One week working in a backend diner off 160, I had made enough tips to get a bus ticket to Denver. I needed a job and a place to stay. After getting a housekeeping job in one of the lower budget hotels, who didn’t care to check my fake references, I had been put on permanent night shift. The hotel operated a back-door policy of renting rooms for the hour. The upside was that I managed to jump room by room during the day, without the day manager realising that I was staying in his hotel. Or as it turned out when I got caught, that I was working in his hotel. Three weeks I had worked my ass off, and no one who was actual management knew I was employed, which meant I had no pay. Believing I was getting a paycheck at the end of the month, I had no money left.
The first night I slept on the street had pretty much summed up my last two years. I was broke. I had no one to go back to. I had no one to run to. I had nothing. When you’re homeless, you can’t get a job without a residential address. When you need a place to stay, you can’t get rent anywhere unless you have a job.
I had neither.
I closed my eyes as I remembered the night when I accepted that this was now my life. I didn’t cry. I had just placed my head on my knees and wondered how I had gotten to there.
Staring up at the ceiling, I found myself considering the same question as two years ago. How the hell did I get here?
Lance Cooke. That’s how. My first boyfriend. God, we were so cliché. Him, the high school quarterback and me the preppy athlete. I had been in the foster care system since I was thirteen. My no-good crack whore of a mother overdosed on my thirteenth birthday. She was a piss poor mother, but she was the only family I had. Our run down one-bedroom apartment had been the only home I’d ever known. I wasn’t prepared to pay the rent the way my mom had, even if I had been given the choice to stay there.
Mrs Paxton, the social worker appointed to me, had put me in a home for girls and started the paperwork for foster care. I had three homes before Merle and Andrew had taken me in. I wasn’t a bad kid, but when money went missing or something broke, it was the foster kid who was most likely responsible. At the home I had been in before Merle took me, the dad hadn’t liked the way his seventeen-year-old son kept watching me. I hadn’t liked it either, and when his pervert son was caught jerking off at the end of the bed as I slept, instead of addressing the issue that his son was obviously a sexual predator in the making, I had been removed from the house instead.
I hadn’t protested at all. I knew I had been saved from that house as much as the father did. When Mrs Paxton asked me what I had done that time, I had merely suggested in the future she send boys to that house only. She hadn’t asked me any further questions, but simply gave my hand a squeeze and promised she would find me somewhere better.
Mrs Paxton delivered when she found me a place with the O’Malleys. Merle was everything good. I had never known a soul so pure could exist. I fell in love with her in my first week. The bedroom she had prepared for me, with its lemon walls, floral drapes and matching floral bedding had made my eyes open in wonder. I was fifteen and had been too stunned to speak when she had asked if I wanted to change the room to something darker. Shaking my head as I looked at the carved white wooden dresser, I had eventually whispered it was perfect, and she had hugged me in happiness.
Our first week, we baked, she had started teaching me crochet, and we went for long walks together. Gladedale was a shithole, but it had Merle, and nowhere could be bad with Merle O’Malley in it. Andrew was quiet and barely grunted more than four words to me the first month, but he loved his wife. Over time, she wore him down, and he slowly accepted me.
Raphe hadn’t realised how close his words had cut earlier. I had no blood family, but I had family in my teenage years. I had Merle and Andrew. I had classed them as my family for seven years.
Seven years.
I’d moved out when I was nineteen. Lance had talked me into moving in with him. I was young. I was stupid. His leg had been broken in three different places in his last game of the year. Not only had he lost his college scholarship, he lost any chance of playing professional football.
But he had been fine. He had been positive. I was going to Nevada State College, no scholarship for me, and my foster parents didn’t have the money to send me to college. It was about sixty miles from Gladedale. Lance decided he would attend with me, and we would rent an apartment in Henderson. I would go home to Merle every weekend.
That had been my promise. It had been my first broken promise.
I had gone home religiously for the first four months, not realising at the time that I had been relishing the break away from Lance. Then Lance had started saying that we needed the weekend to ourselves, since we studied all week or I worked a small job in a grocery store to get some money. He had stayed behind in Henderson when I went back home, but as his hangovers were getting worse, I started going back to Gladedale less and less. A year into our living together, Lance had a serious problem.
How did I tell Merle, the goodness that was Merle, that I lived with an emotionally abusive asshole? That he had destroyed my self-confidence with his digs, slights, and insults. That he was on my case every day about making him live in a pigsty, that I wasn’t good enough, that I wasn’t even a good lay. How did I tell anyone that I needed help when I didn’t realise it myself? I needed out of the apartment. Lance, who was so amazing to everyone, who coped so well with his horrific life changing injury, who unbeknownst to his family or mine, ate his oxycodone like they were candy. After another year, I was picking up a couple of oxys from “a guy who could tide him over” until he could get his script filled. I never realised he wasn’t getting any more from the doctor. That they cut him off. That he was effectively a drug addict. Me, whose mother had been a crack addict, I never noticed the signs. Did that make me guilty? Was it my fault? It had taken me years as I worked my way from Nevada to Phoenix to Denver, watching others, to know that it wasn’t.
