Charlie's Whiskey

by Harlow Brown

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Charlie 1

  Charlie 2

  Charlie 3

  Charlie 4

  Charlie 5

  Charlie 6

  Whiskey 7

  Whiskey 8

  Charlie 9

  Whiskey 10

  Whiskey 11

  Whiskey 12

  Charlie 13

  Whiskey 14

  Charlie 15

  Whiskey 16

  Charlie 17

  Whiskey 18

  Charlie 19

  Whiskey 20

  Charlie 21

  Whiskey 22

  Charlie 23

  Whiskey 24

  Charlie 25

  Whiskey 26

  Charlie 27

  Whiskey 28

  Charlie 29

  Whiskey 30

  Charlie 31

  Whiskey 32

  Charlie 33

  Whiskey 34

  Charlie 35

  Whiskey 36

  Charlie 37

  Whiskey 38

  Charlie 39

  Whiskey 40

  Charlie 41

  Whiskey 42

  Charlie 43

  Whiskey 44

  Charlie 45

  Charlie 46

  Whiskey 47

  Charlie 48

  Whiskey 49

  Charlie 50

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2016 Harlow Brown

  Published by Harlow Brown

  Cover designed by Judi Perkins at Concierge Literary Promotions

  Ebook Formatting by Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs

  Editing by Hot Tree Editing

  A Note About The Chosen Series

  Welcome to the first of many in The Chosen series, Charlie's Whiskey

  It is recommended that each book be read in order.

  WARNING:

  For Mature Audience 18+

  Contains Adult Sexual Situations & Language

  Dedication

  Special thanks to my sister. Without you saying, "So write a book," this would never have happened. You are the one who believed in me when I didn’t. I love you.

  To my husband. You are my rock, and thank you for being there when I had my nose stuck in a book or my eyes glued to the computer screen. Without you, none of this would have been possible.

  Michelle, there are no words to express my gratitude. Just thank you. I love you like a sister, and your friendship means the world to me. I'm glad our lives crossed again and things came full circle. Thank you for being another book signing partner. It'd be lonely without you, K, and Susan.

  K, you have been there for me since I decided to put my characters on paper and have read and reread my story. You have been the one who talked me out of giving up on Charlie and Whiskey and told me that it all would be okay. I love you to infinity, Babes.

  C. G. Lee, thanks for letting your main man and heroine come alive in my story too! Thank you for being a writing partner and just an all-around good friend.

  Kathleen Kelly, woman, I have mad love for you and I miss you more than words could express. Thank you for always reassuring me that everything would be okay and that the story was, in fact, good enough to publish. Thank you for helping me when I freaked out over the name change. Sorry about that! I wish there weren't an ocean and thousands of miles between us. You mean the world to me and I can't wait to see you again, only in your homeland instead of mine.

  Susan, you are a blessing to me and I cherish our friendship so much. I am so honored to have you in my life. Thank you for just being you. Mostly, thank you for your love of books and signings. I would be lonely without you on a good portion of my signing trips.

  MariaLisa, Sister, I owe you so much. You helped me when I was having technical issues, you talked me through situations, and you were the one that caught a change that had to be made. I can't thank you enough. Thanks for helping this technotard out. LOL

  To the readers who gave this newcomer a chance, from the depths of my heart and deepest part of my soul, thank you. Always remember this one thing in life: Don’t Look Back..

  I WAS NO ORDINARY girl. I had to endure more in my twenty-one years than most face in a lifetime. I was battered and broken on the inside. I trusted no one other than my best friend and her boyfriend. I tolerated his biker buddies, but that’s it. I didn’t hang around them often enough to know any of them on a personal level. Men scared me, and women my age were usually catty bitches.

