by Addison Jane
Addison Jane
Bayward Street
Addison Jane
Copyright 2016 Addison Jane
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations or places is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author. All songs, song titles and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Editing by Swish Design & Editing
Formatting by Swish Design & Editing
Proofing by Fiona Dreaming – Proofreading & Formatting
Cover design by Kari at Cover to Cover Designs
Cover Models – Garrick Murdie and Sophie Newton
Cover Photographer – Max Ellis
Twisted Transistor, Ryder and Ryker Oakley are characters from the novel Losing Traction and are used with permission and copyright to Amo Jones 2016
Cover Image Copyright 2016
All rights reserved
For my readers, for loving my girls as much as I do.
Going to keep it short and sweet!
Sarah – who keeps me sane and comes up with the most ridiculous plot ideas.
Kim – who doesn't think I'm crazy when I talk about fictional characters like they're real people.
Kay – who tells me to calm the hell down when I'm freaking out.
My betas – the people who think I'm nuts but accept me anyway.
Fiona – the one who boosts us up all the time with her amazing words and heart.
Kari – the woman who can see inside my head before I can.
Lauren, Garrick, Sophie and Max – the team at Uncovered Models – my one stop shop for epic photos.
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Table of Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Connect with Me Online
About the Author
I’m not sure what God was thinking the day he decided to plant me inside my mother’s stomach. Maybe he was having a really shitty day? Maybe someone had just partaken in some premarital sex, or maybe he just wanted to be a dick? Because deciding that I was the one that would grow up with Allison and Greg Campbell as parents, was a decision I would never, ever fucking forgive him for.
Growing up for me was rough at the best of times. I watched my father beat the crap out of my mother on a daily basis, and I watched my mother act like she deserved it. He would use anything he could get his hands on, or that was within reach—his belt, a lamp, the television remote—and I couldn’t fault him for his creativity. I wish I could blame it on alcohol or drugs, but the reality was he was just a power-tripping fucking asshole. My father was an important man. He did a lot for the city and local council, issuing permits for buildings and inspecting for problems. He also had top say in what needed to be torn down and when. The power went directly to his head, a high that involved degrading and demolishing his own wife and child.
For the most part, he left me alone. By this, I meant he had yet to raise his hand to me purposefully. My father exacted his abuse on me in many other forms. He would never buy food for us until he needed something, then he would give my mother a small amount of money to go to the store. Luckily, I always attended schools that provided meals, but that was often the only thing I would eat for days. I couldn’t even count the amount of times he’d locked me in my bedroom, not even allowing me out to use the bathroom and instead just leaving me with a bucket. Most days, I was neglected and treated worse than your typical household pet.
My mother took every beating like the submissive wife that she was. Always accepting that she was in the wrong and bowing down to that man that, in her eyes, owned her. I guess I should thank her in some ways. She showed me the characteristics of a woman that I would never grow up to be. A man was never going to make me feel inferior, nor would a man ever lay a hand on me without a death wish.
I stood by those words a few months before my fifteenth birthday, and Greg Campbell decided it was time for me to accept some responsibility for my mother’s insolence. I was sure it was going to be the last thing he ever did, and the best thing I ever did.
“Come here, you little brat,” my father screamed at me from the living room. I knew shit was about to hit the fan. I’d prepared for it and convinced myself that the second he touched me, that would be the end of his life. My mother could put up with his crap, get kicked to shit every other day, but like hell I was going to wait around for him to beat me down.
“Keira!” he screamed again. I pulled the kitchen drawer open quietly, finding a large butcher’s knife and slipped it out. I shifted it from hand to hand, feeling its weight press into my palm. It was a good feeling, a feeling of power and strength. The surface was shiny, and I could almost see my reflection perfectly in its blade. And for a moment, I wondered what it would look like tainted with my father’s blood. I angled it into the back of my jeans, not wanting a stab wound in my ass cheek if for some reason the asshole caught me off guard. I took two deep, shaky breaths before mustering enough courage to walk into the lion’s den.
The first thing I noticed was my mother curled into the fetal position in the corner of the room. Her legs were tucked tightly to her chest, her hands matted with blood and pressed to the side of her head. My anger spiked quickly, and I had to calm my urge to unsheathe my knife and run at my father in a rage full of vengeance.
