The Praetorian

by Dawn L. Chiletz

  The Praetorian

  Copyright © 2018 Dawn L. Chiletz

  Cover Design: Murphy Rae

  www.murphyrae.net

  Editing: LS King, Samantha Schafer

  Formatting: JT Formatting

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  To the new me, from the old me.

  You’ve got this.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  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

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Rushing from the stage, I entrust my guitar to the nearest open hand and lift my head. The sudden change of bright lights to backstage darkness causes me to squint. Sweat drips down my face and stings my eyes. I can hear the crowd cheering for an encore, but I can’t see. There’s commotion all around me, as usual. It’s my life.

  Dawson, my personal bodyguard, has a tight grip on my arm and the commanding voice of my agent, Clark, is making my head spin. Both are pissing me off. They should know better than to crowd me when I’m working.

  “Listen to Dawson. This is serious, Roman,” Clark shouts over the roars from the audience.

  I lift the hem of my shirt to my eyes and wipe away the sweat, yanking my arm from Dawson’s hand in the process. “I always do an encore. I’m not going to let them down.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Dawson begins. “This is the second threat this week and this time, we know for a fact they’ve gotten backstage. Obviously the text you received before the concert saying they’d get to you tonight was valid. The note your stalker left in your dressing room confirmed it. This isn’t a fucking joke!” He knows being forceful with me will get him nowhere and I hear the immediate transition in his tone from angry to solemn when he steps closer to speak directly into my ear. “We need to get out of here and contact the FBI again.”

  I turn to him and shake my head. “You’re overreacting. There are a lot of people who don’t like me and plenty of people who do. Maybe the note came from someone other than the person who texted. Didn’t the paper say, “Too bad you weren’t here, you’d have gotten what you deserved?” That could have meant anything. Maybe I deserved a keg or a cookie.”

  His scowl makes me huff out loud. My temporary amusement is quickly replaced by frustration. I know it’s his job to take everything seriously, but I have an obligation to my fans and I don’t like being told what to do. “I’m doing a fucking encore and that’s the last thing I’m going to say. You work for me, remember?”

  Dawson pleads with me nonverbally. I’ve seen this look at least once a day for the last few months, ever since the threats began. I’m pissed off that he’s pressuring me, but deep down I know his concerns are legitimate. No one should ever be able to get into my dressing room. My security team isn’t doing its job, and something’s got to change.

  I’m thankful for Dawson, even though I rarely tell him. I should change that. He’s been by my side every single day for the past four years. He’s one of the few people I trust. Taking a deep breath, I compose myself and respond. “Let me do one song and then you and Clark can whisk me away to whatever sanctuary you want.”

  He glances left and right, eyeing the stagehands. “If I say no, will you listen?”

  “What do you think?” I say, grabbing a towel from the railing near the stairs and wiping my face.

  “You’re not only risking your life, but the life of your band, your fans, and all of us,” Clark adds, placing his hands on his hips in an attempt to appear foreboding.

  I bite my tongue, but it’s not something I’m good at or known for. It doesn’t work, and my words come out in rage. “Since when do you want me to quit? I thought you said sales were down. What would it do to my already stellar reputation to leave the show without an encore?”

  He sighs heavily and glances around the curtain at impatient fans. His silence says it all. He and I both know my reputation sucks. I also know he cares more about it than I do.

  I take my guitar and push past them back into the glaring spotlight. My bandmates trail behind me. They know what we have to do. This is what we live for—the music, the passion, and watching the words to our songs on the lips of our fans.

  If someone wants me dead, they should go for it. I’ve lived a decent thirty-one years. I’ve dined at the most expensive restaurants, traveled all over the world with my band, Core Damage, and had the best sex of my life more times than I can count. If I die today, I’ll die knowing I lived my life.

  After I say the words in my head, I’m painfully reminded that my life is more than this band. Much more. I can’t die. People are counting on me. I’ve made commitments. My chest aches and my muscles tighten. Shaking it off, I close my eyes and consult my gut. Nothing is going to happen, I can feel it. I have a sixth sense for danger and right now the only fear I have is pissing off the crowd by making them wait another second.

  “I can’t hear you! Did you say you wanted more?” I shout, cupping my hand to the side of my
head.

  The sound pierces my ears as they scream. I glance down at the brunette with bulging tits who’s jumping up and down, howling my name, much to the irritation of the horny bastard next to her. Lifting my chin in a quick nod to her, I smirk, knowing my smile drives the girls wild. Her lips quiver in excitement and she shrills, reaching out to me. Her boyfriend shoots daggers at me with his eyes as I bend down and take her hand in mine. But hey, he brought her here. The least I can do is make her feel she got her money’s worth for front-row seats.

