by T Steele
Copyright © T. Steele 2020
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Resemblances to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.
Edited by: Kate DellaVecchia
Cover designer: Olivia Pro Designs
Beta readers: Hope Lowery, Anastasia Ant, Daisy Sauceda
Playlist Creator: Elysha Brooks
Interior Formatting: Kate Hawthorne
To Angel Kate. Without you, this book would be shit.
Disclaimer: This is a mature, adult book with dark themes and explicit sex scenes. Some may be triggered. Not suitable for readers 17 and younger.
The Redemption of Nixon Thorne Playlist
Created by Elysha Brooks (@booktiqu.e)
Lily Moore “Nothing On You”
Halsey, Lauren Jauregui “Strangers”
Julia Michaels, Morgan Wallen “Heartless”
Snow Patrol “Chasing Cars”
Everybody Loves An Outlaw “I see Red”
Meghan Trainer, AJ Mitchell “After you”
James Arthur “Train Wreck”
Julia Michaels “Heaven”
The Weeknd “Where you belong”
MADISON “Hurt Me”
Madison Beer “HeartLess”
MUSE “Dead inside”
Selena Gomez “The Heart Wants What It Wants”
The Weeknd “Call Out My Name”
The Fray “How To Save A Life”
Billie Eilish “Six Feet Under”
Sasha Sloan “Dancing With Your Ghost”
The Weeknd “Real Life”
Shinedown “Second Chance”
Sam Smith “To Die For”
Louis The Child, Wafia “Better Not”
Chapter one
Ella
“Yes, Dad, I promise I’m being careful,” I repeat to my dad on the phone for the umpteenth time.
If I was there with him, I bet he’d be scratching the back of his neck nervously, staring out at the Pacific Ocean through our kitchen window. Our house wasn’t a mansion by any means, but we lived close to Heceta Beach, and the view was priceless. I wish I could take a deep breath right now and have the ocean air fill my nose. Memories of spotting whales and sea lions with my family sift around in my mind, and I smile, feeling homesick.
Dad has always been overprotective, especially since my aunt—his sister Roxanne—disappeared years ago and never came back. It’s a tragedy that’s haunted our family for years. Something they’ll never recover from. So, I try not to get too frustrated with him. After all, I am his only daughter, and I’m told I look a lot like her. So what if he’s a helicopter parent? At least I know I’m loved.
The breeze whirls across the sliver of skin showing in my baggy crop top as I walk across E 11 Ave at The University of Oregon. My dad rambles on about making sure I carry pepper spray with me everywhere I go; and to kick any man who comes near me in their “misters”—his term, not mine.
I only started here a few weeks ago as a freshman, and my parents were definitely suffering from a serious case of “empty nesters” syndrome. In fact, both of my parents have mentioned multiple times that I am “a whole hour and a half away”. It’s the farthest distance I’ve ever been from them, but I’m an adult now—it’s okay to be homesick, but I can’t let it depress me.
“Alright, honey,” my father says, worry still apparent in his voice, even though he’s trying to sound normal. “Call me when you get in tonight. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Dad,” I say softly.
Once we hang up, I put my cell phone in my purse and fidget now that I don’t have my father to distract me, feeling uncomfortable in my own clothes. Well, in my own skin, if you want to get technical.
Usually, I wore high waisted jeans with my crop top shirts, but today I had spilled coffee all over my pants. And wasn’t that just the perfect way to start your day? Ha, not. I hadn’t had the time to go back to my dorm and change. Thankfully, I had an emergency pair of leggings stashed in my bag. It was just an odd coincidence that they match my shirt, which is long-sleeved, with a striped pattern of mint green and pink with a white-collar. I hated that my pink leggings were the exact same shade as my shirt—I felt too bright. Like I was standing out too much. I felt the weight of everyone's stares on me, and I was grateful that I’d worn a hat with my outfit today so that I could cover my eyes as much as possible.
When you’re a well-endowed woman who had developed early, you come to expect the stares but never really get used to them, and the discomfort was similar to that of an awful sunburn. At least that’s the way the nerves and heat on my cheeks felt.
I had to remind myself that I was new here. I had only been attending classes for a few weeks, and while it felt like a fresh start, I also felt like I was drowning. I have a love-hate relationship with change. I thrive on consistency, but when any sort of inconvenience happens, I need to start over, leave. I never want to stay. Staying got monotonous, tedious even. No one ever seemed to understand how I could be both introverted yet gregarious at the same time. How I could be struck with wanderlust, but crave sameness and isolation.
The thick stack of papers in my hands feel like a death sentence, even though they are something I’m incredibly passionate about.
“Don’t be trashy, keep our parks clean,” they read at the top, with a lovely illustration of a giant green hand that is pointing directly at me on the cover.
Yep, I’m one of those college students, going around like a Jehovah’s Witness passing out flyers so that I could save the environment.
My heart thunders in my chest, and my palms sweat with nerves as I turn onto the sidewalk on 1000 Patterson St.