The night of the accident had followed the worst three nights of my life. Lance had a new dealer. The guy gave me the creeps. The way he watched me made me feel uncomfortable. Lance wanted to go to a house party, and he had actually encouraged me to go too. Told me to dress up. He had been different the last few weeks, brighter, happier. He’d even gone to school. His sullen depression and mood swings seemed to be more manageable. He told me it was because Myles had been weaning him off his oxys. What I didn’t know and probably should have guessed if I hadn’t been so emotionally drained was that Myles was weaning him off painkillers by hooking him up with heroin.
Within an hour of being at the party, Lance was gone. I couldn’t find him anywhere, and then Myles had shown me where my boyfriend was. Naked under a woman I had never seen before as she rode him like he was a bucking bronco. Lance had seen me standing there as he fucked a stranger and grinned as he told me this was how real women fuck.
I’d fled. Packing up my stuff in the apartment that night, I knew I was done. When I looked back on it, I realised I’d accepted that he had defeated me a long time ago. My relationship with Andrew and Merle had deteriorated. Andrew had protected his wife by encouraging our growing distance. I think he knew Lance was out of control, but unfortunately, I think he suspected I was the cause of it. Addict was in my DNA after all. But Merle, if I explained, if I told her, she would listen. She had to, she was Merle.
That afternoon, as I left the apartment block, Myles had been waiting for me, leaning against Lance’s car. He had told me how much debt Lance owed him.
“He owes me five grand, beautiful,” Myles told me as he reached out and stroked my arm. “You’re going nowhere, baby girl, except back up them stairs.”
“We don’t have five grand,” I said as I took a step back.
“I know.” Myles smiled at me as he took a step forward. “But your ass is a peach, and I’ve been wanting to fuck it since I saw you. I’m sure we can work something out.”
“I’m not a whore,” I snapped.
“Not yet, baby, b
ut you’re gonna moan like one real soon.” He grabbed my arm. “Back up the fucking stairs.”
“I already gave the key back,” I yelled desperately as I wrenched my arm free.
“What?”
“I’m done. With Lance. With here. I’m leaving. I gave the key back to the landlord. The door’s locked, and I can’t get back in.”
Myles studied me for a long moment, his ugly beady eyes fixated on me, and I felt sweat run down my neck—and it wasn’t the Nevada heat that was causing it. “Fine, get your fine ass into your car, we’ll go back to my place.” He snorted in contempt. “Think your boy’s face down in either pussy or snow. He wouldn’t notice even if I fuck you doggy in front of him.”
“I’ll scream,” I warned as I edged backward. His gun pointing at my face made me freeze.
“It’ll be the last thing you do, baby. Move your ass, bitch.”
As he shoved me forward to the car, I started to cry. His backhand across my face made me stumble, and he cursed as he inspected his handiwork. “You’ll still be able to suck,” he affirmed as he pushed me into my car. “My good friend P-Boy is coming tonight. He wants to watch you choke on his dick. It’s a fucking monster.” He snort laughed as he held the gun loosely, pointing it in my direction as I drove to the house where I was going to be used.
Miraculously when I got there, Lance was coherent. Myles was furious his plan to have sex with me was temporarily thwarted. Desperately I clung to Lance, willing him to leave and go home. Whispering we were both in danger.
And I thought he listened. Briefly, I think he heard my fear and saw my terror. The Lance I knew and had once loved looked at me clearly for the first time in a long time and said okay. Elated that I was escaping Myles and whoever he had picked to tag team me, I was too enthusiastic to help Lance to his feet. He told me to act naturally and handed me his water, he told me to drink. Eager to get out of there, I took a huge gulp and reached for my purse. His look over my shoulder was my only warning.
The blow to the back of my head knocked me out. I didn’t know how long for, but when I woke, I was in a dark bedroom. I almost sobbed in relief as I realised I was still clothed, and after a quick check, I knew no one had touched me when I was unconscious. With a stroke of luck, my purse was on the floor, and I grabbed it, checking for my car key. My head hurt like a bitch, but I was up on my feet and easing the door open before I could second-guess myself. I felt woozy, the blow to the head must have really done a number on me. I no longer cared about Lance; he had gotten himself into this. They wouldn’t hurt him, it was me they wanted. When I was back in Gladedale, I would tell his parents, and they could come and save him.
I no longer cared if it made me a selfish bitch, I was looking out for me and me only. I had to get out of this house. His look over my shoulder when I drank the water, was it a signal? I didn’t have time to think about it now.
Myles spotted me as I made it to the front door, and his yell kick-started my feet as I legged it at full speed out of there, running to my car. I barely got in, locking the doors quickly and screaming as he smashed the side window in with a bat, yelling at me to get out of the fucking car. On the third attempt, I got the key in the ignition, and I drove like a demon. When I left Henderson, I let out a breath of relief before the tears came, and I had to pull over, sobbing almost hysterically.
The sudden moan made me scream in terror. Turning around, I realised Lance was out cold on the back seat, a travel blanket covering him. Even with the blanket, how had I not noticed him? When I realised what he was holding, I didn’t know what to do. Did I throw it away, here? Did I take it to the police? I needed to get home. I needed Merle. I started to drive, worrying about the big bag of heroin Lance had resting on his chest and the fact he wasn’t waking up. Was he okay?
