Permission: The Perversion Trilogy, Book Three
Page 1
Permission
The Perversion Trilogy, Book Three
T.M. Frazier
Contents
DEFINITION OF PERMISSION
OPENING QUOTE
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Epilogue Continued
A Preview of King
A message from the author
Acknowledgments
ALSO BY T.M. FRAZIER
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PERMISSION
The Perversion Trilogy, Book THREE
Copyright @ 2018 by T.M. Frazier
ISBN: 9780578423951
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, except brief quotes used for reviews and certain other non commercial uses, as per copyright laws.
This is a work of fiction. 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.
Edits: Karla Nellenbach, Last Word Editing
Ellie McLove, My Brother’s Editor
Cover design & formatting: T.M. Frazier
Cover photography: Wander Aguilar
Always for L&C
Forever & Ever
(of Evers and Evers Real Estate)
For BB Easton
#NOTMWAGTD
PERMISSION
per·mis·sion /pərˈmiSHən/
1 authorization
2 consent
“Nobody can hurt me without my permission.”
- Mahatma Gandhi
One
Grim
There’s a certain beauty in death, in witnessing life leave a body. One cycle ends while another begins. Like a decaying flower shedding its last petal, or a dead, rotting animal, feeding the trees that take root in its bones. I don’t claim to know where anything goes after it dies, or if once a final breath is exhaled, it’s just like it was never there at the start.
Being on the giving end of death has always been easy for me. Thrilling even. I’ve never once watched someone die (who isn’t part of my family or Bedlam) and thought, No, they should live.
The bleeding girl I’m carrying is different. This feeling inside of me is different. I want for her to live. Demand it. Will it even. I want to see her open her eyes, hear her take a motherfucking breath. To speak a fucking word, goddamnit! Not because I care about her, but because she’s essential to Tricks's happiness, which makes the girl important to me.
It’s a strange fucking feeling. Caring by association. I don’t even fucking know the girl. Never spoke a word to her. Yet, I hope and wish with everything I am that Gabby will live.
There are so many things beyond a living breathing best friend that I want to give to Emma Jean Parish. I want to give her a life. A real life. A place of our own with a big kitchen, a huge workshop in the garage, and a writing room for Tricks.
Ever since she first told me about the stories she made up to escape whatever terrible fucking things were going on in her life, I pictured her hovered over a laptop late at night, typing furiously away on the keyboard and blowing locks of honey blonde curls from her face. She could write children’s fairy tales or even a story based on her life. Trick’s imagination is something not of this world. It should be shared instead of being limited to just conning people. Although, Trick’s cons require both her brilliant imagination and a ridiculous amount of natural and learned talent. Her books could entertain people. Help them even. Whatever she wants to do, all I know is that she was made for something more in this world. I want her to thrive and succeed and be more than…well, me.
Another thought comes to mind. I want to run toward the image as much as I want to shake it away. Tricks, growing big and round, carrying what would be sure to be our hellion of a child. But could we raise our baby in Lacking? A place where kids only play outside when they’re at school, hidden behind tall cement fences, far enough away from the worry of being hit with a stray bullet.
I could take Tricks away, leave Lacking. And I would do just that, even though it would mean leaving my brothers. All things considered, it seems like the best idea of them all, but giving up Bedlam and leaving Lacking city limits, doesn't automatically mean all vendettas against me vanish with us. I could still be sought out for one reason or another, and again, Tricks’s life would be in jeopardy, along with the imaginary kid. The one I’m currently having delusions about as blood spills down my leg, staining my bright white sneaker with red streaks.
I want to give Tricks that kid and that life. I want to make it possible for all of her dreams to come true. So far, all I’ve given her is heartache and fear, along with an inability to protect her from the people destined to make her life a living fucking hell when I’ve never known someone who deserves heaven more than she does.
Even if Marco wasn’t around to threaten our every move, what kind of life could I really give her? I’m Bedlam, always will be. Sure, I’ve got money, a lot of it, stashed away in various places, but money doesn’t buy safety or freedom, or peace of mind.
The thought of not having Tricks by my side for the rest of my fucking life hacks into me like a hatchet to my throat, hurting worse than the fucking bullet lodged in my leg.
Every time I take a step, it’s as if someone is chipping away at my thigh with a fucking chisel.
I can’t let my pain, physical or mental, stop me from getting to the reservation hospital. I’ve let Tricks down too much as it is.
I can't let Gabby die.
I won't.
Without a free hand, I kick open the double doors of the reservation hospital. They bang loudly as they crash against the walls. I carry Gabby into the small waiting room where Sandy and Haze look up from their pacing.
