Backstage

by A. m Madden

  Book 4 of The Back-Up Series

  By:

  A.M. Madden

  Backstage

  A.M. Madden

  Published by A.M. Madden

  Copyright ©2014 A.M. Madden

  First Edition, ebook-published 2014

  Cover Design by Lindee Robinson Photography.

  Cover Models: Andy Glass and Ashley Patchak

  Interior Design by: Brenda Wright

  ISBN:

  All Rights Reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher or author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

  FBI Anti-Piracy Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  All Rights Reserved Worldwide. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The use of artist and song titles, locations, and products throughout this book are done so for storytelling purposes and should in no way been seen as advertisement. Trademark names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  A.M. Madden

  Email: am.madden@aol.com

  Twitter: @ammadden1

  Facebook: https//www.facebook.com/ammadden

  Website: www.ammadden.com

  To my three kings, you rule my world.

  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

  Trey’s Epilogue

  Tara’s Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Backstage Playlist

  Follow A.M. Madden

  They say time heals all wounds. They are fucking liars. They never took into consideration those wounds that no one sees. Those that make your heart look like someone took a whip to it repeatedly. Those are the kind of wounds that never heal.

  They decided I wasn’t allowed to have happiness. When fates were being handed out, they decided I was to be alone, unhappy, constantly suspicious…constantly hurting.

  They can go fuck themselves.

  I’ve come to the conclusion that everything in life is a crapshoot. Who decides those who are rich, or those who are poor? Who decides why some are hungry while others are gluttonous? Who decides why some families are picture perfect while others are pure evil?

  It’s a lottery that no one has control over.

  I was dealt a crap hand. I want a new deck.

  No one is giving me a “do over” on a silver platter. So, I’m about to take control of my own destiny, tempt the fates, and tell the universe to fuck off. It all begins tonight. Tonight, I’m going to finally convince her, if it’s the last thing I do. I’ve made a decision. I want her to join me. If I can’t convince her, although it will kill me, I will need to move on without her.

  We’ve known each other our whole lives. There isn’t a single person on the earth who knows me as well as she does…and not the fake me. She knows the real me and I know the real her. We are both forced to live these double lives. Everyone around us drank the Kool-Aid. Somehow, we both escaped the idealism our community is disillusioned by. I often feel we are aliens, having been plopped into this ridiculous world we are forced to be part of.

  I always knew something was off. Even as a young boy, I felt things just weren’t normal. As time passed, the more I learned, the more I resented everyone I knew. Whether it was family, friends, or acquaintances, I couldn’t stand any of them…except Taylor.

  She’s been my confidante, my partner in crime, and my best friend. She is also my soul mate, but she is in denial regarding that part. So, tonight is my last attempt to convince her. I’ve been practicing for days. It shouldn’t be hard, there’s nothing holding her here but me. She depends on me to keep her sane and safe. I am not above admitting I’ll be using that to get her to run with me. Besides, we don’t belong here. We never fit in and we never will.

  Taylor’s family is completely opposite to mine. They barely have a penny to their names while we have tons. Taylor couldn’t give a shit about the money. She sees me for who I am. She sees the real me. I may be a Barton, but I’m nothing like the people who brought me into this world. They may have created me, their blood may run through me, but there isn’t a cell in my body that mimics theirs.

  The Barton’s have ruled this town for six decades. They are landlords to most of the businesses and farms in our area. Besides ruling through their capitalism, they rule through their religion. I come from a long line of self-righteous, self-proclaimed prophets among a mass of sinners who need their guidance. My mother’s family was quick to sell their daughter’s soul to the devil, and I’m not just figuratively speaking. They felt that Simon Barton was a saint on earth. They did all they could to ensure their daughter married into one of the most prestigious families in Utah. The Barton name is royalty and carries with it the utmost respect and a hefty chunk of wealth.

  My dad, Reverend Simon Barton, handles the congregation he leads. My mother, Monica, is first lady of this town. On the outside, my parents play their roles flawlessly. They are philanthropists, humanitarians, caretakers, and selfless models of society. His brother Abraham runs the business side of the family legacy. Together they are a force to be reckoned with.

