Faithless #1: A Tainted Love Serial

by Nelson, K. B.

  Faithless

  Part One

  K.B Nelson

  kbnelsonbooks.com

  Contents

  Copyright

  Proverbs

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Teaser

  Contact

  Also by K.B Nelson

  Dedication

  Copyright © 2014 by K.B Nelson

  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 written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  FAITHLESS - A Tainted Love Serial

  She’s a stripper. He’s a preacher.

  Her name’s Faith, and he’s been faithless

  since the day she went away…

  Written by K.B. Nelson

  Cover by K.B. Nelson

  Edited by Rogena Mitchell-Jones

  The integrity of the upright guides them, but the crookedness of the treacherous destroys them.

  PROVERBS 11:3

  Prologue

  It was my fault that Noah Parker broke my fucking heart.

  We grew up together in the war-torn battlefield of the foster care system. It was fate for him–but only luck for me–that we would be saved from our time in hell by the same loving parents. Stepping onto the Eastwood’s farm carried the same feeling of winning a multistate lottery. Instead of a windfall of cash, we were rewarded with stability–the grand prize of life, as far as we were concerned.

  Those years on the farm flew by, almost too fast to catch a memory. And when everything was great and we stood on top of the world, it all came crashing down.

  It’s when we’re faced with tragedy that we choose who we become. We either move on or get stuck in the past, but I’m not sure I ever did either. Because I ran as far as I could, never able to outrun the demons that ripped apart my picture-perfect life. I became a glorified stripper. As for Noah...

  He became something else entirely.

  1

  Between the passing shadows, I notice the haunted look as it crept across the face of a young woman who sits next to me. Where she’s going, I don’t know. But she looks as if she’s running from something. I know this because I’m also running. It’s like looking into a mirror, seeing your own reflection and being reminded that your view is tainted with a resonated distance you couldn’t possibly understand.

  She’s not me. I know that. But every time the bus cruises beneath another streetlight, the wounds etched across her face are illuminated. I’m not prepared for what comes next.

  She turns to face me. “Do you need something?” Her voice is calm, leveled in a direct manner without the natural tone of someone who might be annoyed that a complete stranger’s eyes are fixated on her.

  “No.” Breaking pact with the lie I had just created, I angle my eyes on her again. There is something I need. I need to know why she’s running. It’s none of my business, of course, but I’m inquisitive. Fascinated by the world around me. I’ve never been at ease with the rest of the world, always operating on a different interval. So, in a way, understanding this perfect stranger could help me understand why I’ve never belonged anywhere. It’s a fucked up dichotomy. Direct, and a little too on the nose, I ask her, “What are you running from?”

  Her eyes bolt. Her neck cranes to stare out the window. She’s startled and uncomfortable. She shifts in her seat, drawing her hand to her mouth. She’s vulnerable and I get that it’s not in her nature to be so.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s none of my business.”

  “You’re right.” She breathes against the window, fogging the glass on this bitterly cold night.

  I pull myself straight into my seat. I’ve managed to piss off a complete stranger, which I’ll be riding with for the next God knows how many hours.

  “Do you care?” she asks faintly, without breaking eye contact with the passing highway beneath us.

  My eyes hang over her, taking in the sight of a woman crouched tight against the side of the bus. “In an it’s-none-of-my-business kind of way, I do.” A car passes in the opposite lane, the headlights lighting up the contours of her face giving illumination to the edges of her swollen eyes. “You’ve been crying.”

  She pats her eyes with the edge of her palm. “Yeah, I’ve been doing that a lot lately.” She laughs softly. “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologize.” I reach out my hand to her. It hangs in the distance between us for a few seconds, reaching an uncomfortable climax where I’m not sure if I should pull back or not. “I’m Faith.”

  Her hand creeps from the pocket of her hoodie and gives me a firm shake. “I’m Charlie,” she says. “And I’m running from the man I love more than anything in this world.”

  “Shit,” I blurt out. “I mean... I’m sorry.”

  She laughs again, this time with a little more heft. “What is it with us always apologizing?”

  I shrug. “I think it means that we’re just good people.”

  Her entire body tenses, her lips seem to fold over each other. “Yeah... I don’t know about that.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I’m also running.”

  She shifts to face me, this time fully. It’s a milestone when I’m able to let someone in, but she feels safe. To be honest, saying anything out loud is terrifying, but it’s only when we’re able to hear our thoughts that we can make sense of them. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m not. Maybe she’ll help me figure that out. “And what are you running from?”

  I smile, not because I’m happy, but because someone cares. “It’s not what I’m running from, but where I’m running to.”

  “And that is?”

  I take a moment to myself before I’m able to speak. “Home.” When I say it out loud, it resonates like a film stuck on repeat. All the tragedy, all the pain. It creeps back into me, under my skin and through my tangled heart. “I’m going home.”

