Path of Destruction

by Cara Dee

  Path of Destruction

  Cara Dee

  Copyright © 2017 by Cara Dee

  All rights reserved

  Edited by Silently Correcting Your Grammar, LLC.

  Disclaimer: This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All references to ancient or historical events, persons living or dead, locations, and places are used in a fictional manner. Any other names, characters, incidents, and places are derived from the author’s own imagination. Similarities to persons living or dead, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of any wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Warning: This story contains scenes of an explicit, erotic nature and is intended for adults, 18+. Characters portrayed in sexual situations are 18 or older.

  Formatted and proofread by Rachel Lawrence.

  Part I

  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

  Part II

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue 1

  Epilogue 2

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  2007

  Lincoln Hayes

  She was damned beautiful, still. Maybe even more so now than before. She'd cut her hair, though. It used to be long. I liked wrapping it around my fist while I fucked her.

  Now it was short and messy—darker, too. Darker than mine. She tucked it behind her ear as she spoke. She was nervous and wouldn’t keep eye contact for long. Was my staring making her uncomfortable?

  Good.

  I folded my arms over my chest, my knee bouncing. I sat like some slouch, and she was as stiff as a stick. Still talking. Her lips moved. Every now and then, she'd lick them, and I tilted my head. In a past life, I'd pushed my cock between those lips. She was so fucking small and slight. She'd filled out over the years, matured, and become curvy. But the slightness of her hadn't faded.

  Answer her.

  I snapped back to the moment. "Huh?"

  She shifted in her seat and sat a bit straighter. "I'm asking for permission. I know I don’t need it, but—"

  "No, you really don’t," I replied flatly.

  Annoyance flashed in her eyes. It was cute. "I'm trying to be civil, Lincoln. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t drowning in debt. This is a great opportunity, but since it involves you…"

  I shrugged and scratched my brow. "You said it'd be anonymous."

  Why she wanted to write our train wreck of a story was beyond me. I assumed it was Morgan who'd pulled strings for her to get a book deal—if they were still in touch. Truthfully, I didn’t give a shit.

  You give a shit.

  "No names," she confirmed. "No details that would give anyone up, nothing that led up to…" She gave the room a glance and winced.

  I stared at her. "You can say prison, Ade."

  She nodded and looked down at the table. "I'm—" She stopped, flustered. "Christ," she whispered. "I've had an apology at the tip of my tongue for years, but I'm angry, too."

  I didn’t want her fucking concern, and she could take her anger and shove it.

  I didn’t wanna stay, so make me the first inmate I knew to cut a visit short. I rose from the chair and said, "Publish your damn book. I don’t care."

  "Wait." She stood up too, and a CO looked over at us. "Every time I wanted to visit, you denied it. You never answered any of my letters until this last one. Why now?"

  She made it sound like she'd tried to visit me tons of times. Maybe three or four in nine years. A dozen letters, mostly in the beginning of my bid.

  "You said you needed money." I shrugged. "If this'll help…"

  She pursed her lips, not my favorite trait of hers. "That sounds almost like you have a heart."

  I lifted a brow. So she was trying to be funny. Very hilarious. I'd told her once I didn’t have a heart, yet she'd ripped it out just fine.

  It was time to get out of here. Memories of our past were all I had left, and I'd done a good job with suppressing the most painful parts. It was easier to be empty in here. Nothing else worked.

  "Good luck with the book." I turned toward the guard, and he opened the door for me.

  Back in the safety of the corridor, I blew out a breath. Nine fucking years. Jesus. I thought I'd prepared myself, but seeing her again…

  I regretted responding to her letter.

  Drowning in debt.

  The fuck did I care for?

  "Keep walking, inmate."

  I would, but a sudden burst of rage got the best of me, and I sent a fist flying straight into the wall. "Motherfucker!" I shouted. Why the fuck did she come here?

  "Hey!" The CO shoved me into the wall and glared while I nursed my hand. "That’s one for insolence."

  "Oh, for chrissakes," I growled.

  *

  A few weeks later, I was heading out to the courtyard with a letter in my hand. On the way, a CO nodded at me, so I passed him and muttered a thanks. My lucky day. A pack of smokes. I pocketed them quickly.

  "You get ten minutes, Hayes."

  I inclined my head and found my usual spot, a picnic table only one CO checked.

  I sat down next to Nunez and Kid. I lit up a smoke and inhaled deeply, squinting. The sun was coming down hard for November. Sweet mother of nicotine. Some days were warm, some were frigid. Michigan was one moody broad. No middle ground.

  "God, I'm bored," Kid sighed.

  "Boredom beats the alternative," Nunez noted.

  Kid side-eyed him. "Which is?"

  He could be living in constant fear in a maximum security prison, for one.

  I stared at the letter and fingered the edge that'd been torn up. Why did she write again? It was a thick letter. More than one page. It was dated a week ago, so they must've had fun screening it in the mailroom.

  "You got a letter?" Kid asked.

