The Art of Sage
by
Melanie Munton
The Art of Sage
Copyright © 2016 Melanie Munton
All rights reserved
Cover Design by L.J. Anderson at Mayhem Cover Creations
www.mayhemcovercreations.com
eBook Edition
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 prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded 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.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people except when loaned out per Amazon’s lending program. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then it was pirated illegally, and you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
This is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Table of Contents
Playlist
A Note from the Author
Prologue
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
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Playlist
Bullet With Butterfly Wings – Smashing Pumpkins
Freak Like Me – Halestorm
Toxic – Alex & Sierra
The Wire – HAIM
You Know I’m No Good – Amy Winehouse
Litost – X Ambassadors
For Whom the Bell Tolls – Metallica
Breathe Me – Sia
I Like It Heavy – Halestorm
Poison & Wine – The Civil Wars
Is There Somewhere – Halsey
My Medicine – The Pretty Reckless
I Burn – Toadies
Unsteady – X Ambassadors
Gasoline – Halsey
Hide and Seek – Imogen Heap
The Kill – Thirty Seconds to Mars
Shelter – Birdy
Dollhouse – Melanie Martinez
Medicine – Daughter
Your Bones – Of Monsters and Men
Cut – Plumb
Smother – Daughter
Why Do You Love Me – Garbage
Run – Daughter
9 Crimes – Damien Rice
Oblivion – Bastille
October Trees – Ron Pope
Holocene – Bon Iver
I Found – Amber Run
Alive – Sia
We Found Each Other in the Dark – City and Colour
A Note from the Author
I would like to take a moment to remind readers that this work is entirely fictional, and while certain themes in this book are certainly based in reality and unfortunately do happen to real individuals, these circumstances should not be generalized to the entire foster care community. As with any organization or institution, the foster care system is not perfect, but the people it employs and the families who take these children into their care should be respected and admired.
It has not been my goal through this work to cast a negative shadow on foster care, nor on foster parents, the majority of whom selflessly devote their time and effort to improving the lives of children in need. In the context of this fictional story, this system has merely served as a vehicle for documenting a particular character’s journey and personal development. No aspect of this character’s story should be applied to the identity of the foster care system as a whole.
As responsible members of society, it is our duty to praise and encourage the efforts of these individuals and to continue to reinforce the image that foster care is a safe, loving environment where children in need can be cared for and protected.
Prologue
Mason
Someone once told me that it’s not the mistakes of the past that make us who we are. It’s the ways in which we learn from them that do.
I hoped that was true. I hoped that when people looked at me they saw the betterment, the effort, the self-control. I wanted them to see the strength it took to withstand temptation, not the weakness that allowed a downfall, that led to suffering, that resulted in misery. I wanted them to appreciate the triumph over the struggles, the victory against the demons.
I fought for so many years to let the light in, eradicate the darkness and live outside of the shadows. I had to search deep inside of me to find the will to rise above all of the destructive urges—the poisonous desires—and pull that resilience to the surface.
Anyone who tells you that it’s not literally a fight for your life is a fucking liar.
Anyone who tells you that your mind doesn’t erode just as quickly as your body does is an ignorant fool.
And anyone who tells you that it’s impossible to overcome is a denying addict.
Because I did. I went into battle, fought with every weapon in my arsenal, and survived. I won.
Or at least, I thought I had.
Then, something happened—the threat of death to someone who only ever caused me pain—that brought everything back. Everything that had once pushed me to find solace in the poison, to become numb, came rushing back without warning. The darkest moments of my life were once again at the forefront, making me question, making me crave.
The darkness was calling.
The numbness was reaching.
The resolve was slipping.
Until she walked in and breathed fresh life into my soul. She had the answers somewhere. Somehow, she was the cure. The final defeat I needed to make everything I had worked for worth it. A reason for why I had thrived instead of letting the darkness consume me once and for all. A purpose that tied everything else together, providing an explanation for all the pain and agony.
With death came new life.
She was my new life.
And I would never be able to let her go.
##
Sage
It was a Thursday when my entire life changed so abruptly, so irrevocably. The day that began a journey down a path that I wasn’t able to stop, couldn’t have prevented, and was too-long trapped in its clutches. It had been a dark, lonely, violent path that shaped the rest of my existence, my future, and even my personality.
