RECTIFY: A REDEMPTION NOVEL

by Valentine, Marley

  Check out Hendrix’s Story HERE

  Available NOW and FREE with Kindle Unlimited

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  Read on for a sneak peek at the prologue and chapter one of RECLAIM and REVIVE

  Unlike most eighteen year olds, I had the weight of the world on my young shoulders. Desperate to do right by my family, my questionable choices led me to the pits of hell.

  Steel bars, three meals a day and no contact with the outside world; regret consumed my every thought. Desperate to pay my penance, forgiveness and a happily ever after wasn’t the plan.

  But there she was.

  Warm, passionate and unexpected, Emerson Lane was the light at the end of the tunnel. She was all a man like me could want and everything I didn’t deserve.

  Redemption wasn’t something I thought I would ever find. Until she found me.

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  Read on for a sneak peek at the prologue and chapter one of RECLAIM

  PROLOGUE

  Jagger

  Twelve Years Ago

  The metal rubs roughly against my skin, cutting deep into my wrists, as forceful hands press into the middle of my back, urging me forward.

  My feet shuffle around the splattered blood decorating the tiled floor, and my eyes wander over the mess I’m leaving behind.

  What have I done?

  Stepping outside, I’m welcomed by the flashing strobes of red and blue lights and the prying eyes of everyone I’ve ever known.

  Staring. Questioning. Judging.

  I keep my head down, willing myself to wake up from this horrible nightmare. Praying my irresponsible choices didn’t just take away my whole family. With each step I take the sound of gunshots bouncing off the walls echoes through my mind. Mixed with the memory of Sasha’s bloodcurdling screams, I know I’m destined to be haunted by this moment forever.

  “Ma’am, you’re going to have to move out of the way.” The officer’s stern voice has me looking up. I wondered if I would see her before they took me away. She stands before me, leaning on the police car. Her tears are uncontrollable, and her shoulders shake in grief. If a broken heart had a face, hers would be it.

  I step closer, and let all the regret, the confusion, and the ultimate betrayal linger between us.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice hoarse and broken.

  The second the words leave my mouth, Sasha’s body stiffens. I know they’re inadequate. She straightens her back, and wipes tears off her face, ridding herself of any vulnerability.

  “Sorry?” she spits out in a question. “I hope you fucking burn in hell.”

  My head hangs in defeat, knowing those gates are open wide and ready to welcome me.

  “Sasha, the ambulance is making its way to the hospital. Dakota needs you.”

  I feel my brother’s disappointment before I see him.

  Hendrix stares at me like he’s noticing me for the first time. Wondering what he missed, and how we got here. Shaking his head, he leaves me behind and follows his future.

  “Drix,” I call out. His shoulders rise and fall at the sound of my voice. “I know how important she is to you. Take care of them for me. You’ll do a better job than I ever could.”

  My request scratches the surface of many unspoken thoughts. Guilt swims in my veins, and regret cinches my heart. There isn’t a life around me I haven’t touched and stained, and the pain etched on all their faces is tangible proof.

  This is the only thing I’ll be remembered for.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Emerson

  “The navigator says we’ve only got fifteen minutes left before we get there,” Joe says, interrupting my concentration. “You’ve looked at that file for the last three hours. It can’t be that interesting.”

  “What? No,” I mumble in confusion. Taking one last look at the mug shot, I discreetly close the folder. “I like to feel as if I know them before I see them.”

  “What’s there to know? He’s a criminal, doing his time. The fact we’re visiting him in prison makes it obvious, does it not?”

  I cringe at his frankness. Joe’s direct nature often means we’re at loggerheads with one another. He’s determined to see the world in black and white, and my tendency to try and find the colour in everything has him often thinking of me as incompetent and naive. Especially right now. An unwelcome shadow, he makes me feel nervous and inadequate, and keeps insisting that I could use his assistance with the drive up. His sexist views on a woman entering an all-male prison are hidden under the chivalrous guise of keeping me company.

  We’ve known each other for five years, both starting out in a competitive Legal Aid Graduate Program, fresh out of university. We ventured on to becoming full-time solicitors. Like many people, Joe became jaded, cynical, and a downright arse to work with.

  I fought tooth and nail to be accepted in the graduate program, and after five years it’s still the only place I want to be.

  Working for Legal Aid isn’t for everyone. It’s often disheartening and the results can be really ungratifying. Being a purely government funded organisation we’re not at the top of the food chain when it comes to the legal world. This job is all heart and no cents.

  I’ve only ever wanted to practice law, I come from a family of solicitors, but there’s a difference between them and I? They love property law, it’s their speciality, and when I finished high school, I thought I did too. I was going to follow in my family’s footsteps. Work for my dad and eventually his firm would be mine. There was nothing my father loved more than showing me off as his protege. Until he realised I wasn’t.

  Often during university I would be required to visit different organisations and offices to see how they worked. Learning about their strengths and weaknesses exposed me to all the different branches of law. It wasn’t until I delved more into criminal and family law that I had my first encounter with Legal Aid.

