by Beth Flynn
Tarnished Soul
Beth Flynn
Contents
Tarnished Soul
Beth Flynn Books Reading Order
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
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
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Epilogue
Bonus from Nine Minutes
Acknowledgments
About Beth Flynn
Keep in Touch With Beth
Tarnished Soul
A Nine Minutes Spin-Off Novel
Beth Flynn
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, places, actual events, or locales is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks, and word marks mentioned in this book. All trademarked names are honored by capitalization and no infringement is intended.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.
Tarnished Soul
Copyright © 2021 by Beth Flynn
All Rights Reserved
Edited by Lori Sabin
Cover Design by Hang Le
Interior Formatting and Proofreading by Christine Estevez
Imprint: Independently Published
Created with Vellum
Beth Flynn Books Reading Order
Tarnished Soul is the fourth spin-off novel from The Nine Minutes Series and can be read as a standalone. If you’d like to familiarize yourself with the rest of my books, I highly recommend you read them in the following order:
The Nine Minutes Trilogy
Nine Minutes (Book 1)
Out of Time (Book 2)
A Gift of Time (Book 3)
The Nine Minutes Spin-Off Novels
The Iron Tiara (Book 1)
Tethered Souls (Book 2)
Better Than This (Book 3)
Tarnished Soul (Book 4)
“Some people arrive and make such a beautiful impact on your life, you can barely remember what life was like without them.” – Anna Taylor
Lovingly dedicated to Adri Leiker, Darlene Avery, and Nicole Sands
Thank you for arriving in my life.
Thank you even more for staying.
Prologue
Naples, Southwest Florida – 1972
The motorcycle slowly circled the crowded parking lot of Pressley General Hospital. The bike’s loud pipes reverberated off the asphalt, causing more than one passerby to look. Giving up on finding a spot and being too uncomfortable to care about his Harley, the tattoo-riddled biker pulled his ride into a grassy spot near a sidewalk. He strode into what he was certain was the emergency room since it had an ambulance parked close to the door. As evidenced by the crowded lot, the room was packed, and after a quick glance, it didn’t appear the occupants needed medical attention.
After slowly scanning the space, he spotted a desk with one very disgruntled-looking woman sitting behind it. She was talking loudly on the telephone, whining to the person on the other end about all of the relatives and friends who showed up in her E.R. due to a serious accident that had caused several people to be admitted in the past hour. The biker approached the desk, only stopping once to wince in pain before resuming his walk.
Sensing his presence, the woman looked up and gasped. She reluctantly hung up the phone and after recovering from her initial reaction, gave him a disapproving once-over. He was tall, at least six foot five, and lean, maybe a little too lean. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt and she found the tattoos covering his arms as offensive as the ones coating his bald head. She pursed her lips and asked, “How can I help you?”
“I’ve been dealing with abdominal pain.” He grimaced. “I think it’s serious. I’d like to see someone.”
“Any other symptoms?” she inquired as she grabbed a clipboard and pen.
“Nausea, vomiting, no appetite. Think I might have a fever.”
She wrinkled her nose in disdain. “Maybe you have a stomach bug. As you can see, we’re filled to capacity today. You could just go home and wait it out.”
“It’s not a stomach bug. I want to see a doctor,” he growled through gritted teeth. His dangerous eyes found their mark, and she immediately felt a wave of heat rush up her back.
Her sudden and unexpected fear was swiftly and neatly tucked behind the glassy partition of her unkind eyes. She struggled to steady her shaky hand as she shoved the clipboard at him. “Fill this out and I’ll put you down. Of course, I don’t know when you’ll be seen.”
Ignoring the clipboard and pen she offered, the biker hesitated just a beat before saying, “My name is Robert Jones. Write that down and call me when it’s my turn.” He wasn’t asking. It was a demand.
“We need more than your name, Mr. Jones,” she stammered. “And I don’t have time to fill out your forms for you.” Her eyes darted about the room as if they were dancing on hot coals. She was looking for a security guard.