  To hide my true feelings, and to hide my life from the world, I poured my heart and soul into my women’s softball team, the Regulators. To say softball was my passion would be the understatement of the century. I lived, breathed, even dreamed it. If I put my concentration into sports, I didn’t think about Hensley and what he had done to me… done to us. It was a real escape from reality. It was nice to be needed and not used. To be a part of a team and not stuck alone in my own version of hell was a feeling I wished I could bottle and sell.

  I felt at home on the field. It was the one place on this Earth where I was truly happy. Hensley couldn’t get me here. He didn’t taint my life for the fifty-five minutes I was behind the plate. The bruises I left with were accompanied by a victory and joy, not sadness and tears. He avoided the ball field as he had too much to do; coming to watch his girlfriend of three years dominate on the field just wasn’t important to him.

  I was sure I was going to marry him, have the white picket fence, kids, and a dog—you know, the American dream. That was until he started hitting me. I wish I could say that was the worst that happened, but he thought I was his sex slave, and if I didn’t give it up willingly, he took it forcefully. I hated him now. Loathed might be a better choice of word.

  Things didn’t end well for Hensley and me. I vowed to myself that no other man would ever treat me that way again. He had single-handedly changed the happy-go-lucky, bubbly, sarcastic person into a male-fearing, physically and emotionally scarred, pissed-off, revengeful woman. I also vowed to myself that I would pay him back for every single time he ever laid his hand on me, for every bruise he left, for every cut he made, and for the biggest emotional scar that will never be healed. Oh, and you can bet your ass that he’d get paid back for every time he held me down and forced himself on me. I fell for his lies and forgave the sorry son of a bitch, but the last time he pushed his dick in me something snapped, and I saw red… nothing but his blood on my hands. The pure hatred I had for him started to fester within me and I broke.

  This is my story.

  THE BASTARD WAS on me and decided he wanted some, and of course it wasn’t gentle and sweet. Fuck no, it was rough and hard and painful. Every goddamned time it was painful. He wasn’t even considerate enough to get me wet.

  I snapped. I chalked it up to pure adrenaline, rage, and fear that I was able to get the bastard off me. I got him by the balls—literally. I brought my knee to his crotch, which was easy to do seeing as he was holding me down. He didn’t see it coming. I racked him hard too, making him groan and roll off me. Cussing me, he screamed in pain, "You'll pay for that, you little bitch. I'm going to fuck your world up as soon as I can stand.”

  I scrambled to my purse and shakily retrieved the 9mm I’d bought recently. I had to be shaking like a leaf; for fuck’s sake, it was like I was all thumbs. Once out of the handbag, I took aim at his head, grabbing my pants and struggling into them with one hand. Trembling and pissed off, I said, "If you ever come near me again, I’ll kill you. Then I’ll deposit your worthless ass in a well that no one knows about and tell God you died.” He apparently didn’t believe me because the dumb bastard lunged at me. BANG. Too bad it only grazed his shoulder, but it was enough
to stop him. Keeping the barrel aimed at his head, I said through tears and gritted teeth, “I'm done being your fucking punching bag. I'm done being your real-life sex doll and your whore. I'm done believing your lies and thinking you will change. This is never going to be like I dreamed it would be.”

  I was sobbing at that point, and it pissed me off that the fool had me visibly upset, that he got the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

  I angrily swiped at the tears streaming down my face. “I loved you with everything I had, with every ounce of my being, and you shit on me time and time again. I hope it was good for you. If you ever come near me again, I won't hesitate to put a bullet between your eyes. I guaran-damn-tee you will have more than a flesh wound. Don’t call me, don’t text, and damn sure don’t come to my house. You are a sorry motherfucker, and I hope someday you get what you deserve. Karma is a bitch, and I hope I’m around to see it unfold on you.”

  I grabbed my purse, stormed out of his house, and ran down to my car. As dusk grew to dark, my tears having run dry for a while, I started my Mustang and headed to Jazz’s house. I needed someone. No, I needed my best friend, the sister I got to choose. The one person on this Earth who I knew loved me and wouldn’t hesitate to help me and listen.