  Sure, I’d heard about it, but I never really grasped the magnitude and the importance of its presence in the field. For people who were socioeconomically disadvantaged and sought out legal advice; Legal Aid was a lifeline.

  It was a world I didn’t know existed. I was fortunate in my upbringing, but it really was the first time in my life when I realised sometimes fortunate meant privileged, and that left a bad taste in my mouth.

  I didn’t know how hard people were struggling, I didn’t know there were people who would rather be in jail, because that’s the only way they could guarantee a roof over their heads and three meals a day. I foolishly assumed that things available to me were available to everyone. That included legal representation.

  I was from a cookie cutter family in the Northern suburbs of Sydney. It was like Pleasantville. The neighbours waved at you every morning, and helped you put your bins in at night. We had street barbecues and all the kids went to the same school. It was a close knit community that had never felt, heard, or been around anything remotely controversial.

  My father insisted my save-the-world attitude wouldn’t pay bills, put food on the table, or gain me respect among my peers, but I didn’t care. The pull to do something different and meaningful was strong, and I was determined to put my strengths to good use, no matter how much that disappointed my family.

  Looking out the car window, I see the big, grey, fenced building come into view. Joe shifts the car into park, and I slip the manila folder into my tote bag and make sure I have all the paperwork I need to meet my newest client.

  “Make sure you don’t take any valuables inside.”

  “This isn’t my first rodeo, Joe. Thanks.”

  “I’m just saying, we’re meeting with criminals.” Opening the car door, I step out into the thick, humid air—a welcome relief to being stuck in the car with Captain Obvious for two monotonous hours.

  Adjusting my outfit, I make sure my royal blue chiffon blouse is still tucked in, and nothing is unnecessarily exposed. Walking towards the guarded entrance, I toy with my quartz pendant that hangs off a gold necklace underneath m
y clothes. A gift from my grandmother, the only person supportive of my career, it serves as a constant reminder that I’m making the right choices, despite the obstacles.

  We push through the heavy, automated glass doors, and the refreshing chill of the air conditioning envelops me from head to toe. Goosebumps pebble my clammy skin as I step farther into one of New South Wales’ most notorious correctional centres. The process to get inside is tedious but necessary. With visiting hours scheduled on different days for different people, today the prison is filled with solicitors doling out legal advice.

  “Make sure your pockets are empty when you go through the metal detector. Nothing worse than everyone staring at you when you hold up the line.”

  Looking down at my pocketless pencil skirt, I raise my eyes to meet his embarrassed stare with my exasperated expression. “How about we don’t speak to each other unless it’s completely necessary, yeah?”

  “I’m coming with you to see this client.” He empties the pockets of his rumpled suit.

  “Fine, just don’t speak. Please.”

  “Sir. Ma'am,” the guard interrupts. “Please sign in and then follow me inside.”

  The silence thickens between us as we walk deeper into the block. Minimum security isn’t full of the worst criminals, but there’s still an element of fear that always plays in the back of my mind. Visiting inmates is always the perfect example of how quickly your life can change. One moment you’re free, and then you’re not. And being inside changes you, no matter what you did or why you did it. Without exception, I try and treat all my clients equally. I almost always meet them with guarded optimism and leave with a heavy heart.

  Sitting on the metal chairs, it’s obvious there’s nothing comfortable about this place. It’s sterile. Furniture bolted to the floor, each item significantly spaced from the other—the prison visiting area is a stark reminder that it’s all about isolation, separation, and loneliness.

  “We’ll be bringing the inmate out shortly,” the officer says. “I know you guys know the rules, but to be sure: no inappropriate touching, hands need to be visible at all times, and scream if you feel unsafe.”

  I roll my eyes at his failed attempt at being funny before I lower my head and have one last read through of my notes. It’s important to make sure I’ve stored all the imperative details. There’s no room for error when you’re delivering such important news to your client.

  I hear the loud buzz followed by the unlocking of an electronic door in the background. With my head down as I scribble some last minute reminders, I’m oblivious to how quickly my client reaches us.

  “Ms Lane, the inmate is here as requested.”

  I turn the paper over and slam the pen down. I stand too abruptly and jolt the table. The pen begins to roll off, and we all stare at it’s inevitable decent. The tink it makes when it lands on the concrete floor snaps us all out of the zone.

  Crouching down to pick it up, I notice movements that mirror mine, fingers reaching for the pen just as a I whisper urgently, “No. Don’t.” The hand backs away, and I swiftly pick up the pen. “I don’t want you getting into trouble over a pen.”

  Together we rise, and my eyes finally land on Jagger Michaels.

  I force myself to stand my ground, even though his presence unnerves me. No amount of reading could’ve prepared me for the person in front of me. The photo I studied on the way up here was a teenager. Just a kid. The guy that’s been hidden behind these four walls is a man. A built, broken, hollow man.

  Like a deer in headlights, I stare. And he brazenly stares right back.