  She tilts her head in contemplation. “Yeah, that’s where I’m going.”

  “It shouldn’t be this scary, should it?” I ask with a compromised smirk, torn between wanting life to be a happy joke and knowing that it’s anything but. “Going home, I mean.”

  Her eyes drift over me, a hollowness creeping past. “I know why I’m terrified of going home, but what are you so afraid of?”

  “I’m afraid of everything anymore. But I’m afraid that after I step off this bus, it’s over. I’ll never have a choice again.”

  She turns back to face the window. “Choices,” she mumbles to herself, almost as if she’s cut this conversation to a rapid halt.

  She’s broken, perhaps even more so than I am. I don’t press the issue any further as my curiosity wanes into a stubborn debate with my own thoughts. Here, in the shadows of the highway and new found silence, I understand it fully. I’m alone, and I have no choice, but to go home.

  I’ll avoid Noah and run straight to Luke. He’ll understand. He always did. I don’t need a sermon and I don’t need to be condemned. I need to be understood, and if Luke can’t understand, he’ll pretend.

  But avoiding Noah comes with a cost, because he might be the only one able to truly save me. Just the same, he might just be the final nail in my coffin. He could destroy me. There’s too much passion, too much history, and too much fri
ction. I leave a trail of kerosene everywhere I go, and he’s a match—always one strike away from an explosion.

  The illusion of time crumbles as the bus comes to a stop as we pull into the Lakeview bus station. The lights come on and my new friend, Charlie, flinches in her seat. Her eyes tangle with a decision that I know will shape the rest of her life. Does she get off the bus, and who does she become if she does?

  She moves her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, like she’s paralyzed. I place a palm gently on her shoulder. “It’s okay,’ I say.

  Her eyes lock with mine and she surrenders a silent nod before standing up and slinging a duffel bag over her shoulder. I stand to make room as she creeps past me and toward the front of the bus. She steps slowly, each step a purposeful decision to take another. As she goes to step off the bus, she turns back to me, solidifying our odd connection as I raise a hand to wave her goodbye.

  She forces a smile, runs a hand through her hair and steps off the bus onto the pavement of her former home. She’ll be fine, I tell myself. But I know that’s not always the case. We hardly ever get what we wish for, but for the sake of broken girls everywhere, I hope one of us gets the happy ending we’re searching for. God knows, I don’t stand a chance.

  The interior lights flicker off, and I throw my head back against the seat. Soon, we’re traveling through the darkness again, and my eyes grow heavy...

  * * *

  FIVE YEARS AGO

  The sun streams through the oversized windows above my bed, assaulting my senses in a blinding flash that kidnaps me from the world of dreams, and brings me back to reality. My forehead is damp and my skin clammy from a thin layer of sweat. This is a regular occurrence when you live in an old farmhouse without the modern convenience of air conditioning.

  I throw the blankets off me and am instantly startled by a pair of legs beside me. A hand clasps around my mouth before I’m able to scream. Then he rolls on top of me, laughing. “You’re not going to have a heart attack, are you?”

  “Noah,” I say through a laugh. “You know you’re not supposed to be in here.”

  His head drifts to his shoulder to complete a lazy shrug. “Not supposed to do a lot of things,” he responds through a grin. “Like, I’m not supposed to do this...” He leans down and plants a soft kiss against my lips. “But I do it anyway. You know why?”

  “Because you want to torture me with morning breath?”

  “That, and because you’re well worth the trouble.”

  His hazel eyes burn under the heat of the sun, his bronzed face clashing with the paleness——in comparison——of his smooth chest. Every time I look into his eyes, I’m taken away by the fact that anyone could ever not want him. But his parents didn’t, just like my parents didn’t want me. We’ve been abandoned, but here in this bed, we have each other. And in this house, we have a loving family. A loving family, who probably wouldn’t take too kindly to the shenanigans this bed has seen these past few months.

  “Breakfast is ready,” I hear Luke say from the bedroom door. I raise myself up to my elbows to get a better view. He’s fully dressed——already——in his standard plaid shirt and jeans. He’s the second most handsome guy I’ve ever seen and he’s my foster brother. Kind of like Noah, except Luke, who was actually born to Mr. and Mrs. Eastwood.

  Noah plants a wet smooch against my neck and begins trailing up to my ear. Luke shakes his head in disbelief. “You are both disgusting, you know that?”

  Noah shakes off a laugh, knowing that making Luke say those exact words was his exact intention.

  “Want to join?” Noah asks Luke and sounds very serious when doing so.

  There’s a hesitation before Luke responds with a forced smile, “Breakfast is ready.”

  Noah furrows his brow. “That’s not an answer.”

  “Hurry downstairs before Mom and Dad become suspicious.” Luke closes the door. His feet pattering down the wooden steps echoes through the house.

  When Noah turns back to me, he’s met with a flat smile. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

  He purses his lips in mischievous thought. “I would totally let it go, but I was being kind of serious.”

