Fight

by Paige Hill

  Copyright©2018 by Paige Hill

  Editor: Kamaryn Kretz

  Kamaryn with a K Editing

  Content Editor: Trenda “T-Bird” London

  It’s Your Story Content Editing

  Cover Design: Tracie Douglas

  Dark Water Covers

  Formatting: Stacey Blake

  Champagne Book Design

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or used in any manner without prior written permission from the author, apart from brief quotations used in the context of a book review.

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

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About this book

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Author Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Fate has kicked my ass from day one.

  My name is Teagan Langford and I grew up in the system. Just another child neglect case, crossing a cluttered desk. For a small window of time, I thought fate had taken mercy on me when the future District Attorney swept me off my feet. From the outside looking in, we have the perfect life together. The reality however, is my personal nightmare.

  One violent night, fate forces me to make a choice and I must run to survive. With no money, food or place to live, I search for work where cash is king, and questions won’t be asked.

  Once again, fate drops me in the hands of a handsome bartender who wants to help me. But everyone has secrets. Ones that have the potential to destroy everything.

  A fugitive on the run, one determined stalker, an undercover agent and a high-profile family with a lot to lose. Suddenly, I find myself fighting for life, love and freedom.

  Fight is book one in the upcoming Fate Series. Each book can be read as a standalone but are better when read in sequence.

  This story is dedicated to my step dad, Rick. Thank you for being the father you didn’t have to be and for having faith in me when I didn’t. I hope I made you proud. I would give anything to be able to share with you the moment my dreams became reality.

  My biggest regret is never telling you I wrote my first novel. Rest in peace, old man.

  Smack!

  My head makes a sickening thud as it connects with the cold marble floor. Immediately, the area around my eye begins to burn as the familiar grasp of confusion takes hold. I never even heard him come home. He is usually so careful to avoid my face. Appearance is everything. I know from experience I should keep my mouth shut and allow him to work through whatever ridiculous scenario he has conjured in his head, but I can’t. This strange need to fight back courses through my veins like adrenaline—a pure impulse I can’t control. A dull throb beats at the back of my skull, and before I realize I’ve opened my mouth, words spill from my lips.

  “What the hell?”

  Surprise colors my face as I watch his expression morph into something sinister.

  Staring into the blood-shot eyes of the monster I married, I try to mask the panic pulsing through my extremities. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to compose myself, tremors writhe through my body. It’s no secret my fear pleases him. Apparently, my mouth is stronger than my will to survive these days. The thought raises questions I am afraid to answer.

  Is this really what it’s come to? Do I want Mark to finally kill me?

  Mark’s boot connects with my rib cage, effectively ripping my attention back to the present.

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? You really are just an ignorant white-trash cunt. Why do I waste my time with you?” Spittle flies over the rage in his voice. I’ve never seen him this angry. This is uncharted territory and I’m not packed for the journey. Crippling fear has taken root in my chest and my nerves tingle as branches start to grow. My body feels feverish, sheen of moisture coats my skin and I find it difficult to breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Looking into the depths of his unfocused eyes, I see the change. The man I married no longer resides within those walls. He thinks I’m ignorant, but I notice it now. His need, the addiction, has progressively gotten worse over the past year.

  I stare at the man I once loved more than life itself and I feel nothing but devastating loss. My husband is dead.

  My knight in shining armor.

  I was just too blinded by the shiny armor to notice the shackles. At one time, I thought he was the most attractive man I’d ever met. His perfectly-styled sandy brown hair, trim athletic build, and light grey suit still reflect the image of a handsome man, but I know the truth. The cold, dark eyes staring back at me embody the monster he has become.

  “What are you talking about? Find out what?” I plead, cringing when my voice cracks. I’ve given him exactly what he wants. I’m scared and he’s feeding on it.

  “Listen here, you ungrateful little bitch,” he spits, violently throwing a finger in my face. “I let your language slide, but I am in no mood for you to play innocent with me.” He grits through clenched teeth. Mark expects women to be perfectly poised, beautiful, polite and most importantly, silent. At all times. He broke my right pinkie finger teaching me that lesson. Refined women do not use foul language.

  “Mark, I promise you, I have no idea what’s going on.” My plea is the ultimate mistake. I willingly walked the green mile and Lucifer smiled. He reaches down and grabs a handful of my long blonde hair, twisting it brutally around his hand. He yanks me to my feet, refusing to let me go as my weakened body flails wildly. Searing pain shoots through my scalp causing my eyes to water. Rallying what spirit remains, I push the fear aside.

  “Then let me slow down and spell it out for your white-trash brain. There was a man in my home yesterday! I know you fucked him. Did he make you scream?” His voice lowers and that terrifies me. His face is only a hair’s breadth from mine. The proximity has my stomach churning like the Sea of Galilee. Racking my brain, I quickly run through every moment of the previous day, desperate for answers. Then it dawns on me. He’s convinced himself that I slept with the delivery guy.

