded Warrior Project

  The Red Circle Foundation

  The Navy SEAL Foundation

  The Boot Campaign

  Please, I urge you to make your own donation to one or all of these wonderful charities. Putting a smile on someone’s face is worth a million times more than its weight in gold.

  Thank you again!

  “What you think could be the end, may very well be only the beginning.”

  CHAPTER ONE:

  Ellie

  February 14, 2013

  “It’s too freaking early,” I groan to myself as I silence the alarm on my phone and rub my eyes. I silently curse myself for the simple action as pain shoots up into my skull. I have to bite my lip to hold in a slight scream. Angrily throwing my legs over the side of my twin bed I utter, “Damn you Jake,” under my breath and shuffle my way into the bathroom.

  Seeing my bruised cheek and the broken blood vessels in my right eye looking back at me from the mirror makes me angry. I told myself I’d never let him hit me again, but I hadn’t been expecting him to be outside my trailer when I got home from working at the club last night. “My momma didn’t raise me to be weak,” I whisper to myself while cranking on the faucet to try and wash away the tear and sleep streaked makeup.

  That’s right. My mother, Ellen Griggs, hadn’t raised me to be like this. After sweeping me and my older brother Jack up without warning when I was two and he was four and moving us from our little town of Wakefield, she had always told me to be a strong woman and not to take any shit. I’ve utterly failed her in that notion.

  After shoving Jack and I into a beat up Honda in the middle of the night, my mom trucked us to my aunt’s house in Tennessee. My father, Rick, was a horrible man, but don’t you know it, to this day I can’t remember what he looks like or what his voice sounded like. It’s a good thing I guess since he left my mother with a huge scar across her cheek. She rarely ever spoke of him when Jack and I were growing up, moving around so many times I can’t remember half. We lived with my aunt just outside of Nashville until I was six, then bounced around from California, Las Vegas, Colorado, and small towns in between finally settling in Lewisburg, West Virginia, just off of I-64 in sight of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  I had a good childhood and I can’t help but smile as I think of walking to school on the nice days with Jack and his football buddies tagging along in front of me and my dance friends. Jack was the best big brother any girl could ask for. He made sure none of his friends bothered me too much and that I was doing well in class and on the sports teams. My mom was happy, working in a local bank and she provided us with everything that she could, including dance lessons for me four nights a week.

  I love dance, or I should say, loved dance, because I haven’t put on a pair of pointe shoes in almost four years. I was trained in ballet, tap, jazz, hip-hop and contemporary. Ballet was my strong point and the tattoo of purple pointe shoes in the middle of my back pay homage to it. Since I was four, I had wanted to be a ballerina, dancing for a crowd somewhere like Broadway or Moscow. My mom and Jack had encouraged me the entire way and when I was sixteen I was accepted into the West Virginia Dance Academy, a high end dance school led by a former Russian ballet star. Sixteen was my down-fall age however, because that’s when I met Jake.

  Jake Heart was the typical high school heart throb that every girl wanted to be with; blonde, blue eyed with muscles that seemed to go on for days, but he had picked little cheerleader me, short, curvy with dark almost black hair and blue-green eyes when I was a Junior and he was a Senior. I guess you could have called us the ‘it’ couple, being everywhere that anything cool was happening. He asked me to marry him the day of his graduation and I was head over heels for him, so I said yes. He was a County Sheriff by the time I was a senior, supposedly building a life for the two of us.

  My senior year brought Jack enlisting in the Marines and shipping off, leaving me and my mom to our happy little world. He called and wrote, visiting on leave every so often, but then mom was diagnosed with liver cancer. She battled with all she had, but it was too advanced. She got to see me graduate with high honors and get accepted into the Dance Program at West Virginia Wesleyan College and then walk down the aisle with Jack escorting me in full uniform. She died three weeks after my wedding to Jake, going peacefully in her sleep and leaving a huge hole in my heart.

  That’s when everything went downhill. After the funeral, Jack went back to his base and barely called, emailed or wrote. I haven’t heard from him in year and I worry about him every day. I was packed and ready to go off to college after selling my mother’s
house, but was stopped when Jake protested. It was the first time he hit me, and it was one of the worst to date. In the small trailer he had bought for us, he yelled and screamed, fueled by beer and liquor, striking me across the face and knocking me down, scaring the living hell out of me.