  See, Jazz hadn’t a clue as to what I’d been through. No one did. I hid it well. Hensley only left bruises, cuts, any evidence of his forcefulness in places that could be covered by clothes. He threatened to make each time more painful and brutal than before if I told anyone. So now was the time to come clean. I didn’t have anyone else to tell, other than Jazz and Briar, since my parents had been tragically killed in a car accident by a drunk driver.

  That’s right. Remember me telling you that I had endured things? Well, I lost both of my parents in one night and had been in an abusive relationship for the past three years.

  After I put the car in drive and sped off, I grabbed my phone and dialed. “Hey, Jazz. You mind if I come over?”

  “No, of course not. Are you okay?" Her concern was almost seeping through the phone.

  “No, I'm not. It's Hensley. I'll tell you all about it when I get there. I'm fucked up, Jazz.” I stopped talking and tears started falling again.

  Once I hung up the phone, I made the horses run. It felt like I had to be going ninety miles an hour all the way there. The night sky flew beside my head so fast it looked like black space spattered with a blur of lights. Each streetlight and house that was lit up looked like one continuous white blurry line as I sped past them. I thought of nothing and everything at the same time. I don’t remember the drive there, too lost in my head. All I can remember is that the darkness seemed never-ending and cold, regardless that it was summer.

  As I pulled into Jazz’s driveway, reality hit me, memories of the events that had happened moments earlier flooding back. All the years of unwanted sex, and him hitting me for no other reason than I let him came to me at warp speed. It had been three years of hell on Earth. I missed the times we’d shared when we first started dating, when he was sweet and sex was fun.

  The changes were subtle at first. Some days he would just be pissed at the world and take it out on me. He would yell and scream at me and call me names. “Char, I said I didn’t want to fuckin’ talk about it. What didn’t you understand the first time, you dumb bitch?” I should have known then to get out but I’d just chalked it up to him being in a piss-poor mood because of work or something. I never in a million years dreamed he would have turned out to be an abuser and a rapist. That’s one of the hardest things for me to get past. We were high school sweethearts, and at a whopping eighteen years old I believed everything was going to be okay. For three long, stupid years I believed his lies and that he would change. I accepted his apologies and his empty promises.

  I put the car in park and climbed out to see Jazz. She greeted me with open arms and let me cry on her shoulder for a while, and never said a word. Embracing me, she slowly swayed back and forth as she tried to console me, all the while never ceasing stroking my hair.

  “Charlie girl, it's okay. I'm here now. You are going to be okay. I got you, baby,” she repeated over and over until I finally stopped the onslaught of tears long enough to walk to the porch. I managed to compose myself, taking a seat on the porch swing and asking her for a cigarette. I only smoked when I drank, so that was also her cue to grab me a beer. It was just one of those unspoken things that only a best friend would know to do. “Charlie, here, darlin’. A Shinerbock and your smokes,” she said, love and care in her voice.

  I flicked the lighter and sucked on the filter until I felt the soothing burn of the smoke fill my lungs. I used the hem of my shirt to cushion my hand from the bottle cap so it didn’t hurt when I twisted it off. Once removed, I watched the fog come up from the neck before pressing the cold bottle to my lips, the wintry, amber liquid working to dull my pain, both emotional and physical.

  “You okay, Charlie? Talk to me.”

  “He threatened me that if I told anyone, he would make it worse the next time,” I said as I stared into the front yard. When I finally looked at her, I could see confusion and concern all over her face. I took another drag and drink and tried to find the courage to divulge one of my deepest secrets. “He hit me,” I whispered, as if someone else might hear.

  “That motherfucker!” she spat in fury.

  “He forced me to have sex, and he beat me until I submitted to him,” I said as I stared into the front yard once more, focused on absolutely nothing.

  “Oh, Charlie. Would you feel better if Briar was here?”

