Imperfect

by Cherry Shephard

  My heart quite literally ached for each character as the story progressed. Stone and Shannon both have their problems, but together what they are faced with is far from easy. Cherry Shephard will bring you to your knees in tears and beaming from ear to ear. This book is amazing!

  Saints & Sinners Books

  Imperfectly PERFECT, you’ll laugh cry and scream till your voice is hoarse. This book hits every emotion on the radar. It gives you a real life look into the trials and tribulations of just how messy and beautiful love can be!

  Krystal Fahl

  You made me laugh, cry and my heart acheso so bad for them. (Its still thudding now and I have finished the book 5 minutes ago) But most of all, you sucked me into their story that made me Feel. Feel the bad, the good, the great and the down right sinfully naughty. Loved Loved LOVED IT!

  Kasey Crees

  We all want a man that is imperfectly perfect and that man is Stone.

  Jaye Cox

  Truly you have excelled yourself in writing. Thank you so much for perfection.

  Bec Paterson

  This book is licensed for your enjoyment only. It may not be sold, copied or reproduced by any means, including print, scan, copying, fax or email, without express written permission by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to businesses, people or activities is purely coincidental.

  Imperfect (Blaze of Glory #1)

  Copyright © 2015 Cherry Shephard

  This book contains scenes that may be considered a trigger for some readers. Please exercise caution when reading, and ensure that your files are stored safely, away from persons under eighteen (18) years of age. The author accepts no responsibility for any minor that may pick up this book, or any damage caused by trigger scenes in reading this book.

  Cover design: Sara Eirew Photography

  Edited by Kristin Scearce of Hot Tree Editing

  Formatted by Sassie Lewis sassie.lewis@gmail.com

  http://www.cherryshephard.net

  http://www.facebook.com/AuthorCherryS

  http://www.facebook.com/groups/CherrysGroupies

  Dedication

  For my children, may you find your perfectly imperfect love.

  Zzyxz Rd - Stone Sour

  Can’t Feel My Face - The Weeknd

  Hurricane - Thirty Seconds To Mars

  Start Again - Conrad Sewell

  Absolute Zero - Stone Sour

  Keep Holding On - Avril Lavigne

  Good For You - Selena Gomez

  Higher - Creed

  Blaze of Glory - Bon Jovi

  Lullaby - Shawn Mullins

  Again a verse for sake of you,

  You soldiers in the ranks—you Volunteers,

  Who bravely fighting, silent fell,

  To fill unmention'd graves.

  Ashes of soldiers!

  As I muse, retrospective, murmuring a chant in thought,

  Lo! thewar resumes—again to my sense your shapes,

  And again the advance of armies.

  Noiseless as mists and vapors,

  From their graves in the trenches ascending,

  From the cemeteries all through Virginia and Tennessee,

  From every point of the compass, out of the countless unnamed graves,

  In wafted clouds, in myraids large, or squads of twos or threes, or single ones, they come,

  And silently gather round me.

  Now sound no note, O trumpeters!

  Not at the head of my cavalry, parading on spirited horses,

  With sabres drawn and glist'ning, and carbines by their thighs—(ah, my brave horsemen!

  My handsome, tan-faced horsemen! what life, what joy and pride,

  With all the perils, were yours!)

  Nor you drummers—neither at reveille, at dawn,

  Nor the long roll alarming the camp—nor even the muffled beat for a burial;

  Nothing from you, this time, O drummers, bearing my warlike drums.

  But aside from these, and the marts of wealth, and the crowded promenade,

  Admitting around me comrades close, unseen by the rest, and voiceless,

  The slain elate and alive again—the dust and debris alive,

  I chant this chant of my silent soul, in the name of all dead soldiers.

  Faces so pale, with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather closer yet;

  Draw close, but speak not.

  Phantoms of countless lost!

  Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my companions!

  Follow me ever! desert me not, while I live.

  Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the living! sweet are the musical voices sounding!

  But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead, with their silent eyes.

  Dearest comrades! all is over and long gone;

  But love is not over—and what love, O comrades!

  Perfume from battle-fieldsrising—up from foetor arising.

  Perfume therefore my chant, O love! immortal Love!

  Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers,

  Shroud them, embalm them, cover them all over with tender pride!

  Perfume all! make all wholesome!

  Make these ashes to nourish and blossom,

  O love! O chant! solve all, fructify all with the last chemistry.

  Give me exhaustless—make me a fountain,

  That I exhale love from me wherever I go, like a moist perennial dew,

  For the ashes of all dead soldiers.

  One year ago…

  Hurrmmm.

  My blood runs cold at the familiar sound of the motorbike turning onto the street.

  He’s home early.

  I drop the letter I’m reading back on the coffee table and jump to my feet. Hurrying into the kitchen, I pull out two plates and set them on the table, along with knives and forks. Offering up a silent prayer, I stick a fork into the potatoes, my heart sinking as the fork doesn’t go all the way through. No time to fix it now.