It had been a beautiful, sunny day that afternoon, which I remember thinking was completely wrong given the painful emotions that were destroying my insides and breaking me apart. Despite my seven yea
rs, I remembered thinking that there should have been rain—thunder, lightning, tornadoes—warring the atmosphere. Not the kind of weather that made you want to barbecue in the back yard or build sand castles on the beach.
I remembered the woman from Social Services taking me to my new home, with a strange family, and praying that the car would break down during the ride so I wouldn’t have to go. Praying that the entity Momma had always referred to as God would bring her back to me and relieve the soul-crushing agony inside my chest.
I remembered the jelly shoes on my feet as I sat in the backseat while I was being shuttled to my future. Momma had bought them for me only a few weeks before that for being a good girl in school. I remembered the teddy bear in my arms, the one Momma had given me when I’d gone to the hospital to get my tonsils removed and I hadn’t dared let go of since.
We had a fine life, a good one. Just me and Momma.
Why did all of that have to be taken away? I asked myself.
I remembered thinking that I had done something wrong, that I had misbehaved somehow and that was why Momma had been taken from me. I remembered crying until my bear was soaked with my tears, scared to death that I had been responsible for this new life away from my favorite person in the world.
I hadn’t fully understood at the time that there was nothing I could have done.
Hadn’t fully grasped that Momma was dead and was never coming back.
And when the car pulled up to my new foster parents’ house, I sure as hell hadn’t comprehended the position I had been in and the nightmare that I was about to be tossed into. That the respectable-looking man who greeted me on the porch with his wife was about to change my life for the worse. That no one was going to care about the amount of suffering I was about to be subjected to. And suffering was exactly what happened in that house for six lousy years.
It shaped me.
There wasn’t a child in this world who could have gone through an experience like that and not be affected. For so many years, I thought there was no one, not one person on this planet, who could have understood the emotions that whirled inside me for the majority of my life. I had never been able to connect with someone on every level—especially the intimate ones—to the point that I would be able to forget about my past and actually look forward to my future. That there was someone out there who could offer what I had needed since the day the policeman told me my momma had been killed in a car accident: hope.
It wasn’t until I had basically given up on the very idea that I learned that person actually did exist.
I met him in the most unexpected of ways. But the circumstances that led to our meeting would only later confirm my belief that it was meant to happen all along. We were supposed to meet that day, in that manner.
Because we were made for each other.
As perfect as two puzzle pieces fitting together, yet as imperfect as our flawed personalities clashing against each other.
Somehow, it was just meant to be.
Chapter One
Sage
“Look, I submitted those forms over a week ago,” I said through gritted teeth. “It shouldn’t take this long and I’ve got an urgent situation.”
I listened to the individual on the other end of the line offer her excuses and rolled my eyes, growing more frustrated. Same story, different day. “But I specifically mentioned in my fax that this paperwork needed to be expedited and that was nine days ago. I’ve got a child who needs to be moved in with this family immediately, so I would appreciate your haste in this matter.”
I hung up a few minutes later with the woman’s promises that I would get my information by the next afternoon. I sighed heavily. That was the world of bureaucracy. After all, government institutions weren’t usually reliable for their efficiency.
The air conditioning had recently gone out in my 1970 Plymouth Road Runner, and even though it was barely spring and temperatures hadn’t yet reached 80 degrees in the greater Baltimore area, it was stifling. I rolled down my windows and let the highway breeze cool me off, my long purple and black hair whipping around my face. It felt good, refreshing even.
Being a social worker for the Baltimore City Department of Social Services in the Foster Care Division wasn’t the glamorous life I thought it would be. Just kidding. Only a naïve idiot would think such work could ever be anything but a constant, maddening war with bureaucratic red tape and one’s own emotional sanity.
So, why did I do it? Because I, more than anyone, understood how screwed up the system could be if the people in charge hardened themselves to their own compassion. If they allowed their responsibilities to take a back seat to their paycheck. And if their sense of duty became just that…their way of making a living, rather than an impassioned mission that they pursued every day with vigor because the desire to do so came straight from their heart.
Anyone else would probably think that was a crock of shit. After all, no one cared that much about their job.
But I did.