  I land a playful punch against his chest. In response, he grabs my wrists and pin them behind my head. I struggle beneath his weight, but I’m no match against his strength. Locks of hair—gorgeous bed hair—tickle my forehead before his lips meet mine. This time, with more passion and sincerity. He bites into my lip and begins shifting his body against mine. A strong arm lowers to my knee and he raises my leg, caressing it as he thrusts against my body.

  The hardness in his jeans...

  * * *

  PRESENT

  I wake up to a man hovering over me. It’s the bus driver, shining his light into my eyes. I take a quick glance at my surroundings to find that I’m the last person on the bus. “Is that light necessary,” I ask with a grumpy pout.

  “Just wanted to make sure you’re alive.”

  “Where are we?” I ask and throw a hand over my eyes, trying to block out the light.

  “We’re at the end of the line,” he says eerily.

  “The what?” I question.

  “We pulled in about five minutes ago. Welcome to Old Town.”

  You could have just said welcome home.

  2

  When I step off the bus, and onto the cold, hard pavement of Old Town, Ohio, I’m met with a familiar feeling. I should run like I always do. I should get back on that bus and go wherever it takes me. Faced with a choice of facing my past or leaving it all behind, I’m reminded that there’s not much of a difference between the two.

  The November wind is cold and bitter, ready to choke and stab an unsuspecting victim. I pull my light jacket tight against the frame of my body, hoping I’m able to combat the cold long enough to make it to The Bootstrap. Back in Florida, I didn’t need a winter coat. But then again, I didn’t need a lot of things because I had everything. My history reads like a plaid shirt—repetitive. It’s the same mistakes over and over again.

  Step 1. Fall in love

  Step 2. Get heart broke

  Step 3. Run. Just fucking run.

  This time, it’ll be different, if for no other reason than it has to be. I won’t survive another heartbreak. That’s why I need to stay as far away from Noah as humanly possible. And in a small town like Old Town space and distance is a luxury afforded to those who live their lives outside the city limits.

  My breath dances in front of me every time I take a gulp. It puts on a show underneath the yellow-toned street lights that line the stark blackness, outlined on the edges by a canvas of storefronts. To my right is Donnas, my first place of employment. The same place that reaffirmed my life-long suspicions that I would never amount to anything. I think they call that a self-fulfilling prophecy

  Rather than catch my reflection against the glass or relive memories, I march faster down the slick sidewalk. Every step is another step toward the unknown.

  * * *

  It’s the same bar where I was served my first legal drink, but it looks different. The metal door aged by the passage of time with scars etched into the worn-out green paint. The sign above me, the one that reads ‘The Bootstrap,’ flickers through the cold darkness, the last few letters struggling to stay lit.

  The door is heavier than before, but I manage to swing it open. It’s a boy's club kind of bar, and based on the current roster of clientele, that much hasn’t changed. It’s a narrow bar, the kind that you would find in a quaint neighborhood of New York City. It’s long with a bar running down the length of the closed-in space.

  The bouncer is a guy I have no recollection of, but he throws a chill nod my way as I enter the building. He doesn’t stop to hassle me or to ask for my ID. He takes a sip of bottled beer as I pass him, his eyes fixated on an outdated television that hangs behind the bar.

  There are enough locals in the bar for a party, but they all sit away from each other. Each lost soul
adrift in their own battle of what it means to be alive. I want to be alone, like the rest of them, but there’s nowhere to sit where I won’t be brushing shoulders with at least one patron. So, I take a seat beside the most trustworthy looking guy and right in front of the bartender.

  “What will you be having?” he immediately asks, his voice empty and void of the perkiness I grew accustomed to from the bartenders back in Florida.

  “Just a beer.” I attempt to smile, but I know that it’ll cost me the last three dollars in my pocket. This journey toward redemption seems destined to end with me passed out, sleeping in a booth in the back of a bar. I really didn’t think this plan through.

  The bartender pops the cap off the beer and slides it my way. “That’ll be two dollars.”

  Cheaper than I expected. I dig into my pocket and pull out a wad of cash, handing the entirety of what’s left to him. “Keep the change,” I say. It’s not like an extra dollar would do me good anyway.

  Another patron, a biker, who looks to be equal parts old-age and Sons of Anarchy, calls for the bartender by the name Josh. When he turns to walk to the man, my attention is stolen by a flyer that hangs behind the bar.

  On it, a black and white portrait of a beautiful young woman. Beneath the photo, printed in all capital letters, WANTED. It’s not a face I could easily forget, full of pain and regret. It’s the girl from the bus, Charlie. “What did she do?” I ask out loud, but unintentionally so.

  “She murdered someone,” a man beside me says. “That’s what they say.”

  I take notice of the man. He’s middle-aged with sunken eyes and an unshaven face. “That girl wouldn’t hurt a fly.”