“Your mother took some money from my wallet, said it was because we needed food to feed you,” he said eerily calm, as his fat ass attempted to climb off our old worn couch. “You think that’s okay? For her to take my money?”
I didn’t answer him, even when he raised his eyebrows, almost inviting me to talk back so he had a reason to attack. I stood calmly in the doorway between o
ur kitchen and living room. My hand itched to grab the knife. It was like watching an old western, both of us staring each other down, waiting for the other to make the first move. I knew it wouldn’t take long, though, my father hated being ignored just as much as he hated back talk.
“Answer me, Keira,” he growled, taking a few steps closer. It was the slap across the face that took me by surprise, followed closely by my mother’s scream. I was dazed for a moment, having to grip onto the doorway to steady myself. Pain radiated through my jaw and tears burned in my eyes. I could feel his hot breath as he stood over me, taunting me, trying to show me who was boss. I steadied myself with one hand and pushed my shoulders back, daring to look him in the eye. His dark eyes blazed with anger.
“Pathetic little shit,” he spat at me. My free hand reached back into the waistband of my jeans, and I gripped the handle of the knife tightly. “Just like your whore of a mother!” I watched him pull his fist back and suddenly everything slowed. I could feel the change in the air and a high feeling of satisfaction knowing that my world was about to be thrown into a different course.
Before he could throw his fist forward, I yanked the knife out and forced it with all the strength of my small body into the center of my father’s torso. I pushed with every ounce of strength, knowing I only had one shot at this, one shot and I was determined to make it count. My arms burned with the force and my lungs begged for breath as I now realized I was screaming like a crazed warrior running across the battlefield. A blow to the side of my head finally caused me to release my weapon and sent me sprawling across the living room floor. My ears were ringing, and my breathing was ragged, but I looked up in time so see my father stumble backward and land with a jolt into his space on the couch. His eyes stared widely in shock at the foreign object now protruding from just above his belly button. You couldn’t even see any of the blade, it was forced in all the way to the hilt. For a moment, I was completely stunned, not realizing I had that much strength—but they say that adrenaline allowed people to do super human things.
“Y...you fucking b...bitch!”
Jumping at the force of his anger, I scampered across the floor. Blood was pooling around the knife, drenching his off-white T-shirt a sickening bright red. He just laid there, staring at the black handle of the knife, his shaking hands framing it like he was unsure of whether to leave it there or pull it out.
I could hear my mother’s voice, it was frantic and shaky. She stumbled into the room from the hallway, cell phone pressed to her ear and tears streaming down her cheeks.
“He’s been stabbed ... His stomach ... Please!” she cried into the phone before rambling off our home address. I realized then that she was calling an ambulance for him.
“No…” I stumbled as I tried to push myself across the floor, burning my knees on the frayed carpet and grasping at her dress, “…let him die,” I pleaded. Taking a hold of her shoulders when I finally found my weak footing, I shook her harshly.
She wouldn’t even look at me, she continued to sob into her cell phone.
No!
They couldn’t save him.
If they saved him, then there would be no justice served.
He needed his life to be stripped away from him, just like he’d done to mine, and like he’d done to my mother’s. I looked around frantically before finally deciding on a course of action that would no longer allow this man to destroy our lives. I straightened my shoulders, and walked with strength and purpose to the kitchen, throwing open the drawers in search of another large knife. By now I could hear the sounds of sirens tinkling in the distance, growing closer with every second. Reaching in I found the next best thing, a black-handled steak knife with a serrated edge. It wasn’t as large and it wasn’t as heavy, but I was running out of time.
My steps were sharp and solid as I returned to stand before my father. His eyes were starting to glaze, and I knew it was only moments before he would pass out completely.
“I hate you,” I told him darkly. “You made it your mission to make mine and Mom’s lives a living hell. But the funny thing is, now you’re the one who’s going to be hiding from the Devil. Rot in hell.” I raised the knife, ready to thrust it through his lower belly. Unfortunately, once again God threw me another big fat ‘fuck you’ as I was tackled to the ground. The knife was ripped from my hand, and my arms were wrenched harshly behind my back causing a cry of pain to escape my mouth. I felt the cold steel of the handcuffs encompassing my wrists as I looked up to see a rush of paramedics working on my father’s now unconscious body.
My mother’s attention was focused on my father as I was pulled by several policemen out the front door. I wondered why she was crying. Why she didn’t just let me kill him and let us have a better life? I knew my life was about to change dramatically, and as I sat in the backseat of the police car I smiled, knowing that no matter what, it was for the better.