  “The only men in this house yesterday were you and the delivery man. One you paid to deliver and set up your new pool table, dip shit.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Where is self-preservation when I need it? I know all too well what he is capable of, but I’m both terrified and angry. Fear and indignation wage a bloody war within the walls of my chest. While my mind fights to unscramble the fight or flight signal, I realize part of me just wants to give up and let him kill me. Years with this man have taken a toll on both my mental and physical health. The strife is exhausting. I’m at the end of the metaphorical rope and I know letting go will bring the freedom I crave. But in the back of my mind, I know I’m stronger than that. I don’t deserve this, and I’ve been living in fear for far too long.

  Clearly appalled by my outburst, he throws my already limp body into the steel refrigerator doors. The handle digs painfully into my back, taking away what breath I have left. Before I regain enough cognitive ability to
react, the back of his hand connects with my cheek. His wedding ring tears through my lip, and I feel it in my soul. My skin burns, and I can feel warm blood start to trickle down my chin. I hear nothing but the ringing in my ears as determination rushes through me. Darting my eyes around the room, I look for nothing yet everything. My vision lands on the supple leather purse perched on the counter. Yes! My brain clears enough fog to remember the 9mm Manny gave me just this morning.

  Manny’s convinced Mark will eventually kill me and thought I needed to be prepared. This was the deal we settled on. It was the only way to keep Manny away from Mark. No way am I going to let him ruin his life over me.

  Survival instincts spark the fire inside me that died long ago. Get to that gun. Something tells me this may be my only choice this time. I glance over at my purse resting innocently on the kitchen counter, just three feet away. Might as well be a mile, but I have to try. That three feet separates me from my salvation. I lunge forward with everything I have, but he still has a death grip on my hair. The movement reignites the forgotten pain and I can feel clumps of hair being ripped from my scalp. Breathing through the pain, I stretch, managing to get my fingers around the strap. Forcefully, he shoves me to my knees. Hopelessness threatens to take over as I watch the contents of my purse spill out onto the floor.

  He paces the floor in front of me like a rabid hyena before kicking his perfectly shined shoe into my ribs. Held up on all fours like a dog, my arms give out, no longer able to support the defeat filling my bones. A few more strategically placed kicks and I see white flashes behind my closed lids. Curling into the fetal position, I hold my breath, silently praying for him to end it quickly. His impeccably soft hands, a result of his aversion to manual labor, grip my arms tightly and I know they are going to bruise. He takes advantage of my surrender and straddles my placid form. His hands tighten on my neck like a wrench.

  This is it.

  This is how I die.

  My attempts to claw his hands off me are futile. Each breath I take shallows and despair hinders all logical thought. My arms flail recklessly around me, searching for anything I can reach in a last-ditch effort to free myself.

  That’s when I feel it.

  Cold steel.

  On the ground to my right is the gun. That cocksucker never even noticed it. I wrap my palm around the only lifeline I have left just as my vision starts to fade. Thrusting the weapon between our bodies, I think about the life he took from me. It’s judgement day, Mother Fucker. Painful memories take control of my trigger finger just as my world goes black.

  “We have to get her out of here. You and I both know what’s going to happen when he wakes up. He’s either going to kill her or she’s going to be charged with attempted murder!”

  “Martha, I know, but she has no family. She has nowhere to go. I need to make some calls.”

  Hushed voices pull me into consciousness but no matter how hard I try, I can’t open my eyes. I try to speak but the pain in my throat is excruciating. I’m so confused. Why are Manny and Martha here? Where am I? What happened? My questions go unanswered as silence once again blankets my ears.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Where is that noise coming from? Please don’t let it wake up Mark. My eyelids are heavy as I struggle to grasp my bearings and find the source of the sound. I manage to open my eyes just to close them immediately. Sharp pain radiates from my corneas to the back of my head. My eyes burn as if I were staring directly into the sun. Or I’ve gone to heaven. Not a chance, too many indiscretions under my belt.

  Mark is going to be so angry, I don’t have the strength to fight with him today. I slowly open my eyes again, ignoring the shooting pain. Finally adjusting to the light, I take in my surroundings and I realize I must be lying in a hospital bed. Movement to my right draws my attention and in my peripheral, Martha’s short white curls come into view.

  “Oh, good! You’re finally awake. You gave us quite the scare, young lady.” Her soft voice soothes the raw fear building in my gut. Opening my mouth to speak, I can barely form words over the gritty feeling in my throat and start to cough, my tongue like sandpaper.

  “There, there now. Wait just a moment and sip this.” She reaches for the table next to me and pulls back a small plastic cup with a straw. My throat is so dry. I feel like I might gag on my own tongue. Putting my hands on either side of my hips, I sit up as best I can. Pain flares from my midsection and it sucks the air out of my lungs. A wave of nausea crashes over me and I pause to ride it out. I feel like I’ve gone three rounds with Miesha Tate. The cactus in my mouth reminds me of the task at hand and I lean in, taking a tentative sip. After the cool liquid coats my throat, I croak out.