The Barnhart Hall dormitory is big and gray, with trees sprouting up along the walkway. Students and teachers walk along the sidewalks quickly; coffee, phone, or bookbag in hand. Row after row of bike racks compete for space on the sidewalk, causing the people walking or riding said bikes to veer out into the busy road. Horns blare, and bikers yell as they weave in and out of traffic.
Ah, how pleasant, I think to myself as yet another horn beeps, and someone yells, “Watch what you’re doing, you fucking moron!” out the window.
It’s not like the entire campus was a library or anything of the sort. Still, the students here seem to be rowdier, louder, and richer—or at least it appears that way. And while most of the dormitories are coed, I always feel like there were more guys here.
Men make me nervous, so whenever I walk around campus, I stay aware of my surroundings. I have to reassure myself that it’s midday and plenty of people are out and about, but old habits and all that.
I keep my head down as I walk, pulling my tan boater hat further over my eyes.
Don’t make eye contact with anyone, I tell myself.
It’s not that I don’t want to be friendly, it’s just hard for me to meet new people. Do I smile at them? Do I nod? What about hugging, or a handshake? I never know the protocol. Then, when a conversation does start, I feel obligated to keep it going, always trying to think of exciting new info to share—it’s exhausting.
The song “Can’t Feel My Face” by The Weeknd is playing lightly in the lobby when I open the door. I am instantly uncomfortable when everyone's heads turn to me, but they just eye me for a second and then turn back to what they were doing, deeming me unimportant.
I sigh in relief. Being a freshman
in college is turning out to be way different than being a freshman in high school. In college, nobody really cares about you or what you’re doing, and you don’t matter. Everyone is mostly concerned with themselves, and I couldn’t possibly be more grateful for that.
I start to the left, randomly picking a route. The plan is just to slip some flyers under the doors then move onto the next residential hall.
The thought of turning around and going back to my own dorm crosses my mind, but I ignore it. I’m going to try and do this “adult” thing, and if that means leaving my comfort zone sometimes, then I guess I better get used to it.
Besides, how could I help save the environment when I didn’t want to take any action and actually do the work?
I huff as I stomp up the stairs a little harder than intended, trying to find a way to let out my nervous energy.
I reach the top of the stairs and hurriedly start sliding flyers under the doors. There’s no way I’m going to knock and talk to the residents.
Suddenly, a flyer slides from my hand, swinging through the air like a pendulum before falling to the ground. I curse and jump to get it, but end up hitting my head on one of the doors.
Landing on my butt, I wince, holding my head for a beat before quickly looking back and forth, making sure no one saw, and hoping like hell that they didn’t.
But of course, that would be too much to ask for because just then the door I’d bumped into opens. A tall blonde man stares down at me, grinning, with a blunt hanging from his lips, causing the smell of marijuana to waft into my nose.
He crosses his arms, his brown eyes staring down at me mischievously as he hollers behind him. “Yo, Nix, check out what just got delivered on my very doorstep.”
I scramble for the flyer then quickly stand. My cheeks are on fire, and I feel the sweat starting to form on my brow.
“Did you order me a pretty new package for my birthday? Ahh, you shouldn’t have, buddy,” says the blonde man’s teasing voice.
I’m trying to collect myself, trying to think of things to say and do to make me look like less of an idiot.
But then, something thumps onto the floor.
“Fuck,” comes a rough, gravelly voice.
My eyes finally meet those of the man who had opened the door. But he’s not looking at me. He’s frowning and looking over his shoulder. I follow his gaze, and my eyes widen at the man standing a few feet behind him. A beer bottle is lying on the floor, and I realize he must’ve dropped it. He’s staring at me like he’s seen a ghost. And I’m staring at him like. . . well, I’m just staring. He has hooded gray-blue eyes framed with thick black lashes, high sharp cheekbones, and full lips, which are parted in shock. He’s got a hoop in his nose and some piercings up his ears.
And then there’s his body, which is covered in tattoos—intricate, black ink marks both of his muscular arms and continues onto his neck.
He has one of those haircuts with longer, messy brown waves on the top and shaved sides, and I can see small snake tattoos peeking out from where the hair used to be. The thin white t-shirt he’s wearing gives the impression of even more tattoos underneath, and the beautiful artwork also shows at the knees of his ripped black jeans.
I worry my lip and swallow carefully before I meet his hard stare, but when I see the angry expression on his face, I take a step back. Out of my peripherals, I notice no one is in the hallway, and a slight panic starts to creep in.
“I…” I start to say, then shove the flyer into the blonde guy’s hand.
I swivel around, ready to run away, but then the tattooed guy says, “Wait!”
And then I hear something that stops me in my tracks.
“Ella?” The tattooed guy says my name. My name. How does he know my name?
I stiffen and glance at him over my shoulder, trying not to tremble. He’s frozen, his arm hanging in midair like he’s reaching out to stop me because he knows I’m about to run away.
“Do you remember me?” he asks.
At his words, I do take off running, the remaining papers flying out of my hands. Cursing, I realize too late I dropped my purse and left it on the ground, but at this point, I don’t care.