I hand Gabby’s limp little body off to the waiting doctor and his team. They lay her on a stretcher and shout orders at one another as they race her back behind a door with the words RESTRICTED painted above the frame.
I yank off my hood and am greeted with Sandy and Haze’s disapproval.
“That was some stupid fucking shit you pulled,” Haze says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Going over to challenge Marco without even fucking cluing us in on your plan.”
“It was the only way,” I reply, exhausted from walking miles on backroads and thick brush.
“You could have clued us in. We could have helped,” Sandy argues. I realize they’re more upset than angry. The knowledge stings worse than my leg. I never want to hurt my brothers. I’d die first.
“Or, you could’ve both gotten killed, and you needed to be here for Marci.” I look around. “How is she?”
Sandy’s expression softens at the mention of Marci’s name. “She’s still unconscious but stable. Took a bad blow to the head. Doctors are keeping her under until the swelling in her
brain goes down, but they ran some tests, and they think she’ll pull through.”
“Thank fucking Christ,” I say, blowing out a long-held breath.
“Where the fuck is EJ?” Haze asks, looking behind me as if she’s about to stroll through the door.
I shake my head. “Lemming. He stopped the fight and took her into custody, then the shooting started. Unfortunately, Gabby got caught up in the middle of it all and took a bullet to the chest. Also, Marco is still alive. Unfortunately.”
“Looks like you’re in pretty rough shape yourself,” Haze comments. His gaze trails from the gash above my eye to the hole in my jeans and then down to the puddle of blood I’m standing in.
“Took a bullet to the thigh,” I say, brushing it off. I have bigger things to worry about. I gotta get to Lemming and see why the fuck they’ve got EJ.
Sandy looks around, and I know he’s looking for medical staff to tend to my leg.
“There’s no time for that,” I rasp.
“You can’t help no one if you bleed out. Sit.” Sandy pushes me down into a plastic chair.
A nurse looks at my blood-soaked leg. “I’ll get a room ready,” she says, shoes squeaking on the laminate as she rushes into the restricted area.
“How do you think you’re going to get her out?” Haze scratches his beard. “If you take one step inside that station, you’re getting locked up, possibly for life. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re a fugitive, and we’re out on bail.”
I grimace as pain shoots from my thigh up my spine. “You think that fucking matters?” I grate. “I’ve got to get her out.”
“What about Mona?” Sandy asks. “You see her?”
I shake my head. “Bitch was nowhere to be found. Not that I could see. There was something else going on that soaked up all of my attention.”
“Like what?” Haze asks, taking the chair next to me.
“Like the wedding I walked in on.”
“No…” Sandy’s eyes go wide.
I nod. “Yeah, that motherfucker Marco was marrying my girl in front of all of Los Muertos.” I fill my brothers in on everything that went on over at the compound. The second I've finished, the bell above the door rings, and our heads snap to the brunette standing in the lobby shaking. Her cheeks stained with tears.
I stand and ball my fists. The nerve of this bitch.
Mona.
* * *
“Is…is Gabby going to be okay?” Mona asks on a whimper.
“Let’s save some time here,” I begin as Haze pats her down and pushes her into a chair. He tosses me her phone, and I check it for tracking. It’s disabled. Even so, I throw the sim card to the ground, and Sandy smashes it with the heel of his boot.
“You can cut the fake crying shit,” I tell her. “Save your bullshit tears for someone who doesn’t want to kill you. What’s your endgame, Mona? Why the fuck are you here?”
She shakes her head and swallows hard. “I’ve done horrible, unforgivable things. I know I have. I can’t tell you how very sorry I am. Even though you won’t believe me, I really am sorry. There’s no excuse for what I’ve done.”
I roll my eyes at her theatrics. “No, there isn’t. Tell me why I shouldn’t end you right fucking here and now.”
“You…you’d kill a woman?” she stutters.
I’d laugh at her concern if I could bother mustering a smile in the presence of this manipulative, evil psychopath who makes me, of all people, look as sane as sunshine. I shake my head slowly from side to side and correct her. “I don’t kill innocent women.”
Mona sucks in a shaky breath, rambling as she exhales. “I just wanted to be loved. Accepted. When Marco took Gabby and EJ from the foster home, I was sent away like I was nothing. Nobody cared. After a few years, I thought I was completely forgotten. When I reached out to Gabby, she told me not to visit. I didn’t think I had a family anymore until Marco called me at school one day. He told me that Gabby was in trouble and that it was all EJ’s fault.”
She sniffles, looking to her shoes.