  “Wh-what happened?” It takes everything I have to spit the words out and I sound like a chain smoker with a cold.

  “Oh, dear.” She pats my hair softly. “You don’t remember, do you?” I shake my head, instantly regretting the movement. “We are so proud of you, Teagan. You fought that bastard with everything you had.” Her eyes become tender as her delicate fingers squeeze my arm. “Sweet Tea, you won.”

  Warm tears prick my eyes as I take in her words. No one has ever been proud of me for anything before. Pride is such a complex emotion. One I’m not equipped to process. I know it’s probably ridiculous for a twenty-nine-year-old woman to be so elated to hear those words, but I am.

  A chance encounter several years ago lead to a feeling stronger than adoration. Manny, a rather round Cuban man in his sixties, owns the small diner a few blocks from my house—his house, as he so often reminds me. I go there nearly every morning after my run to have coffee with Martha, a spry woman in her eighties with a fading Irish accent. They are probably my favorite people on Earth, not to mention, my only friends. Regardless of my efforts to hide it, they are both aware of my situation.

  I’m overwhelmed with so many emotions. I’ve been searching for the imaginary thread that could unravel it all, but I’ve come up empty handed. Warmth spreads through my extremities as I graciously accept her affection. A gift I’ve never been given.

  My blood runs cold as it all comes crashing back.

  His wild eyes.

  His sweaty grip around my neck.

  Hard steel against my fingers.

  My chest tightens. Oh, God, the gun.

  “Di-Did I kill him?” I ask, both anticipating and fearing her response. Her pale blue eyes gain an edge when she responds.

  “No, Tea. You didn’t. You shot him in the left side of the chest, but it entered high enough to miss anything important. He should still be in surgery now.”

  “How did anyone find us?” I ask, my voice heavy with trepidation.

  “The gardener was just outside the kitchen window and he heard the scuffle. When the gun went off he called nine-one-one. An ER nurse called me when you were brought in. Seems you were smart enough to list me as an emergency contact.” Her motherly smile reaches the corner of her eyes and the comfort I find there feels like home.

  Relief trickles over my soul as the information sinks in. I didn’t kill him. I no longer love the man I married, but I can’t fathom taking someone else’s life. Even if he is the Devil himself.

  Manny’s heavy footfalls break my thoughts.

  “Hey there, how’s my favorite girl?” He coos, leaning over to gently place a kiss on my forehead, much like a father would a small child. The gesture invites more tears to well in my eyes. “I hate what that excuse for a man has done, but I couldn’t be prouder of you.” I’m so close to bawling over the emotion that blankets my soul. The feeling is both empowering and humbling. Mark is the only person who has ever acted like he loved or cared about me. But it was never like this. Probably because now I know it was just that; an act.

  Martha breaks the silence, “You should know, Manny and I talked and well… We think you need to leave town.” Her expression says it all. She’s afraid. But I’m not sure if its fear for my life or how she thinks I mi
ght respond. The weariness written on her face cuts me deep. It’s eye-opening to see how far I’ve actually fallen.

  I grew up in homes with abusive men. I’ve seen what that kind of treatment has done to my own mother. I’ve always told myself I would be better than that. Smarter. Wiser. But you know what I learned? It’s a hell of a lot easier to judge a woman for staying when you don’t fully understand the situation. I thought I was safe with Florida’s golden boy, Mark Langford, the state’s district attorney. Boy was I wrong. He was the beginning of the end. Bad things happen when you accuse the DA, who just happens to be the governor’s son, of domestic abuse. Rampant disbelief and painful scars were my reward. I’m not stupid nor weak. I’m afraid and it’s time to take control of my life.

  How did I let it get this far?

  “I agree, but my situation isn’t any different now than it was then. I have nowhere to go. You and Manny are the closest thing I have to a family. He won’t let me work, so I have no money. Hell, even my car isn’t mine. I have nothing. I swear I’m working on a way out. I just have to be careful about how I do it.” My heart falls heavy before I continue, my tone meeker than I deserve. “You’ve seen what happens when I try to leave.” My stomach churns as the unwanted memories surface. “The only reason I was even allowed to go on my runs every morning is because he didn’t want my ass to get too fat sitting around the house all day.”

  Thankfully, Manny interrupts the disparaging replay in my head when his voice cuts in.

  “Baby girl, I think we’ve reached a point where there is no other option. I’m owed some favors and I think it’s time to cash them in. We are going to get you out of here.” His tone has a finality to it that I can’t argue with. He’s right. Wrinkles form on the tan skin between his brows, making his worry evident.

  Martha’s soft blue eyes land on me again. “Sweet Tea, there’s a catch. You need to get out of here today. The nurse said you aren’t going to be discharged for a few more days, but we can’t wait that long. If we wait until Mark wakes up, it will be too late.”