It had become clear to me many years before that I was put on this earth to help prevent other children from suffering in the same way that I had. It was something that I took very seriously and I would never shirk from my convictions on the matter. I was doing everything in my power to make a difference and hopefully create greater change somewhere down the road.
Suddenly, my car made a sputtering sound and smoke began to billow from under the hood.
“Ah, shit.”
And then days like today would happen, when I knew it would be a freaking miracle if I made it home in one piece. And without killing anyone else in the process.
I quickly pulled the car onto the shoulder and turned off the ignition. As I slammed my door and walked around to the hood, I shook my head in disbelief that I had decided to wear my black four-inch heels today of all days. Within five steps, they were covered in dust, thanks to the wind gusts that I thought had felt so glorious just minutes before. I propped the hood open and assessed the situation, praying that it would be an easy fix.
Thanks to the foster father I had when I was teenager, who I basically considered my real father even to this day, I knew enough about cars to get me by. It was actually he who had gifted me the Plymouth on the day of my high school graduation. It hadn’t been much at the time and still wasn’t—it needed quite a bit of work to be considered in pristine condition—but it had been more than I ever expected from anyone. And it had lasted me a good ten years, so you had to give the old girl credit.
First, I checked the dipstick. Nope, the oil level was normal. Next, I looked at the level of antifreeze. Everything was fine there. The steering wheel and brake fluid levels were also normal. The longer I stood there looking without locating the issue, the more I feared that it was the worst possible situation: an engine problem.
I could not afford an engine problem.
As gracefully as possible, I squatted down and bent over to look underneath the car to see if I could spot anything leaking. Nothing appeared to be out of sorts from what I could tell and that sinking feeling in my stomach began to worsen.
“Don’t you go to that old junkyard in the sky, Roxanne,” I pleaded with my car. “I haven’t fixed you up nice and pretty yet like you deserve.”
I wasn’t ready to let her go. And yes, her name was Roxanne. The Police were an influential part of my teenage years, so sue me.
Figuring that I wasn’t going to get anywhere on my own without the proper tools, I went to grab my phone and look up the closest tow company to me. I only had rent, utilities, electric, car insurance, a phone and internet bill…what was a tow bill on top of it all? The service was spotty but after several minutes I was finally able to get a results page to pop up and was surprised to see that there was an auto shop just down the road from me. Almost two miles down the road, but still, it was there and within walking distance. Cruz Custom Cars.
Hm. Alliteration much?
It said it did custom design and restoration work, but th
ey had to do some basic mechanic stuff too, right? Surely, they could help me out. Luckily, I had a bottle of water in the car, so I grabbed it, my purse, and some of my case files, knowing that I was going to have to make some calls during my trek to cancel some of the appointments I had for that afternoon.
I took back what I said about it not reaching 80 degrees yet. “Spring, my ass.”
It felt like an oven outside. Sweat quickly began trickling down my back, despite the sleeveless top I was wearing. In the beginning, I gingerly crept along, dodging rocks and gravel in my heels. But after about ten minutes of that, I said to hell with my dignity and ripped those suckers off, choosing to brave walking on the filthy ground rather than risk breaking my ankle. Sacrifices.
I wasn’t in the worst part of town, but it wasn’t like Baltimore was Mayberry either. I avoided eye contact with passing drivers and thankfully, no weirdos stopped to ask if I needed a ride. I had my Swiss in my purse so I wasn’t worried about being accosted, but I wasn’t in the mood to castrate anyone today. Best to get the situation handled without any dismemberment.
When I rounded a curve in the road and the Cruz Custom Cars sign came into view, I swear I could have kissed that filthy ground. As soon as I was on steadier ground, I slipped my heels back on, not wanting to look like a complete scrub when I begged these people for their help. The place looked pretty big, and I noticed several cars in the parking lot, all of them older yet refurbished models. Quite a few of them were nice-looking muscle cars. Already I was impressed.
Not seeing a door for an office entrance, I walked into the garage where a bustle of activity was taking place. All the guys I saw were all busy either cranking, tuning, or lifting something but I failed to see anyone who screamed “I’m in charge.” Finally, I spotted a younger-looking guy who was fiddling around with a large toolbox and looked harmless enough.
The Art of Sage (Cruz Brothers #2) Page 1