  He profusely apologized, saying he’d never do it again, that cliché abuser line, but as soon as the words “I’m leaving, I need to be at school tomorrow,” came over my lips, he snapped. He pushed me down and brought his steel toed boot down my ankle so hard, it shattered and I blacked out, waking up in the ER hours later. Two pins and three hours of surgery later when the doctors were out of the room, Jake apologized again, showering me in flowers and getting me to tell the Doctors and police that I had fallen down the porch steps. It’s one lie I wish I can take back to this day.

  I had to drop out of school because no one wanted a damaged ballerina, and had gone to night school under the watchful eye of my husband, gaining an Associate’s Degree in Office Management. He drank and partied, acting the part of the dutiful husband when we were out and about, but at home as soon as the door was shut and locked, he was another person. He seemed to get off on the pain that he caused me, being a fan of overzealous hair pulling, spanking and even choking. I became a pro at using cover up and sunglasses to hide the evidence, having only his partner’s wife, Yolanda Walden, to confide in as she suffered abuse at the hands of her husband, Tom, as well.

  Why did I stay? I stayed because he is a cop. He can find me whenever and where ever. He always threatened that if I left he’d hunt me down like a dog and make it ten times worse than before. My little temp jobs in legal offices kept me desensitized to everything wrong in my life, but in June everything looked up for once. I found out I was pregnant and I was overjoyed.

  I had planned a special dinner, getting Jake’s favorite steak and lobster and preparing it just the way he liked it waiting for him to come home from his shift. I had on the dress he loved and had done my hair, ready to share with him the happy news. Standing as the door opened, I was smiling wide, with my hands never leaving my stomach, but the look in his eyes changed my feelings into fear instantly. Without a word, he backhanded me as I tried to escape to the bedroom, screaming at me that I was worthless.

  I yelled and cried, “Jake no,” but he didn’t let up. After what was only seconds but seemed like hours I screamed that I was pregnant and he froze, pinning my arms down by my head on the hallway floor. I struggled against his hold, the chains holding me here, holding me to Jake, finally shattered in my heart. I wasn’t going to take this anymore, especially not now. The look on his face softened as he professed his love to me, kissing me hard and forcing me to have sex with him right there and then as I cried and protested, but every time I would say no, he would just kiss me, silencing it to a mumble.

  As he was passed out on the bed, the food still on the table, I felt sick to my stomach. Stripping and throwing that damn black dress in the garbage, I threw on sweatpants and other comfortable clothes, dressing for the abnormally crisp summer night. Tossing underwear and essentials into a tote bag, I grabbed what cash I could find and left, not looking back. I ran, not caring that the roads were dark or that only hours ago I was actually happy to be carrying his child. I just ran. Seven miles later, I reached the closest bus station, collapsing in tears on a bench and calling a co-worker from one of my temp jobs.

  I wanted to go home. I wanted to go back to Wakefield. My childhood memories brought back smiles as I cried to her on the phone and she agreed to come get me and take me to a friend of hers, Marco Patuli, who would help me out. She drove me all through the night, crossing the state line into Virginia and finally making it to the little town of Waverly around sunrise. We pulled up at the back door of Subzero Strip Club, and she left me with a hug and kiss, telling me to call if I needed her, but I haven’t. Marco has been an angel.

  Marco is a thirty something entrepreneur who owns four clubs in Virginia and one in Las Vegas. That first day he came out the back door of his club in a silk dress shirt with rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned enough to let his chiseled chest peek out, a wide caring smile on his face. He always keeps his hair short and tousled, kind of like his choice in men, which he has many of at any time. As soon as he saw me with the tears rolling down my cheeks his dark brown eyes softened and his brow furrowed, throwing his arm around my shoulders and ushering me inside the club and into his office. He has money and friends and within the first couple of hours, I was set up in a rented trailer in Waverly, neighbors to a couple of his employees. I also had an interview for a temp job at the Sussex county DA’s office the next week, which I got. He even fronted me three hundred dollars to buy a car.

  The loud playback of Jason Aldean’s “The Only Way I Know” snaps me out of my musing and with a hard scrape of a towel across my face, wiping away the makeup and tears, I swipe my phones screen and put it up to my ear, knowing it’s my cousin Rhea. “It’s only six in the mornin’ why aren’t you still sleeping,” I grumble into the receiver while trying to pull on a pair of Nike jogging capris to go for my morning run.