  Quickly dishing up the roast beef I’d cut earlier, I put the potatoes and peas on the plates and set them on the table. Adding an open beer, I throw the dirty pots into the dishwasher and hurry into the bathroom.

  I hear the engine of the motorbike stop, and the smashing glass on the driveway as he drops a bottle of beer. Tidying my hair, I wince at the stain of tears on my cheeks. I touch up my makeup in less than twenty seconds, and then I am standing at the front door waiting for him, a carefully practiced smile on my face.

  He is swearing loudly at the broken bottle, and my hands start to shake as he walks, no, stumbles, up to the front door of our lower floor apartment.

  “Hi sweetie,” I say as he comes through the door. “How was your day?”

  He pauses and gives me a sweeping look from head to toe. Once upon a time, that look might have made me blush; now it just makes my skin crawl.

  He grunts and moves into the kitchen, sprawling out on one of the chairs as he eyes the dinner in front of him distastefully. “What the fuck is this?”

  “Roast beef,” I say quietly, sitting opposite him. I’m careful not to make eye contact as I pick up my knife and fork, slicing into the tender meat.

  “It looks like roast crap.”

  I flinch inwardly at his hurtful statement, but I keep my face carefully stoic and say nothing. He picks up his fork and stabs at his plate, and I think my heart just about jumps into my throat when he tries unsuccessfully to spear a piece of potato.

  He says nothing, but raises his eyes to mine. My fork drops to the plate with a loud clatter, and the chair scrapes across the floor as I scoot back, my eyes wide.

  “Troy, I can explain, I—”

  “Shannon,” he says in a quiet voice, his eyes never leaving mine. “Come here.”

  My mind is scr
eaming no, but my feet seem to move of their own accord. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears as I shuffle toward him. He grabs my arm and drags me the rest of the way as he stands and begins unfastening his belt. I lower my lashes as his breathing becomes labored.

  “On the couch,” he orders quietly. I turn my back and move to the living room. I hear his heavy footsteps following me, and try to suppress the shudder that runs through me.

  I lie face down on the couch and squeeze my eyes shut, waiting.

  “What the fuck is this?” he sneers, picking up the letter I’d carelessly dropped on the coffee table. My heart beats faster. Please don’t read it.

  Dear Miss Harper,

  We regret to inform you that there has been a terrible accident. Your father is…

  He pauses and my eyes fly open. I turn my head to look at him, and immediately regret my mistake. He’s standing over me, the letter still in his hand and a smirk on his face.

  “Daddy’s dead,” he says gleefully. “Oh, poor kitten, no wonder you couldn’t cook me a decent meal.”

  I cry out as the belt cuts across my back. Tears immediately pool in my eyes, and I blink rapidly to force them back.

  “Did you think I’d care that your father’s dead?” Troy is shouting as the belt cuts into my sensitive flesh again. I refuse to answer, and this only provokes him further. He grabs my arm and drags me off the couch, sending me flying to the ground with a backhand across my right cheek.

  “Stupid fucking slut!” he screams, leaning down to grab a fistful of my hair and pull my head up to look at him. “Can’t you do anything right?” He kicks me in the stomach and I fall over once more, holding a protective hand against my stomach as he kicks me again.

  I cough as I try to draw air into my lungs, but the small amount I receive is not enough. He’s on top of me now pinning me to the carpet on my back, his hands around my throat as he chokes the life out of me. My fingers slap feebly at his hands, but I can feel the fight leaving my body. My lungs are starving, and I see white spots dancing in front of my eyes.

  Troy releases me in disgust, and my hands replace his around my neck, gasping for air. I hear the front door slam, the motorbike start up and tear down the street. I lie there for five minutes… hours… hell, I don’t know, but it’s pitch black outside as I slowly roll to my stomach and get to my feet, wrapping an arm loosely around my midsection.

  I make my way into the bathroom where I survey the damage in the mirror. My left eye is an almost pretty mix of blues and purples and there are angry red fingerprints around my throat.

  Something stirs inside me, something I haven’t felt in a long time.

  Anger.

  It bubbles inside me until it blurs my vision. Sweat runs down my forehead as my fist finds the mirror, smashing my reflection again and again, until it lay in pieces in the sink. Blood drips into the sink, staining the perfect white porcelain. But I don’t feel it.

  I don’t feel anything.

  Tearing strips off an old shirt in the laundry hamper, I bandage my cut hands as best I can before making my way back to the living room.

  As I stare around the room that once felt homey, my eyes are drawn to the letter Troy dropped on the floor. My father is dead. I’m all alone in the world, the final person from my former life gone in a single moment. But there’s always a silver lining, and the irony is not lost on me, that even in death, Daddy is there when I need him the most. I pick up the letter and re-read the bottom sentence:

  In addition to the family home and bank account, Darius also left Saddles to your care. He knew you’d make the right decision.

  Saddles, Daddy’s bar. One of the last connections to my former life, save for my sister, before I came to live in this waking nightmare. My own personal hell.

  Determination fills me, and I’m struck with a new-found confidence as I clutch the letter to my heart.

  Troy will never hurt me again.

