What Doesn't Destroy Us

by M. N. Forgy

  What Doesn’t Destroy Us

  By

  M. N. Forgy

  Copyright © 2014 M. N. Forgy

  EPUB Edition

  Published by M. N. Forgy

  Edited by Belinda Forgy

  Cover design by Arijana Karčić, Cover It! Designs

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fictions. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This Book is dedicated to my husband, Derik Forgy, and grandmother, Donna Lonsdale.

  Derik, without you, I would have never gotten this far.

  Grandma, your skill and memory encouraged me to give it my all.

  Table Of Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Stalk Me

  I’m startled awake from a commotion coming from the stairs. The room is black and my vision is blurry from lack of sleep. I blink a couple of times and look for the clock on my dresser: 2:15am. You have got to be kidding me.

  I roll back over and angrily close my eyes. I’m sure it’s my mother coming home late from work with Stevin. Stevin is my mother’s boss or co-worker, I’m not sure. Hell, I don’t even know what their jobs are. I don’t really care either. She’s also dating him, which I find very desperate. Their relationship is weird, and my mother is very private about … whatever they are. He’s rich and handsome and he’s the sole reason we’re living in this savvy apartment in the heart of New York. My mom has mentioned that he has a trust fund from his grandparents, and that his family is wealthy. I’m sure she only told me this as an explanation for moving from the dump we were in. She was a dancer at that time and I questioned how we could afford this new place.

  Without warning, my bedroom door is flung open and slams against the wall, filling the room with a loud thud. The lights flicker on and my mother rushes to my bed, throwing the blankets off me. My eyes feel like they’ve been slapped, and I wince at the unwelcome brightness.

  “What the hell, Mom!” I yell, still half asleep.

  “Come on, get out of bed. Get dressed and pack a small bag.”

  My eyes snap open and widen at my mother’s appearance. Her usually sleek, chocolate hair is a tangled mess and there is dried blood from a cut on her cheek. I’ve never seen my mother so distraught before, and I’m completely taken back by it.

  “Stop staring at me and pack a bag. Now. We don’t have much time!” My mother snaps at me before I even open my mouth to ask what happened.

  Why was she so beat up? Who did this to her? Where’s Stevin? And where the hell are we going? I have all these questions and no answers, but I know better than to ask. The look in my mother’s eyes and the tone in her voice is not to be reckoned with. My heart jump starts at the notion and I grab my suitcase.

  I look down at what I’m wearing; a skimpy tee shirt and panties. I grab a pair of blue jeans; a blue, fitted t-shirt; and my black, knee-high boots. It’s not classy, but it will have to do. I run into my bathroom and brush my dark brown, wavy hair. Staring at my reflection, I notice my green eyes look sunk in from lack of sleep, making them seem dull. My eyes are my signature; they are very bright green, almost inhuman. I’ve been told my eyes are like pools of green ivy, whatever that means. I throw my hair up in a messy bun, and comb through my side-swiped bangs.

  I throw some things I’ve gathered from the bathroom into the suitcase laying open on my bed, along with some extra clothes and shoes. I grab a few other things like my purse, iPod, and sunglasses and head downstairs.

  My mother’s already waiting for me by the door. I notice the blood is clear from her cheek but her face is still red and a little swollen. She’s now wearing a clean white blouse that buttons up the middle. She always dresses to perfection, even in her worst hour, which could possibly be right now. I wish she would tell me what’s going on. Am I in danger?

  “Come on, Dani, we are going to miss our flight,” she says, irritated.

  “Mom, what the hell is going –“

  She cuts me off by walking out the door of our apartment and into the elevator. I growl in frustration and follow after her.

  My mom walks to the curb and yells for a cab. The cool breeze sweeps around plastering my olive skin with goose bumps. I look up at the tall buildings, taking in as much as I can; this might be the last time I see them.

  A yellow cab pulls up and my mom bangs on the trunk. It makes a popping noise as it is released. She throws in her bag and yanks mine from my hand and flings it in, too.

  “JFK,” she tosses at the driver, avoiding eye contact with me. “Quickly, please.”

  The ride to the airport is silent. I have so many questions but am afraid of the answers I may get in return. I know I should ask, but can’t bring myself to speak the words. So I just stare out the window, silently saying goodbye to my life. Well, what life that I have. I have friends but nobody close enough to notice I’m gone. I have a job at the local coffee shop, but they’ll just replace me. Actually, being put in such a desperate situation goes to show that I really don’t have much to show for my life. It’s depressing. Having an overbearing mother does that to you. She doesn’t allow much of a social life, so, of course, finding friends in college that like to just stay in and watch movies is hard. Hell, I just celebrated my twenty-first birthday and it was depressingly typical; fancy dinner, wine and parents included.