That’s when he felt it. The room was heavy with excitement and morbid curiosity. At least twenty-five pairs of eyes waited to see how the confrontation would play out between the nasty administrator who was flunking a class in false bravado and the guy who looked like a serious criminal. Correction. The guy who was indeed a serious criminal.
He was seconds away from yanking the clipboard from her hands and smashing it across her face when a pale white hand gently retrieved it. They both looked over and
saw a young woman who immediately clutched it to her chest and peered up at him with huge brown eyes, magnified even more by thick glasses that were sliding down her nose.
“Did you forget your glasses?” Her gentle voice effortlessly sliced through the tension. He blinked twice and thought her appearance almost angelic. She was so pale, she glowed. Or was the pain playing tricks on his imagination?
Without waiting for his reply, she smiled and added, “I can’t see a thing without mine.” As if to make a point, she pushed them up her nose and parked them firmly on its bridge. “If you want to tell me your information, I’d be glad to write it down for you.”
He could only nod and follow behind her as she walked out the door. He answered her question as to what had brought him to the E.R. as he watched the gentle sway of her brown hair. It was like a pendulum keeping time against her delicate shoulders. He speculated on her age. She looked young, maybe sixteen, he thought. Yet she carried herself in a mature fashion. Maybe she was closer to his age. He’d be turning twenty soon. She motioned to a bench and said, “It’s too crowded in there.”
All he could do was stare at her profile as she asked him his personal information. And he thought he saw her face soften when she inquired after his address and he told her he didn’t have one. What he didn’t mention was that since getting released from jail a few months earlier, he’d been crashing in his grandpa’s old cabin in the Everglades. He’d never known the address.
When the application was complete, she reached for his hand and wrapped it around her small one that was clasping the pen. Together they signed what he could only assume was the name Robert Jones. He stared at their intertwined hands. Her small, pale one reminded him of pure white clouds that sprinkled sweet-smelling raindrops. His larger calloused and tattooed hand, like dried-up and water-starved earth. He pulled away, afraid his touch might somehow infect her. Or worse yet, dry up her soul so it matched his.
“Well, Mr. Jones. It looks like this is everything you’ll need to get admitted.” Her melodic voice scattered the bitter thoughts that had momentarily swirled around his brain. “And don’t let Nurse Ratched tell you they need proof of your identity or insurance.”
His inquiry was obvious by the tilt of his head.
“Of course it’s not her real name. It’s the name of a fictional character—and a despicable one at that—in a book I just read called One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I think it would make a great movie one day.”
He gave her a half smile.
She stood and he wordlessly followed her back to the desk, doing his best to stay upright as the pain intensified. She handed Nurse Ratched the clipboard and said in a voice laced with an authority he didn’t expect from someone he assumed to be so young, “It would be in your best interest to have someone take Mr. Jones back now. I’ve no doubt he has acute appendicitis and if it ruptures, which it may have already, I’ll be the first to let them know how inconsiderate you were of his needs.”
The biker didn’t get a chance to thank her as he collapsed. The rest was a bit hazy. He recalled the sense of urgency, a mask over his nose and mouth, and a strange voice telling him to count backwards from one hundred. But the very last thing he remembered before he succumbed to blessed nothingness were her eyes. Her overly magnified and beautiful eyes. They didn’t hold fear or contempt at his appearance. There was no judgment or pity in them when she realized he was illiterate. He’d basked in the compassion, kindness, and warmth that had radiated from her.
Upon waking, he wondered if she’d only been a dream. A possible figment of his pain-addled brain. No, he told himself. Dreams don’t smell like peaches and cream. And innocence. A slow smile spread across his face as he did his best to relive filling up his lungs with her uniqueness. A fragrance he would never forget.
It turned out his appendix had ruptured and he was told he’d have to spend a few more days in the hospital receiving antibiotics. He lasted less than twenty-four hours before he ripped out his IV, found his clothes, and headed for his bike by way of the emergency room. He had unfinished business to handle.