I yelped when I saw a truck gaining rapidly on me, and I floored it, somehow knowing it was Myles. Fear made me reckless. Lance’s hand suddenly reached from behind, grabbing my arm, and as I screamed in fright, the car swerved over the road. I overcompensated my correction, and the last thing I remember was spinning out of control and approaching the barrier very fast.
When I came to in the hospital, at first I didn’t understand the sly looks of contempt. I didn’t understand the sorrow in Merle’s eyes or the condemnation in Andrew’s.
Until they told me I had oxycodone in my system and, because of me, Lance was in a coma.
Because of me.
No. Because of Lance. That’s why he was in a coma. That’s why I had drugs in my system. Myles had drugged me. Drugged me to rape me. The police were coming to question me. I would be charged. If Lance died, I would be looking at involuntary manslaughter.
Involuntary manslaughter.
I was three months shy of my twenty-second birthday.
When the officers came in, Andrew led Merle out. I never saw them again. I told the police everything. If I was willing to identify Myles, I could get a lesser sentence, maybe only two years, out in one if I behaved.
I agreed.
Myles was arrested on the basis of my statement.
In the middle of the night, I slipped out of my hospital gown, pulled on scrubs, and barefooted, I sneaked out of the hospital. The next morning, I committed my first ever crime when I stole a pair of boots. I took the chance and returned to the apartment. I hadn’t given the key back; it was under the mat where Lance would have known to look for it. Sneaking into the apartment, I packed a duffel bag, and from under the mattress, I took the emergency cash I had stashed. I never looked back.
I changed my name in Phoenix. It cost a lot of money, most of the money I had, but I felt it was worth it. I worked an odd job that would let me for low pay and no questions asked. Two years later and I was running from Phoenix. The hotel job in Denver was supposed to be my fresh start. Instead, it cemented my homelessness.
As I lay there, I wasn’t surprised that I had been crying. It was bad practice to look backwards; I needed to look forward. Sitting up, I scrubbed at my eyes as I thought about Raphe. Why was I still fighting him? He would find out. The kind of man he was, they always did. Hating myself for giving up, I went to find him. Maybe if I told him most of it, he would stop holding the threat of death over me.
He was in the kitchen, peeling an orange. The man needed a nicotine patch.
“I’m ready to tell you what you want to know.”
He paused in his peeling, his cold stare frigid as normal. As he broke off a segment of orange, he bit into it and chewed as he considered me. “Proceed.”
“How much do you want to know?” I asked numbly.
“Everything.”
I huffed as I sat on the stool and prepared to get comfy. Raphe placed a bottle of water in front of me along with a candy bar. I looked at him in surprise but said nothing as I unwrapped the bar.
“My mom overdosed when I was thirteen,” I began quietly. By the time I was finished, I was emotionally drained. The candy hadn’t sated my hunger, and I needed a drink. An actual drink of liquor. Raphe had said nothing the entire time, he hadn’t asked one question. His facial expression hadn’t changed. Cold and steady. It was amazingly comforting, and that’s when I knew I needed a therapist. That this man would give me comfort, I was seriously messed up.
I realised if I had known Raphe back then, Myles would already be dead and buried. That also gave me comfort.
“I’ll tell Levi you’ll be back tomorrow.”
“What?” Had I heard him right? After everything I had told him, that’s what he was going with?
“I know where you are, your boyfriend died, so you’re still liable for manslaughter.”
“Oh.” I was? “I thought there was a statute of limitations?”
“Not for murder.”
“Oh.” I would never be free. “So…what? You’re going to blackmail me? I know your crime, you know mine?”
“Something like that.” Raphe looked at me in what I could only describe as amusement.
“You’
re twisted.”
“Do you want to go to work? Earn your own money? Maybe rent your own place?”
“Yes,” I whispered, scared he was playing with me. That was all I wanted. Everybody else’s everyday, mundane, boring life was my desperate dream.
“Then you do as I say, keep your mouth shut, and no one else need ever learn that you’re a wanted felon.”
“Is this a trick?”
His humour was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “I don’t do tricks.”
“Just checking.”
“I need to go.” He glanced at his watch. “Can I trust you not to smash anything else?”
“Scout’s honour.”
I heard him snort as he walked past me to the door. “Where do you go?” I called after him. “What do you actually do?”
Raphe turned back to me with an amused look. “Careful, Devon, next you’ll be wanting to brush my hair.” With a cocky smirk, he left me alone in the penthouse.
With a small laugh, I hopped off the stool and headed to the fridge. All this soul cleansing was hungry work, and as I opened the fridge and started pulling out food, I wondered what other candy he’d bought for me.
Candy? That’s what my concern was, after today? Yeah, I needed therapy.
Driving to the bistro, I thought about what she told me. I believed her. Mostly. I judged her for staying too long with the deadbeat boyfriend, and I had already had my guy look into his tox reports from the hospital. Which is why I also knew that they had determined his coma and eventual death was due to a drug overdose.
Beautifully Broken (The Denver Series Book 2) Page 18