  Today…

  I lift the half-empty glass to my lips and drain the beer that remains as I hold my hand up to the bartender, signaling for another.

  It’s about ten o’clock on a Friday night, and the small-town Texan bar, Saddles, is overcrowded, hot and noisy. Some country band is playing on the stage at the opposite end of the room, but I can’t tell what song it is. I don’t really care, either. Instead, my plan is to keep my ass firmly planted to this hard bar stool, drink my beer, and ponder where my life went so wrong.

  Married when I was just eighteen years old to a young, fresh-faced blonde girl, Grace had been everything I could want in a woman: virginal, sweet, and compassionate. It was no surprise my grandmother had conspired with her father to marry us off.

  Unfortunately, like all marriages, we had our problems. Ever since I was just a kid, my grandmother told me stories of my heroic father who fought so bravely in World War Two to defend our country. I’d grown up with every intention of following in his footsteps.

  Grace had never seen it that way, though. On the day I told her about my dream, she’d given me an ultimatum: The Army, or her.

  That was just the way she was. I suspect she didn’t want to see me injured.

  I tried to be a good husband, and put the idea of the Army from my mind. But after the attacks on September 11th, my mind was made up. Despite her tears and childish tantrums, I’d enlisted in the Army and left the next month to begin the standard ten-week boot camp training that would prepare me for life as a U.S soldier.

  When I eventually left for Afghanistan a few years later, Grace tried to make the best of our situation. But she’d been so young and beautiful. She wanted to live, not be held down, waiting for a husband who would, as she put it so often, recklessly endanger his life, and may never return to her.

  I’d been in Afghanistan just two months when I received the notice of intent to divorce.

  I tore it up.

  My parents died in a car accident when I was just a few months old, and I’d been raised by my maternal grandmother. She was a no-nonsense sort of woman, with a heart of gold and everyone loved her. It was a quiet day among the ranks when I was handed an obituary statement. She’d passed away of breast cancer the year after we arrived in Afghanistan.

  With my marriage dissolved, I’d thrown myself into my duties, rising through the ranks to be Staff Sergeant Ethan Stone.

  Based in Afghanistan for more than ten years, I’d seen my fair share of horror - men beheaded in the streets by rebels, girls as young as twelve married to the highest bidder, and so many other gruesome sights associated with conflict.

  Nightmares just aren’t for kids. I’m thirty-two years old and I still dream of a real-life horror. A girl of about sixteen years old and I couldn’t get to her without risking my own life . . . something I selfishly wasn’t prepared to do. Every time I close my eyes, I see the vile scene play out. Her captors holding her down while they take turns violating her in front of me as I hide behind a pile of empty boxes. I’ve never felt as helpless as I did in those moments.

  I’ve never forgotten her.

  “Stone,” a voice says beside me. I glance up to see my best friend and fellow Army brother, Damien Keets, slide onto the bar stool next to me.

  I say nothing, simply raise my half-empty beer glass in a brief, silent greeting.

  “Whiskey,” Keets calls to the pretty, young bartender, who pours us both a glass before moving to serve a young couple at the other end of the bar.

  “How much have you had to drink?” Keets asks, his voice barely audible in the loud bar.

  I look at my half-empty glass then at my friend. In answer, I raise the glass to my lips and down the remaining beer before pulling the new glass over to me.

  “You have to stop doing this to yourself,” Keets scolds. “You’ve been home three months, and I’ve yet to see you sober.

  “What do you fucking care?” I finally snap, slamming the glass down on the bar. Whiskey splashes over the edge and hits the back of my hand, but I ignore it. “I’m h
ere, and I’m getting drunk.” I can hear my voice slurring as I raise my glass, gesturing around the room. “Just like everyone else.”

  “Not everyone else has seen what you’ve seen,” Keets states, draining his whiskey and signaling for another. “Look, man, I get it, okay? I do. But you can’t keep beating yourself up over this. You know you couldn’t save her.”

  I glance over at my friend. Keets is the only soul I’ve ever told the details to about that horrible night. I’d spent six hours curled up behind some boxes as I listened to her screams grow fainter. They hadn’t been small men; she’d never stood a chance. I couldn’t help the constant feeling of guilt that I should have at least tried to help her.

  I finish my whiskey and stand up, steadying my hand on the bar as the room sways around me. I pull some money from the pocket of my jeans and throw it on the bar before looking at Keets. “I’ll see you later,” I say. I’m so fucking tired all of a sudden. I just want to go home.

  I try to walk away, but my legs are becoming increasingly unsteady. I must have had more to drink than I thought. I limp toward the front door of the bar, but a woman’s scream above the music behind me makes me pause. Slowly, I turn back around.

  “Let go of me!” the pretty, blonde barmaid is yelling, slapping away the hands of a man who’s clearly had too much to drink.

  “Come on, love. You can’t expect to go waltzing around this bar in those tiny shorts and not let me get a feel,” he sneers, his crooked teeth standing out as he grins. He’s sitting at a table with three other men. They are laughing amongst themselves, encouraging him. “I bet that ass is as soft as it looks.”