  "No, you dumb shit. I got a TV." I took a drag from my smoke and left it between my lips as I pulled out the pages. Five of them. Wordy little bitch. She should leave me alone.

  "Yo!"

  I didn’t look up. A basketball rolled by my feet, and Kid went for it to toss it back to the guys playing hoops.

  "From your lawyer?" Nunez wondered. "You've served your minimum soon, haven't you?"

  "Not for another year," I muttered. I avoided that topic. Too many took parole for granted when they'd served the minimum of their sentences, and I knew what crushed hope looked like. When you were doing ten to fifteen, being denied parole wasn’t some pocket change of time. It could be years of suffocation, of having no identity, no meaning, no worth.

  I eyed the top of the letter from Ade.

  Hi, Lincoln. I have until December
12th to get this to…

  I stopped reading and tucked it into my pocket. She needed to go away. Disappear. The memories of the anxiety and the nightmares were too vivid—nothing I could afford anymore. It'd been a big goddamn mistake to see her.

  Taking another puff from the smoke, I shoved at Kid's shoulder. "Didn’t I fucking tell you to work out more?" What would happen to his scrawny ass when I wasn’t here to protect it?

  He scowled. He had kid eyes. Blue and bright with youth. He hadn't been broken yet. "I work out every day, dammit."

  Nunez snorted.

  I shook my head and stole his beanie, leaving the kid's hair a black, shaggy mess, and he got cunty. "What?" I flinched toward him. "You gonna take it from me? Huh?"

  Yeah, sit down, boy. He slumped his shoulders and pushed back his hair. "Fine, asshole. Gimme my beanie. My nana knitted it."

  Nunez laughed.

  "Jesus." I threw it in the nearest puddle. "Lift iron so that doesn’t happen again, we clear? Don't beg to be raped."

  Kid shot me a scowl and then went to retrieve his sodden beanie.

  *

  I lasted two days. Lights would be out soon, so I slid the letter under my pillow to read it in a bit.

  "You all right?" I asked.

  Kid nodded. He touched his banged-up cheek and flinched, and I batted away his hand. Was he fucking dumb? What good would it do to touch it?

  "Should I report it?" He sat down on his bed and flicked a glance out our cell. "Mack's got too many friends."

  "You answered your own question." I climbed up to my bunk and lay down to stare at the concrete ceiling. One arm under my head, one leg dangling off the edge of the bed. The letter burned under the pillow. "You know where snitches end up…" Half a joke.

  He sighed heavily and poked my foot. "I've made it a year without much fuss."

  Yeah. That luck could end fast. It happened to most of us. Harassment was a certainty, and he couldn’t be a pussy about it. Then it'd never get better.

  Shit, this place was a cakewalk in comparison. I spent my first three years in a maximum security facility before being transferred here on good behavior. At that other place, I learned some lessons the hard way. I wised up, bulked up, and buried a lot of who I used to be. Even here, though, while being a joint with medium security, shit went down often enough. Kid had to toughen the fuck up unless he wanted to be taken for a ride.

  "Do you think he'll try to rape me?" Kid asked.

  "No." If Mack wanted to tear up his ass, he would've done it already. It was intimidation tactics. If he had an end goal, it was to milk the kid of funds. "It's what you get for mentioning you come from money."

  "You come from money."

  "I sure as shit don’t," I replied gruffly.

  "You're famous."

  I used to be. "You can stop talking now."

  There were forty-three little cracks in the ceiling over my bed. I'd traced them all with a pen. I didn’t have any pens at the moment, so I couldn’t write. The COs got their rocks off during contraband searches, and whether you were allowed to have a certain item or not, they could take it for shits and giggles. I missed having a pen. I missed writing.

  Missing things would get me nowhere.

  I released a long breath and waited, counting the seconds until the nightly routine was over. Click, click. Two inmates accounted for in this cell. The telltale whirr and snick as the locks to each cell were secured. The countdown until lights were out. Toilets flushing. Toothpaste being spat out.

  The fluorescent lamps flickered in the ceiling and went out, followed by a low buzz that eventually faded, too.

  "Lemme borrow your flashlight," I said quietly, extending my arm.

  He fumbled a bit before finding my hand in the dark. "Can I come up?"

  "No." Fuck, I was raising one weak-ass little punk. I never should've bothered with him in the first place. Rolling onto my stomach, I dug out the letter and yanked the blanket over my head. "That was a one-time thing because you were freaking out. Get some sleep."

  "I don’t feel good," he whispered.

  "Ask your nana to knit you a new beanie."

  "She's dead, asshole."

  Oh. I winced. "Just go to sleep, okay?"

  He shut up, thank Christ, and I was left alone to read Ade's letter.

  Hi, Lincoln. I have until December 12th to get this to the editor.

  Please read it? If you have any objections, I'll fix them before I send it off. I haven't changed the names yet, but I will. I'm incredibly uncomfortable about this. Sorry to bother you.

  I flipped a page and frowned. It was the first chapter of her book. A book about us.

  I shouldn’t read it.