  If the mindless sheep in this community only knew what my dad was really like, he’d be ruined. Behind closed doors, my dad is a different person. He’s abusive, mainly toward me. His abuse has always been hard to prove. I’ve had my fair share of beatings while growing up, but so have most of the other kids I hung out with. Discipline in our community often goes hand in hand with a good ass kicking. As I got older, his abuse became more psychological. He’s a master manipulator. His biggest victim is my mother. She’s an idiot when it comes to him. She’ll believe anything he says. Much of my abuse came at her hands as well, with my dad controlling her puppet strings. I quickly learned to pretend to comply. I tried confiding in some of the adults in my life who I thought could help me, only to have it backfire. According to most, the
reverend is a good man and doesn’t deserve his only son to behave so selfishly.

  A few weeks ago during one of our routine arguments, I lost my cool. I told him that I wasn’t going to college. I’ve tested off the charts, and my dear old dad says my brain is his only use for me. He wanted me to become an accountant and work for him. He threatened that would be the only way I’d earn my inheritance. I told him music was my passion. I said he could disown me since I didn’t want one fucking red cent from him. I went as far as telling him that I refused to join his business and also wanted no fucking part of his church. My mom sat in her room, ignoring the shouting that went on between us. Later that night, I remember consciously thinking there was no way he’d allow me to pull away. I knew he’d punish me in some way. I never thought it would be in the way he chose. I most definitely underestimated his hatred for me.

  I ended up in the hospital that night. The story told was I tried to kill myself. The truth, my father slit my wrist as I slept. It wasn’t a fatal slit, but just enough to set the stage. My tantrum when I woke only fueled his lie. He had my mom believing I was suicidal and needed help. They called 911, claiming I was uncontrollable. He told anyone who would listen of our huge fight, and how I wanted no part of my heritage. He said that my depression finally took hold of my actions. They sedated me and made it impossible for me to contradict his lies. By the time I was lucid, no one believed a word I said. I spent two weeks in the psych ward.

  Once home, he repeated his usual speech that I wasn’t meant to be. He said there had to be a reason God sent me to him. The older I got, the more he realized it was for my intellect. But if I couldn’t follow him as a loyal son would, he knew God would forgive him. My fucking lunatic of a father is convinced that if he needed to punish me for the multitude of sins I continue to commit, then God would forgive him for doing so. The Lord deals with those who live immoral lives. He is an extension of The Lord and will carry out His will.

  I can’t figure out if this is all an act, or if he truly believes the bullshit he preaches. He knows he can’t keep me here. He threatened he’d find me if I ever left. I haven’t taken all his threats seriously. He’ll never find me. He’s grasping at straws and he knows it.

  Once I got home, they immediately put me into therapy three times a week. I wasted every penny they spent by sitting in a room with an asshole holding a notepad while refusing to utter one word to him. In my mom’s presence, I had to endure Academy Award worthy performances from my dad. I sat quietly as he went on and on about how I didn’t want to be helped and how he refused to sit back and watch me ruin my life. When we were alone, he made it clear I wouldn’t win this game.

  Fuck him. I will win this game.

  I always suspected he was hiding something. There is most definitely a reason as to why he locks his office door at all times. The minute he and my mom would leave the house, I’d scour every inch of his office. I hacked into his computer. I finally found my motherfucking golden ticket out of here.

  My father’s only brother is as evil as he is and more conniving if possible. He and my dad have been up to some shady shit, and I now hold the evidence to prove it. I’ve been making copies of files I found in his office. I also found his passwords, safe locations and their combinations. My dad has several safes in the house containing very large sums of money. I’ve been stealing cash. I never take from the same place twice. My mother has no idea the stash my dad hides from her. By the time he figures out what’s missing, I’ll be gone.

  He hasn’t a clue what I’ve been up to. I’m not stupid enough to think he isn’t planning something to scare me again. Taylor said kids at school have been talking. My dad has been using me as an example in his sermons. The assholes in this town are gossiping about poor Reverend Barton and his degenerate son who was so close to ending his life. Most of our community never liked me to begin with. They’ve always tolerated me because of my dad. They can no longer hide the contempt they hold toward me. Taylor said they are now turning on her as well. It breaks my heart she is being affected by that motherfucker. I haven’t seen Taylor since I got home, but we’ve been talking on the phone several times a day. She is the only person who knows everything my dad has pulled, right down to slitting my wrist. She’s worried for my safety. I’m not so sure I can blame her. My time is running out.

  A few more days…a few more days.

  The only thing that has kept me from running already is Taylor. I haven’t revealed any of my plans to her, mostly to protect her. The less she knows, the better. Tonight, I’ll be filling her in. She’ll be eighteen in a few days, leaving before then would give them a reason to put a warrant out for my arrest. I won’t give them that power. We are so close to freedom, I can taste it. The fucker has no idea what I’ve been planning.