  We arrive at the airport and the cab driver gets our bags out of the car while mom throws some cash in his seat. I grab my suitcase and follow her. I slow my walk as she heads toward a big, burly man with a big gut, who has his arms crossed in front of his chest. He’s wearing torn blue jeans and a black t-shirt where tattoos seem to snake out and claim every inch of his hairy arms. My mother walks right up to him, her body language confident, so I double my step to catch up. As I get closer I see his leather vest has patches on it; the left patch reads ‘TRIGGER’ and the right reads ‘Ghost MC.’ My breath catches in my throat; ‘MC’ as in motorcycle club? I have seen enough documentaries and TV shows to know bike clubs are not a force to be messed with.

  I look a little lower on his leather cut and see a diamond shaped patch that says ‘1%’. My throat seizes up tighter as I t
ry to speak, worried what my mom's intentions are. I don’t remember exactly what the 1% means, but I know it’s bad. “M—mom.”

  She throws her hand up to shut me up.

  What the hell is she doing? This is not some casual pedestrian to ask for directions.

  “I’m Lady, do you have something from Bull?” my mother says, assuredly.

  Lady? Her name is not Lady, it’s Sadie. And who the hell is Bull?

  The scary man called Trigger eyes her up. “Yeah, here are your plane tickets. Bull pulled some strings to get you on the next flight. You’ve got an hour before the flight leaves to L.A.” The big, burly man hands my mother an envelope, his voice deep and ominous.

  He points at my mother. “You tell Bull this makes us even.“ He looks at me and then at my mother. “Safe trip, ladies,” he says as he walks away.

  “Yeah, thanks.” She says opening the folder to peek inside.

  What the hell? She acted as if she was talking to a damned girl scout. She isn’t fazed at all, but I am about to piss myself.

  “Mind telling me what the fuck is going on?” I curse at my mother, tired of this whole charade.

  Her eyes widen at my language. She is not pleased; go figure. My whole life I’ve been told how to act and what to say. Always told to stay on the right path; the path my mother and Stevin are paving for me. It pretty much consists of nothing but school. Little does she know, I am still undecided on my college major. She’d have a stroke if she knew I didn’t have my whole life planned out. She has never let me do anything wild or reckless. She always catches me right before and then yells at me about how I act just like my father and she didn’t go through hell to give me a better life, a better path, for me to mess it up. It seems like that is the only time she is around, to tell me what a failure I am. The last time I tried to gain any independence, I was nineteen and I was tired of being on lock down.

  “You look smoking hot, if you don’t get laid tonight there’s no hope for womankind,” Daisy says, eyeing my strapless black dress.

  “You look pretty hot yourself,” I compliment Daisy, giving a sultry wink. Daisy was the new girl working at the coffee shop, whom I’d taken a liking to. She knew of a club that didn’t card, so we were headed out in hopes of hooking up with a hunk.

  I eyed myself in the mirror one last time; black dress, red heels, and red purse. Yep. I looked like a vixen.

  A half hour later, still giggling, we arrived at the club only to find my mother and Stevin waiting at the entrance.

  Fuck! Mother Fuck!

  “Danielle Lexington, what are you thinking?” my mother said, grabbing my arm tightly.

  “Get off!” I yelled at her, making a scene.

  “You look like a prostitute. Get your ass back in that cab and go home now,” she yells in my face, spit flying against my skin.

  “I’m nineteen years old. I’m an adult. You can’t boss me around anymore,” I yelled back at her, pulling my arm back with vengeance.

  “You want to be an adult, act like one,“ she hissed back.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, rage filled my spine. I wanted to punch the woman who calls herself my mother.

  “I’m done with your shit, I have enough money to move out,“ I said calmly, ready to finally see the blow on her face from me abandoning her. It took me nearly a year to save, but I finally had enough for a decent start; a start without my mother.

  She smirked, making my unusual courage flee.

  “Oh, honey,” she sneered. “I’ve already cleared that account; you have nothing.” Then she grinned like the devil, making me gasp in horror.

  “What?” I asked, mortified yet completely enraged.

  “Go ahead; leave, move out, go live in the streets. You came from trash, you might as well live like it,” she said, pointing out for the millionth time how I’m nothing but my father’s spawn. Finally, someone she despises more than me; my father, whoever he is.

  “That’s what I thought, get back in that cab.” She pushed me in the direction of the cab.

  “I will try to explain on the plane, Dani. We don’t have time right now.” My mother’s whisper, as she grabs my hand, pulls me from my trip down memory lane.

  I found out later that the only reason I got caught that night was because of my damned neighbor that lived on the floor under us. She was my mom’s little mouse, always spying on me. She was outside when we got home that night, so pleased I arrived safely and asking my mother if she did her job right. Her job at ratting me out, that is. I was an adult and trapped living with my mom. My mother’s and my relationship is a ‘go along to get along’ kind of thing; even if I’m miserable. Sometimes the streets didn’t sound so bad.

  It’s another hour before we climb aboard the flight. I’m still curious how Trigger got us plane tickets so quickly and who is Bull? My mother sighs loudly, grabbing my attention.