  “Well hello to you too Ellie,” she torts, laughing lightly. She had been through a tremendous amount of shit in the last six months and I’m glad we’ve found each other. I never expected to have any family left in Wakefield and was surprised when I read the announcement for her baby shower in the local paper during the summer. She’s been a beacon of strength for me.

  “First off, happy birthday! “She all about squealed and I inwardly groaned, not wanting to remember that today is my twenty-third birthday. She giggles and continues, “I was just up with Charlie and wanted to make sure you’re still comin’ tonight?” she asked and I can just imagine the little sly grin on her lips. Tonight was a “Come Home Soon” party she and her husband Chad were throwing for his old SEAL Team mates who are deploying in a day and a half and Rhea is still trying to set me up with Bobby Timmons.

  It’s not too hard because the man is gorgeous. Tall, muscular with dirty blonde hair and light freckles across his cheeks. His hazel eyes can cut right through me every time I see him and just the thought of him makes my heart flutter even now with the bruises throbbing on my face, but I can‘t do it yet. I can‘t drag someone into this hell that I call a life until I get rid of Jake for good.

  “Yeah I’m still comin’ Ray-ray,” I tease turning the speaker on as I pull on a sports bra and tank, tying my short hair up in a knobby ponytail fixing the fly-away and loose ends with bobby pins.

  “Okay,” she giggles and I can hear little Charlie happily gurgle in the background, making me laugh along with her. “I’ll see you around four then, after you drop off some things at your new trailer, right?”

  “Yeah, I’ll text you when I’m headed over,” I reply, saying goodbye as I tie up my sneakers, standing to stretch a little as I cue up my IPod. I had been planning to move into a trailer in the park closer to Rhea for the last two weeks and have my sparse belongings already packed into the back of my beat up Chevy Beretta. It makes me even more pissed that Jake found me right on the verge of me being finally happy.

  I had felt like I was away from him for good. The DA I temp for, Paul Jesop, had served Jake with the divorce papers and now it was just wait for him to sign them. Even though Rhea and Chad have asked me a million times to move in with them, I’ve refused because I want to make it on my own and this trailer was going to be it. I had put my first three months down in cash that I had earned on my temp jobs and moonlighting at Subzero.

  Yes, I work at a strip club. Yes, I dance, but Subzero isn’t some sleazy place you go to get a ‘happy ending’ after work. There is a dress code for patrons and dances are not cheap. Plus, I always wear wigs and little masquerade masks when I’m on stage and either Marco or his one bouncers screen the guys who ask for me. They check ID’s and keep watchful eyes on all the guys. And it’s just plain fun. It’s a total power trip when you’re up there with all eyes on you. It lets me unwind and
forget about my problems.

  It’s the same as running and as I plug my ears with the bud speakers and strap my IPod onto my arm, zipping up my red track jacket I’m out the door, jamming out to Kelly Clarkson. I wave to two of my co-workers from the club, Melody and Shae, as I pass by them seated on Melody’s porch. I can see their eyes go right to my face as they smile and wave and I angle it away, picking up my pace to get away from them while trying to tell myself it’s to stay off the chill in the air. Turning right out onto the county road, I zone out to Kelly blaring away in my ears that what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. I beg to differ.

  Pushing the dark thoughts out of my head, I focus on the road in front of me. The wet, soggy grass and the crunching gravel under my feet as I wave at the familiar cars and trucks that honk, coming to and fro from the trailer park. My breathing is even and steaming around my face as I hesitate at a stop sign, making sure someone is going to come screaming around the corner and run me over, and I keep on, heading towards one of my favorite spots.

  About three miles away from the trailer park and right on the town lines for Waverly and Wakefield is a horse farm. Springtime Equine Barn is the name and it sprawls over more than twenty acres, at least that I knew about. Slowing my pace, I look for my favorite horse. She was a spirited Champagne with a light tan coat and darker brown mane. Over the last few months it became more evident to me that she was going to have a foal, but every day without fail, she’ll see me and come to the fence line, letting me scratch her nose and talk to her.

  But today, I don’t see her. I see all of her usual companions, but not my horse. Slowing to an even jog, I turn into the dirt driveway to the main house, running in place looking around for the familiar farmers as ACDC powers onto my IPod. I have used their driveway for a turn around since I started taking this path and I’d come to know Kelley Spring and his wife, Gertrude, enough to carry on a polite conversation in the local grocery. They have three boys and as I go to turn back towards home, I see the youngest, Bryan, emerge from the closest barn and he waves.