“Marco said he needed me. That I was the only one who could save Gabby from all of the hurt EJ was causing by being a traitor. He had a plan to get rid of her in a way that would benefit Los Muertos. I thought I was doing right by Gabby. By my family.” She grips her thighs with her hands and looks up to meet my angry stare. “I know it’s wrong. Gabby didn’t even know I was at Los Muertos for over a year. I told myself I didn’t tell her because I had to carry out the plan first, without the distraction of my sister, but it’s really because I couldn’t face her.” She closes her eyes tightly. “I promise, you can do whatever you want to do to me--I won’t fight you but only after I know if Gabriella is okay.”
“Hold the fucking phone,” Sandy chimes in. “How the fuck was Marco marrying Emma Jean going to benefit Los Muertos in the long run?”
My gaze lands on a picture of Chief David above the reception desk. I think of the story of Camila and his unborn child. Both my rage and the reason behind all of this becomes far too clear. “Because of the tribal benefits,” I answer for her. “Because Marco believes that Emma Jean is somehow Chief David’s daughter.”
Mona nods.
“No fucking shit,” Sandy says, followed by a long whistle. “Thought his woman was killed while she was pregnant?”
“That’s what I thought,” I say. “Maybe, she had the kid , and maybe, it’s EJ. Or maybe, this is a lot more bullshit.”
“Being fed to us by a sociopath,” Haze adds. “I’m going to go with lies, but this can easily be fixed with one simple little test.”
Mona nods. “That’s why he set you up with the Irish. He figured he could have them take out Bedlam and gain access to both the reservation and your gun business all at once.” She fidgets with her fingers, pushing her cuticles back with her thumbnail. “It’s not just that. He thinks himself in love with her. He’s infatuated. She’s all he thinks about. Talks about. Yells about.” She rubs her temples. That’s when I notice the fresh scars on her wrists. When she sees me staring she yanks them down and folds her hands between her legs.
“He’s so in love with her that he left her out on the streets to die, raped her, and turned her own childhood friends against her?” Sandy asks, echoing my own thoughts.
Mona’s eyes are rimmed with red, underlined by deep shadows. “Isn’t it always the ones we love who we hurt the most?” She holds up her hand and offers me Emma Jean’s locket.
I snatch it from her and resist the urge to strangle her with it. “Where is Marco now?”
“I honestly don’t know. After the chaos broke out, I heard him talking with Mal about how I failed him. How he brought me to Los Muertos for no reason at all. That was when I realized he was only cares about his agenda and himself.”
“Redemption doesn’t happen in a day,” I point out.
“It does when you’re listening to your brother tell someone that you don’t matter. That you never did. That you could be dead, and he wouldn’t even notice.”
“Boo fucking hoo,” Sandy says with a roll of his eyes. “Tricks almost died because of you. Gabby might die because of you. My ma is unconscious because of you!”
Haze kneels down by her side. “I understand you’re feeling really shitty right now.” He tugs at her chin and forces her to look up at him. “But you gotta understand, after what you’ve done…we don’t give a fuck.” He releases her and stands.
The nurse comes back to the waiting room and motions for me to follow her.
I look directly into Mona’s big lying eyes as I give my brothers my orders. “Take her to the war room. Tie her to a fucking chair, and don’t let her out of your sight. If she so much as takes a step in any direction you haven’t led her, kill her.”
Two
GRIM
In the exam room behind a faded blue curtain, the nurse cuts open my jeans to examine the bullet wound in my thigh. “I’ll get the surgeon. This bullet has to come out.” She turns to leave the room, but I
grab her by the arm, stopping her.
“You do it,” I grit through my teeth.
She shakes her head. “You’ll need to be under for the procedure.”
“No, I’m not going under.”
“I’m not licensed to perform surgery,” she argues with her free hand on her hip.
“My mother was a nurse before the hospital shut down, and she started working at the casino,” I tell her. “I know that nurses follow doctors’ orders, but I also know that a lot of the time, nurses already know what’s best. You telling me you aren’t capable of removing this bullet?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “No, I’m telling you I’m not licensed to.”
“This is the reservation. No one is going to come after you. Look, if you don’t do it, I’m going to leave here and do it myself. Save me the trouble of infection, and just get this fucker out and stitch it back up.”
She shakes free of my leg and inspects the wound. She stands back up like she’s about to argue again, but I cut her off before she starts. “Miss, my girl is in trouble. I’ve got to get to her…please.”
Her look softens. She rolls her eyes, then plucks two latex gloves from a nearby box and snaps them on her hands. “I’m warning you. It’s gonna hurt like hell.”
I lie back while she gathers tools on a tray. “I’m counting on it.” The truth is, it doesn’t matter.