  Of course, I would feel better. Briar was like the brother I never had, and I knew I would be safe with him around. He was more intimidating than anything I feared, and my nerves would be more at ease if he were here. I just really hoped he didn’t bring any of his brothers.

  “Yes, please. I would love for Briar to be here. But I’m not in the mood or right state of mind for his buddies. Something about bikers all around me right now is just a little more than I can handle tonight,” I said with honesty.

  Jazz texted Briar to see if he was busy with club stuff, although I knew he would make himself available if she said I needed him. She held the phone to where I could see the conversation.

  Jazz: Hey baby, are you free tonight?

  Briar: Sure. What's up? You missin’ me?

  Jazz: Yes, but right now I NEED you. It's Charlie. She's here, and she is terrified.

  Briar: WHAT HAPPENED?

  Jazz: Please just get here. I’ll tell you when you arrive.

  Briar: Fine. I’ll be there in 20.

  Jazz: Okay, be careful.

  Briar: I will. I love you.

  Jazz: I love you too.

  Jazz and Briar had been together since junior high, but he was just as much mine as he was hers. He was like my brother. We even fought like siblings at times, having practically grown up together. I didn’t know what kind of shape I’d be in if it weren’t for them. They took care of me when Momma and Daddy died. Hensley sure didn’t help a whole lot.

  To tell you the truth, I don’t remember what he did during that time. He came to see me every other day or so. I remember he said to Briar that he just wanted to give me my space. What kind of douche bag leaves their girlfriend to mourn the sudden loss of both parents alone? That was the turning point in our relationship, and it was all downhill from there. Subtly at first, but it went from that to the yelling and the mood swings, eventually progressing into my nightmare.

  I was in a sad, dark, lonely place for a while when they died. It took a while to pull me out of my funk, but Jazz and Briar managed it. The two of them were always there, telling me they loved me and were there for me. They never gave up on me. Briar would try to get me outside and throw the ball around, knowing I couldn’t resist playing. I was reluctant at first, but Jazz wouldn’t let me completely self-destruct. She knew how important softball was to me.

  She’d said, "I know you’re sad and hurting, but lying here in thi
s bed ain’t going to help you any. You are going to get out of this bed and go with Briar, if for no other reason than I need to wash your dirty sheets and you need to shower. Once a week ain’t doing it, baby. Now go. Three weeks of this is enough. You can come back and cry if you need to, but you are done lying in this bed.”

  Oddly enough, it helped. It was a slow process, but it worked. I eventually got back to regular practices and games with the Regulators and life was as normal as it was ever going to be again. I poured everything into the game after that. Then Hensley started his shit and it just fueled a fire from there. I didn't think of him or my parents while on the field. We practiced two days and game day was on Saturday. Nothing bad happened to me for fifty-five minutes, three times a week. The field was my sanctuary and behind home plate felt like home.

  “Charlie girl, I'm here.” Briar's green eyes met mine. “You’re safe, I promise.”

  I sat up and nodded at him, then took another cigarette from the pack and lit it up as I looked at Jazz.

  “Tell him what you said to me,” she urged.

  I thought about it for a minute, as it wasn’t easy to admit. “He hit me.”

  An awkward silence fell over us, the tension so thick on that porch that I could’ve cut it with a knife. I took a couple more drags and muttered as they waited for more, "He hit me, forced me to have sex with him, and said that if I told anyone he would make the next time worse.”

  “Over my dead fucking body.” I heard the rage in Briar’s voice as he tried to keep his cool and comfort me.

  I took another long drag and let it fill my lungs. "I shot him tonight.”

  “You what?” they said in shocked unison.

  “He forced himself on me again this evening. I rammed his nuts with my knee as hard as I could before I managed to get to my purse and grab my gun.” I breathed in another lungful of smoke and said on exhale, “Just grazed his shoulder, though. Nothing but a flesh wound. I got dressed with one hand and held the gun on him with the other, told him if he contacted me again that I would make sure he had a bullet between his eyes.”