He was angry and he knew who would pay for it. If she’d been on duty, he would’ve smashed that bitch’s face into the countertop as a little going-away gift to himself. Disappointed she wasn’t perched behind her desk, he stalked out the doors and into an afternoon filled with lead-covered clouds.
Maybe his rage was because he’d shown a moment of weakness in the uncontrollable blur of pain. Damn appendix.
He wasn’t weak. He’d never been weak. He’d been stealing since he was eleven, doing drugs by thirteen, and committed his first murder at fifteen. He was Jonas Fucking Brooks and he didn’t cower to anyone or any circumstance. His jaw tightened at the thought of his body’s betrayal.
Suddenly, he stopped mid-stride, fists clenched at his sides. No, that wasn’t it, he realized with shock.
His rage wasn’t because he’d shown weakness.
It was because he didn’t even know his angel’s name.
Chapter 1
Six Years Later
It was a warm Saturday afternoon when Brooks rode with his motorcycle club through the parts of town where their President, Anthony Bear, wanted to send a message to some rivals. There would be no violence as a result of the ride. They were only doing it to make a statement. By the end of the day, most of the bikers broke from the group and headed their separate ways. Brooks, along with Anthony, Anthony’s woman, Christy, and his first-in-command, Alexander, who went by X, decided to stop for a meal. Since their favorite place to eat was packed to the rafters, they settled themselves at a corner table in a popular restaurant chain nearby. Brooks couldn’t help but notice the stares of the other diners. Three scary-looking bikers and Anthony’s beautiful and well-groomed lady sitting right in the middle of them caused more than one curious glance. Brooks thought Christy appeared oblivious to the attention as she concentrated on her menu.
He’d just opened his own, relieved the laminated pages displayed pictures of the food they served, when a sense of déjà vu caused him to look up. Keeping his head down, he allowed his eyes to slowly scan the room of diners. There was a young couple who appeared very interested in the foursome. Brooks, whose heart began to race, noticed them about the same time as Anthony, who quietly asked Christy if she knew them. She peered up from her menu and looked at where he nodded. She broke out in a smile.
“I went to high school with them,” she told him as she laid down her menu and gave them a wave.
“Were they friends of yours?” he asked.
“No. I didn’t have friends, but neither did they. They’re twins, and they always kept to themselves. Real brainiacs. Because they stuck with each other, the kids weren’t very kind. Always suggesting they were closer than a brother and sister should be. It was mean. Someone made up a stupid rhyme, and it followed them everywhere.”
“What kind of rhyme?” Brooks asked. He felt the muscles in his jaw clenching in anger at their mistreatment, at her mistreatment.
Christy thought it unusual that Brooks would show an interest in the twins. She never thought he seemed the type to care about anyone or anything. Especially a stupid rhyme. She knew he had a mean streak that rivaled Anthony’s and a demeanor that would send a lion running in the opposite direction. He was almost as tall as Anthony, about six foot five she guessed, and at least thirty pounds heavier. He was showered with tattoos, including his face. He wore his thick brown hair long and always looked like he needed a shave.
Reaching for a breadstick from a basket that had been discreetly delivered, Alexander mulled over why his buddy couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the woman. He didn’t get it. She didn’t seem like Brooks’ type. She looked like a nice girl, not the hardcore, rough women Brooks usually brought around the camp. Camp Sawgrass, where their club was headquartered, had been a children’s camp that was abandoned in the early sixties. It was situated in the Florida Everglades, just southwest of the entrance to Alligator
Alley, the long stretch of highway connecting the Florida coasts. It was where Anthony conducted all his darker and more distasteful business; sordid business in which Brooks had always been a ready and willing participant.
“The Renquest twins are freaks of nature...” Christy started to say, but the words died on her lips. “I don’t remember the rest,” she lied as she looked down at her place setting.
Knowing the conversation was making Christy uncomfortable and sad, Anthony continued, “They seem mighty interested in you.”
The waitress appeared, and after taking their orders and walking away, Christy continued where she’d left off.