The sounds of my rollerblades against the concrete of the sidewalk was a steady hum. Even as I moved my body, weaving through the strangers that bustled along the busy city streets, the sound stayed the same. A break in the pavement stalled the noise momentarily, but once it was gone, the same hum I heard every day as I bladed these streets, continued.
This was my life.
I lived a steady hum.
I rounded a corner, swerving to miss a businessman who had his head down. He typed furiously, his fingers tapping at ridiculous speed against the touch screen of his cellphone, never even stopping to look up as I breezed past him, our shoulders skimming each other.
As I continued down the side street, I argued with myself about whether I should go back. Men like him were the reason that people like me survived another day. They were oblivious to the world around them, uncaring about anyone except for themselves and where they needed to be or what to buy for lunch.
I, on the other hand, had people who relied on me, nowhere to be, and the chances of me eating on any given day were always slim to none. Taking a quick look over my shoulder, I noticed the man was now across the street and disappearing into a large office building. My chance was gone, but I made a mental note of the time, suspecting that maybe this path was just a part of his regular commute to work, and I may have a chance another day.
I kicked up my speed, pushing myself faster. People never stepped out of my way. It didn’t surprise me, though. They thought they were better than me, they thought I had no right to be on this street with them. They were rushing to high profile jobs with their Gucci bags and business suits—lawyers, accountants, personal assistants, doctors— they were all possibilities.
And what was I? I was a Bayward Street brat.
I robbed, I cheated, and sometimes I found food out the back of stores inside dumpsters. But no one was ever going to tell me where I could or couldn’t walk because I was a human being. And I may live on the streets, but I was still a person, and that gave me the right to walk or ride wherever the fuck I liked, just like them.
I’d built up a slight sweat by the time I’d reached my destination. As the beads condensed at my hairline, it was a pleasant reminder that I’d made it through another winter.
While California rarely reaches freezing, when you’re outside constantly in the rain and the cool air, it can still be deadly. It was so easy to forget that having a home meant when you had to leave it and brave the weather, it would still be right there ready and waiting for you. It was a sanctuary away from the elements. But when your home was the streets, there was no sanctuary. You did whatever you could to keep warm, and you hoped like hell that when you went to sleep that night, that you would wake up the next morning.
“Mr. Song, so nice to see you,” I beamed as I skidded to a halt outside the small dry-cleaning business.
He used his index finger to push his glasses up from the tip of his nose before welcoming me with a wide grin. “Fable! So nice to see you.”
When my life on the street began, Mr. Song was one of the first people to speak to me lik
e I wasn’t just a piece of gum on the bottom of a shoe. As I sat on the sidewalk, holding my cardboard sign, he crouched down next to me and simply said, “No one give you money because you’re dirty and smelly. Come, I help.”
Layla, my best friend and fellow brat, had always told me not to trust any man who offered to take me somewhere and help me. But I saw something different in Mr. Song’s eyes, different to what I saw in the eyes of the people who walked past me in the street.
Compassion.
Song’s Dry-cleaning was a small but busy business. What he offered me that day, was a trade. I worked for a few hours in his store once a week, and he allowed me to wash and dry my clothes and have a shower. At the time, I’d felt like clean clothes were the least of my worries, the grumbling of my empty stomach ruling over all my other senses.
But he explained, “Girl with dirty clothes and unwash hair, look like drug addict. Girl who nice dressed, smell good, look like a girl who just need a little helping hand.”
His words made sense. People judged each other daily on their appearance. How you presented yourself could be the difference between getting the job you applied for or not, or getting a date with the woman you’ve been pining over.
The streets were no different. People still judged us by the way we looked, just for different reasons. How often did people walk down the street and see a homeless person with their tattered clothing and mangled hair, and think, ‘they’d just use the money for drugs or alcohol.’
I learned pretty fast that looking after myself meant maybe surviving another day.
Mr. Song invited me inside, and I made quick work of pouring the clothes from my duffle bag into an empty washing machine, before ducking upstairs to the small apartment he lived in and climbing into a hot shower. It was most likely the only one I would have all week, so I made it count. Washing away the scum of the last seven days, and delighting in seeing it wash down the drain at my feet. I washed and dried my hair before retreating back downstairs and switching my now clean clothes into a dryer.