When a guy like that stares at you the way he just did, you don’t stick around and see what else he has to say. Besides, if I’d ever seen a man like him before, I’d remember.
Stranger danger, and all that.
My feet pound down the stairs, and when I reach the bottom, I hear the same booming steps behind me. When my head snaps around, I see that he’s running after me.
Chapter 2
Nixon
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
“Do you remember me?” The words float around in my head on repeat, and I cringe. Why the hell would I ask that? The girl had already looked terrified of me, reminding me of a tiny hummingbird.
After everything that’s happened, I couldn’t help but ask the question. The words came out as if of their own volition. And now here I am, running after the girl I met all those years ago, back in high school. The first and last time we’d ever spoken. Before I became the Nixon I am today: ex-con, underground fighter, cold, distant.
A fucking monster.
No wonder the girl ran away from me. I’m the type of man parents warned their children to stay away from.
Which, technically, is what she’s doing by running away.
Meanwhile, I’m questioning my life choices—like calling out to her in the first place—as I continue to chase her. What am I thinking?
I’d at least grabbed her purse to return to her, and I can only hope no one thinks I’m trying to mug her. That’s all I need is for the cops to get called.
But as soon as I saw her face back in Jake’s dorm room, it was as if I didn’t have any control in the matter, and that pisses me off and shocks me even more.
But I know her secret, so I understand why she’s running. And fuck if that protective side of me doesn’t come roaring to life—the side that comes out when there’s a distressed woman. It’s out and proud, and I fucking hate that, too. I’d already tried to protect this girl once and look where it fucking got me. I shake my head, watching her fiery red hair fly behind her like a flame as she runs.
She obviously doesn’t remember me, and I can’t help but feel a little anger at that, but also maybe a little relief, too.
The poor eighteen-year-old kid she saw in the lunch line that day at school was tall and lanky, with too-long hair and hand-me-down clothes. Starving. Beaten. Struggling to get by. And no tats. But still good enough to go down on a female teacher from time to time, ya know, just for some extra lunch money and whatnot.
And after all, our old high school made sure to clean up that scandal that I had caused. Everything that happened was all hush-hush, so it’s not like she knows what happened to me. She doesn’t even realize that I know what happened to her.
I finally stop running, ready to just return to Jake’s dorm. I don’t know what came over me.
A woman is literally running from you, you fucking dumbass, and your first thought is to run after her? I bring my hands behind my neck, flexing and breathing deeply, something my anger management classes taught me to do.
For the last four years, I haven’t cared about anything except my mom and my next fight. Fights provide me money. Money allows me to care for my mom. This girl—Ella Black—I have to stay away from her. No matter how much her wide, blue eyes tell me she needs a protector.
She has one of those faces that makes motherfuckers like myself want to swoop in and save the day. She’s all doe-eyed innocence and the kind of beauty that never gets old. Regal. Like some old fairytale princess. That package is dangerous. Makes a man’s cock twitch inside his pants, while at the same time ready to go all caveman at just the thought of someone harming her.
And… this is why I need to turn the fuck around and forget about her.
But of course, just as I’m about to turn, some preppy-ass motherfucker notices her distress; notic
es her running. His head whirls in my direction, his eyes meeting mine before narrowing, staring at the purse in my hands. I can practically see the wheels turning as he connects the dots.
“Go ahead, motherfucker. Try me. I dare you,” I mutter under my breath.
He hurriedly looks away and makes his way toward her.
I grind my teeth together and refrain from telling him I wasn’t going to hurt her. It would only escalate from there, and I can’t afford to hit some asshole out in broad daylight, outside of the ring. I’d just recently gotten off probation as it is.
“Miss,” he says, power walking to her because at this point, she’s slowed, and I can tell she doesn’t have much energy left to keep running.
I clench my fists at my sides as I watch him get closer and closer. Then, when she realizes he’s talking to her, Ella’s eyes widen and she cocks her arm back and punches him in the face, shocking all three of us. But come on, even I have enough sense not to run up behind a frightened animal. She is anything but animalistic, but right now, she reminds me of a terrified squirrel.
“Ahh,” the man screeches like a fucking pansy, squeezing his now bloodied nose, trying to stop the flow before it can stain his Vineyard Vines shirt. I want to laugh, but instead, I’m stomping over there before I even have conscious thought of doing so.
“God, I was just trying to help,” preppy boy says nasally before trudging away. I’m glad he’s walking away from her because I’m not in the mood to deal with him right now.
She sees me and her eyes widen once more, and I notice she cradles her small hand to her chest. I know it must hurt like hell, especially for someone like her who’s likely never thrown a punch.
I raise my hands as if to say I mean no harm, but the fear and trepidation never leave her eyes.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, keeping my voice low.
Her light blue eyes dart around, and her chest heaves. I know she’s about to go into panic mode.
Well, more than she already is.
“I wasn’t trying to scare you,” I say in the same low tone. “Sorry.”