  “I suppose I should tell you the whole story,” my mother says as she runs her hands over her face, irritated.

  “Yeah, that would be nice,” I respond, sarcastically.

  “I met your father at a party in L.A. about twenty-two years ago. He was quite good looking; you look a lot like him.” She looks over at me, her face unreadable. I’m not sure if I’m bringing her painful memories or good ones, but judging by the way she acts toward me, I’m guessing painful.

  “We were at a party when some drunk men started harassing me and a friend. My friend sprinted off, but I wasn’t as quick. The nasty men advanced on me; I was out numbered. They pushed me to the ground, smacked me around and started to …” She takes a deep breath before continuing. “Well, that’s when your father showed up; he beat them to a bloody pulp.” She starts to chuckle at the thought, which I find frightening. “He made them get on their knees and apologize to me. One even pissed himself.” She shakes her head as if to clear the thought. “I rode to his house on the back of his motorcycle and thought it was the beginning of something special; thought being the key word. I dropped out of school and my parents disowned me after they found out I was dating someone from a motorcycle club.” She sighs heavily; so much regret is evident in her voice. I almost feel sorry for her.

  “We were together day and night for about five months. Then I told him I loved him and he changed. He didn’t call me or talk to me for days, so I went looking for him and found him with some club whore. I jetted out of there on the first plane I could get.” She pauses and looks out at the loading passengers. “Anyway, I found out a month later I was pregnant. I didn’t want the same path for you, so I didn’t tell him. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He made it pretty clear he didn’t want anything to do with me. So I made my way to provide for you, to make sure you took the right path; not like me or your father.” She finishes with tears in her eyes and takes a ragged breath. I can tell she doesn’t want to tell me any of this.

  “Are you with me so far?” she asks as her spine stiffens and she sits up straighter in her seat. Pity mode must be over with.

  My head is a complete blur of information. I am following her but feel my nerves fraying around the edges. “Actually I could use a drink,” I say, raising my hand to catch the stewardess’ attention. All this incoming information has me feeling catastrophic.

  “Dani, no! What are you, a drunk?” she asks, eyes wide, shaking her head in disappointment.

  “Oh, no, we wouldn’t want someone to think that, would we?” I mock. She’s always worrying about what others think about her; my behavior giving her the worst of her labels with a child who acts like her deadbeat dad.

  She turns her head the opposite direction. ”Just like your father,” she whispers, annoyed. Only in my mother’s eyes would a beer render me as a drunk; even after hearing the crap she just laid on me.

  “You going to tell me what happened to your face? And why you’re suddenly telling me about my father?” I ask, resenting her by the minute for keeping all this from me. I am never allowed to ask about my father. He is just a spe
rm donor as far as my mother is concerned. So I’m confused why she is spilling everything I have ever wanted to know now?

  Snapping her head in my direction, she loudly says, “I’m getting there,” gaining attention from everyone around us, too. Lowering her voice, she continues. “When I left your father I was a waitress at a restaurant in New York for several years, but it just wasn’t enough. So, I started dancing in clubs for money. It was sleazy but paid the bills and bought you dolls.” She turns her head away again, avoiding eye contact.

  “Whoa, you were a stripper?” I ask, shocked. Now my voice is too loud and causes everyone to turn in their seats to look at us.

  “Shh, Dani,” she says, stabbing me with her eyes and gesturing with her hands for me to lower my volume. “I was an entertainer,” she says completely convinced there’s a difference in the two.

  “Stripper,” I mumble under my breath.

  I cannot believe what I am hearing; my mother was a stripper. I knew she was a “dancer”, but I never would have thought she stripped in a million years. When I was a kid and she told me she was a dancer, I thought she did Broadway shows or something. I can’t believe she’s been keeping all this from me. All I have ever been told about my father is that he is trash and doesn’t want anything to do with us. Well, apparently, just my mom; he doesn’t even know I exist. I didn’t know he was in a motorcycle club, or that my mother would ever be into a biker.

  “Stevin started showing up every night and asking for me by name,” she says, grabbing me back from my frantic thoughts. “He told me I didn’t need to be in a place like that and I should let him take care of me. I hesitated at first, of course. However, the bills got to be too much to live in New York and my parents weren’t talking to me. Then Stevin and I started to connect, so I agreed. He gave me a job and provided things for you and me and I fell in love with him. Until last night, that is.” She closes her eyes tightly to avoid looking at me again. Tension suddenly creeps in the air between us, catching me off guard. I focus on her mindfully, trying to figure out why the sudden uneasiness.

  “We were in Stevin’s office working late and his cell phone started ringing. When he answered it’s like his attitude did a 180. He told me to get my things and go home immediately. I guess I wasn’t fast enough, though. Two police officers came walking into the office followed by Stevin’s two security guards. I was at my desk shutting down my computer when I heard two gun shots. I ran into the office scared they had shot Stevin and his guards.” She pauses and scratches her forehead where I notice beads of sweat forming.