  I try to direct my attention elsewhere, but his bleak, lackluster eyes call to me. They keep me locked in place, while my empathetic heart begs me to help him.

  His eyes are the darkest shade of brown I’ve ever seen, bordering on the edge of black. Dead. Lifeless. With day old stubble across his jaw, it hides how hard he’s clenching his teeth. His distaste at this meeting is apparent.

  It’s understandable. He isn’t expecting me. With no warning and no time to prepare, he has no idea that I’m about to drop a bomb and change his life.

  “Uh, hi, Mr. Michaels. I’m Emerson Lane, your solicitor.”

  “It’s Jagger.”

  It’s in this moment Joe decides to stand up next to me. Jagger purposefully turns to face him, his stare deliberate and intimidating. Tension radiates throughout his body, accentuating the way he fills out the hunter green prison wear. My eyes roam over the breadth of his shoulders, his sinewy and sculpted biceps, the way they refuse to be restricted by any amount of clothes. Everything about him makes it impossible to turn away.

  My gawking is unprofessional and unethical. Shaking myself out the stupor, I gesture to his chair. “Okay. Jagger, please have a seat.” As we all sit down in unison, the two men continue to glare at one another, both insisting on asserting their power.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  The softest chuckle sounds from his throat, and a slight smirk graces his face. “Can’t complain.”

  “Do you have any idea why we’re here today?”

  He shakes his head nonchalantly, and the few relaxed seconds between us disappear. The muscles in his jaw return, prominent as ever. “Your eligibility for parole has come up, and the State Parole Authority has accepted your request for release.”

  He lowers his head to his hands, and his shoulders rise and fall with burden.

  “Jagger.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  Uncharacteristically my fingers itch to reach across the table. “Jagger,” I repeat softly. “Are you okay?” My hand glides slowly across the table, only to have Joe’s hand fall on top of mine forcefully.

  “Ouch,” I whisper.

  At the sound of pain in my voice, Jagger raises his head, and his eyes stop at our joined hands.

  “Let go of her,” he orders.

  I try to inconspicuously drag my hand out of his grip, desperate to defuse the situation.

  “Excuse me?” Joe answers in shock.

  “You hurt her. Didn’t you hear her?”

  “Hey. Guys,” I interrupt. “Let’s not get off track here. Jagger, how do you feel about your news?”

  Tearing his eyes from Joe, Jagger’s pools of sadness meet my hopeful expression.

  “I don’t want it,” he announces. “I’m not leaving here.”

  * * *

  Click HERE to read the rest of Jagger and Emerson’s story

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  Sasha was the girl next door, and at fifteen I was sure she was my forever. She was my constant, and never let me down.

  Until she did.

  She broke me, yet I still found myself longing for her with a debilitating desperation.

  Then came Taylah. A crazy and chaotic hurricane of beauty and bad decisions, she breathed life back into me.

  For her, my heart began to beat a new rhythm. She was whimsical, and I was level-headed. We were mismatched in the most perfect of ways.

  But could she compete with history? Taylah was my reprieve, but could she be my new forever?

  * * *

  Read on for a sneak peek at the prologue of REVIVE

  PROLOGUE

  HENDRIX

  Looking outside the kitchen window, I see my family sitting around the outdoor table, laughing and eating. It’s the happiest they’ve all been in a long time, and Jagger’s finally where he’s meant to be. His girl sitting on one side and his daughter on the other.

  It’s been hard for him, and he deserves every good thing in his life, but days like today feel like a punishment. A reminder of all I don’t have and everything I want.

  I lower my head in shame and let the familiar need of longing and jealousy consume me. This is why I need to get out of this place. Travel the world and put some space between my past and my present. I can’t waste any more time, I need to hurry up and chase my fucking future. Whatever it is.

  Unexpectedly, I feel a small ha
nd putting pressure on the middle of my back. My body freezes, knowing there’s only one other person missing from the picture-perfect family out in front of me.

  “Drix.” Her voice is low and needy, the familiar nickname sounding foreign on her tongue. “We need to talk.”

  My hands grip the ceaser stone bench in frustration as I shake my head at her request, “I don’t think there’s anything left to say.”

  “Please.” Stepping closer, the scent of her perfume seeping into my resolve.

  I exhale loudly, knowing like always, the sight of her is going to have me questioning my decision to leave. She steps back as I turn to face her, and I’m already missing the simple touch of her hand.

  I hate myself for it.

  I hate that all roads lead to her.

  Her short honey blonde hair falls in soft waves around her oval-shaped, porcelain face. Staring at me with such desolation and emptiness, and I hate that this look is only reserved for me. Her whiskey coloured eyes that lose their light when I’m around, bore into mine. Now that I see her, the way she stands, the way she’s nervously chewing on her bottom lip, I know.

  I know the girl I’ve loved for my whole life has come to break my heart one more time.

  A constant push and pull, we’ve been at it for years. One step closer, three steps back, it’s time to forget all we were, and all we could’ve been, or at least try.