  One last look in the mirror and I grab my jacket, run out of my room and right into my mother.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out.” It’s more of an answer than she deserves. She blocks my way, hands on hips, attempting to intimidate me with her disciplinarian stance. Her head tilts comically to look into my eyes. At six feet tall, I tower over her. She may as well be trying to tame a squirrel in the backyard. I look down at her tiny frame with an amused smirk, pinning her with my frigid glare, waiting patiently for her to move. Physically I look a lot like my dad, unfortunately. My dark hair, thin build, and height are all characteristics I got from my father. My ice blue eye color is the only thing I inherited from the woman before me. My mother’s eyes never show any emotion, any spark…and neither do mine.

  “Trestan, your father wants to talk to you. He expects you here when he gets home.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to explain to him that I’m not here.” I squeeze past her as she grabs my wrist.

  “Let go, Mother.” The tone of my voice causes her to falter and loosen her grip. After a few seconds she lets go, knowing damn well she can’t stop me. I’m sure I’ll have hell to deal with later when I get back. Maybe with luck, the fucker will die in a car crash or fall down the stairs and break his neck while I’m out.

  Ignoring her calling my name, I bolt out the front door and hop into my piece of shit truck. I bought it myself with the money I made last summer. I worked landscaping during the day and parked cars at the only banquet hall in town at night. I’ve worked my ass off these past six months, saving every penny I made. The truck was the cheapest thing I could find on four wheels, not wanting to dip into my emergency stash more than necessary. As my parents cruise around town in their luxury vehicles, I love the stares I get while driving my rusted pile of crap.

  On the short drive to Taylor’s place, I run through my well-practiced speech one more time to be sure to include every point I want to make.

  She sits on her porch, waiting for me to arrive. She’s stunning, a natural beauty. Her innocent face is a complete contradiction to her killer body. She’s everything I want. I’ve made it very clear how I feel about her, and how I want to take our relationship out of the friend zone and into so much more. She worries once we cross that line we’ll forever be changed. She worries she’ll lose her best friend. Except for a few kisses and embraces, it’s been purely platonic. Lately, I’ve slowly been breaking her down. Our kisses have become make-out sessions. My ache for her has become unbearable.

  When she sees it’s me, her face lights up with unmasked joy.

  “Trey!” she exclaims when I get out of my truck, making me laugh out loud. She’s the only person who calls me Trey. On my tenth birthday she announced it was my new name, but she is the only person allowed to call me that. She claimed the abbreviated version of my name, Tres, should be pronounced as Trey. Who was I to argue?

  Taylor runs right into my arms and holds me tight.

  “Whoa, what’s this?”

  “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too. How’s my girl?” We cling to each other for a few seconds when she suddenly pulls away and turns my wrist over to inspect my wound. Her
big brown eyes search my face.

  “More importantly, how are you?” she asks, her voice full of emotion. “I tried to see you, they wouldn’t let me. I wanted so bad to see you.”

  “I know. I wanted to see you too. Those days stretched like an eternity.”

  She looks back down at the dressing that wraps around my wrist. “This could have been so much worse.” When I use my other hand to tilt her head up, her eyes are now moist with unshed tears.

  “Hey, listen to me. It wasn’t.”

  “But next time he can…”

  “Shh, stop.” I glance behind her toward her house. It’s only a matter of time before her mom appears. She’s always liked me, up until recently that is. Taylor confessed she is not happy with the man I’ve become. I suspect more brainwashing was involved.

  “They’re not home, but they’ll be back any minute. Let’s get out of here.”

  She drags me toward my truck, opening the door to let herself in and climbs across the bench seat. I follow in after her and ask, “Our place?”

  She nods while smiling, “Yes. I miss it.”

  The ride to our spot is a short one. It’s so close to both our homes and no one knows it exists. We found it by accident and have been escaping there for years. The bumpy dirt road tucked between heavy shrubbery leads to an oasis in this godforsaken town. A tiny stream runs through a plush green meadow. So many nights we’ve hung out here just talking. On some occasions I would play my guitar while she’d lie beside me staring up at the stars. My favorite picture of Taylor is of her sitting on the edge of the stream, turning back to look at me, and smiling wide. This is our spot. It will always be ours.

  I back the truck up to the stream, and we climb onto the flatbed to get comfortable. The only sound comes from the traveling water a few feet before us. I love it here. This place – our place, is one of the few things I’ll miss. It will always be our place.