  Goddammit.

  I didn’t only regret letting her visit me. I regretted ever meeting her. Why did she get on that bus? Why was she on that fucking lawn?

  I knew too well how she sucked me in and why. After six years on the road with one of the biggest rock bands in the world, I'd become nasty. Everyone looked up to me—to us—and I never saw the reason. We could do whatever the hell we wanted. It was accepted. It was okay. But it wasn’t, so I lost respect for humanity. I wanted to ruin everyone.

  * * *

  1998

  "Destruction! Destruction! Destruction!"

  I poured a thin line of coke on the back of my hand and snorted the powder. The stage was dark again after the opening act had wrapped up. Crew ran around. I coughed and swallowed, wiped my nose and rolled my shoulders. My roadie set up my other two guitars behind a wall of amps. Rehearsals and studio time were taking a break. New tour, our seventh one. It was gonna be a busy summer.

  "Destruction! Destruction! Destruction!"

  The Forum in LA was alive tonight. Fans were creaming themselves because they'd made it to the first show of Path of Destruction's Beaten Path Tour.

  Mikey got behind the drums, his kid brother having taken care of soundcheck. We were getting lazy. Everything was handed to us. Tony followed, zipping up his leathers after a pre-show blow job. A roadie handed him his guitar. Then Sam joined, and we were ready.

  "Destruction! Destruction! Destruction!"

  I drained my beer and threw it somewhere behind the amps.

  The second I hit the first chord, the arena erupted in cheers, screams, and stomping feet. I repeated the six-note lick a few times, teasing the audience. The buzz coursed through me and mingled with the coke; these days, it was the only way I knew I was alive. It put a grin on my face, and my heart pumped blood through my system, offering a moment where I was fucking ecstatic. A moment where these shitheads weren't so shitty, after all. Maybe I even loved them for seeing me as a god who could do no wrong.

  The sound of my guitar poured out over the arena, and some fifteen seconds into the opening solo, the spotlights lit up the stage. Mikey slammed his foot down on the bass drum and pounded the snare and the floor tom, the heavy impact traveling through the stage floor. Brow furrowed in concentration, I built up speed with the next few licks, shredding some of them. The roar of the crowd was deafening by the time Tony grabbed the mic to say it was fucking awesome to start our tour in LA.

  Fucking awesome. I wouldn’t agree until later that night, when I met Adeline Ivey.

  Chapter 2

  Adeline Ivey

  1998

  Pushing past gaggles of Valley girls, musicians, and their entourages, I found the lawn mostly empty of rich partygoers. The terrace was full, as were the pool and the hot tub. Everyone was having an awesome time. So was I.

  A smile graced my lips, and I held out my arms and tilted my face up. I danced and danced and danced, and then spun around until laughter broke free, until the bright colors were back.

  This is how life is supposed to be.

  The massive garden was bathed in joy, and I lost my balance while trying to strip off my denim overall shorts. One strap got free before I landed in the soft grass.

  My fingers played on invisible piano keys in front of me, t
he night sky as the only background. Black and blue against purple and orange. The lights of LA painted a spectacle in the smog.

  Keep the nightmares away from me, Mr. Smog.

  I giggled at myself.

  "Hey. Tiny dancer."

  I turned my head, a piece of grass tickling my ear, and I smiled. "That’s a good song."

  Hands down the pockets of his black, faded jeans, he stared at me with amusement in his eyes, looking like some rock star. I admired the ink covering his arms. He had some on his neck too, where it met dark, short, unkempt hair. Hottie.

  I stopped playing piano in the heavens. "Hi."

  He did this little twist with his lips, like he wanted to smirk but decided against it. "Hey."

  "Have you heard the legend of why there aren't any stars in LA?" I asked.

  He sat down next to me and lit a cigarette. "Nope. Let's hear it."

  I closed my eyes and grinned. "The legend goes, for every star that’s born in the movie and music industry, a star in the sky dies. At some point, there were too many stars in Hollywood, so now the sky is mourning. There are no real stars left."

  He chuckled, a low and warm sound. "You made that shit up."

  "As if!" I beamed back at him, and the patio lights hit me right there. It turned him into a silhouette. "Okay, I did. Was it believable?"

  "Not for someone who's sober." He blew out a couple smoke rings.

  I messed them up with a finger. "Why are you sober?"

  "I just got here. My buddies were talking about you, so I figured I'd do you a solid and advise you to stay away."

  "That’s nice of you. Are they assholes?"

  He laughed under his breath and shrugged. "Mikey has a thing for semiconscious girls."

  Hmm. Asshole, then.

  The man looked familiar, though I could be mixing him up with someone else. I left parties to find the next one these days. Too many faces. It was better that way. No one to remember.

  "Are you famous?" I wondered.

  He lifted a shoulder. "I play guitar in Destruction."

  In other words, he was huge. The party was a sendoff for Path of Destruction, a good-luck and a slap on the ass for a good tour. If I wasn't mistaken, they'd just had their first concert before this party.