  Releasing her, I stand upright and place my hand on the microphone. “Thank you for being here with me on this hot summer night. Because we’re all about to burst into flames anyway, here’s ‘Annihilation!’”

  The cheers increase steadily as I pluck the strings of my guitar and the anticipation of one of our bestselling songs begins. Shaw beats the hell out of his drums. The lyrics and their deeper meaning come to me as adrenaline courses through my veins.

  “Apathy and apology

  Devastation from nobility

  Deeper destruction than you can see

  All the things you’ve done to me.

  Only in the books or so you think

  Pushed beyond comprehension’s brink

  A mighty ship that’s built to sink

  Your so-called love makes me wanna drink

  Forget the past is all they say

  But the past is where I live

  Broken dreams, broken homes—so many people live alone

  It’s what we forget that leads us toward total annihilation.

  What’s this life all about, when all we do is scream and shout?

  Forget the love, let’s live in doubt

  It’s simple Annihilation.

  We annihilate ourselves.”

  Knowing a second encore is out of the question, I give them my all. It’s the last night of the mini-tour and I’m glad to be going home. As much as I love the road, I’m exhausted and ready to get back to writing music. It’s my one and only therapy in this fucked up world.

  No sooner than I step off the stage, a towel is draped over my head and I’m pulled out the back door and right into a black SUV. A crowd has gathered, but Dawson pushes me harder than usual, so I know there will be no autographs tonight. It doesn’t bother me. I know the paparazzi’s out there and I hate them with a passion.

  Next stop will be the tour bus and then the airport, where I’ll take my flight back to LA, back home to where the most important thing in my life is waiting for me. It’s where I belong.

  I shouldn’t have done it. I should have been more careful. Why do I always do the wrong thing? What’s wrong with me?

  My heart pounds in my chest and fear grips my senses like a vice. His thundering footsteps come closer and closer. I crouch down in my closet, praying this time he won’t find me. Deep in my gut I know it’s inevitable. He always gets me, no matter where I hide.

  The closet doors are thrust open and I gasp in reflex. He grabs hold of my long blond hair and pulls me out of the closet. The pink clip Momma put in my hair this morning falls to the carpet. Reaching my hands up to the top of my head, I try to run interference between his hand and my roots, hoping they won’t be pulled from my scalp. He’s so strong.

  My feet drag along the floor as I do my best to slow him down. It’s futile. I’m weak from not eating the past two days, and I’m too small compared to him to have my will mean anything at all.

  “You little whore,” he says, throwing me by the hair next to the bed.

  “I’m sorry,” I plead, sobbing. “She’s my kitty. I didn’t want you to hurt her.”

  “Hurt her? I’m going to strangle her, thanks to you, and you’re going to watch.”

  He quickly turns toward the bedroom door, and I grasp his ankle. “No! Please!”

  He kicks my hand away and I grab ahold of my fingers. They hurt, but it’s nothing compared to the pain I’ve felt before.

  “Someone has to pay. She knocked over the remote and I had to bend down to get it. You know I have a bad back. Who’s it going to be, Reed? You or her?”

  “I’ll pay. Me.” I choke out the words. It’s not the first time I’ve had to accept blame for something and I know it won’t be the last. It’s my life.

  “You brought this on yourself and you know it. I told your mother to make you put that stray outside, but no, you had to beg and cry for her like the sad little bitch you are.”

  I cower and pull my legs tight against my chest. It’s a defense I learned early on. Having my extremities available to him meant he could pull or twist them at any time. I raise my eyes enough to see her tail as she races past the door. She’s afraid of him too and I find some peace knowing one of us is safe.

  I lower my eyes and consider his words. He’s right, I did beg for her. She was abandoned by her mother and she had a limp. I bonded with her immediately. Maybe it’s because Momma always left me with him when she went to work at night. I didn’t want my poor kitty to feel all alone, like I did. Plus, she’d die without me. I’m all she has. Saving her meant maybe there was hope for me to be rescued too.

  “The only reason your mom let you keep her is because she feels guilty we never wanted you. I wish you were never born. Look at you,” he says, his hand swirling out in motion to me. I glance up at him then quickly back down at the floor. I know better than to ever look him in the eye.

  “You’re a fat little fuck, eating all the food I pay for and growing out of all your clothes. You don’t deserve the life I’ve given you. If I could, I’d kill you with my bare hands so I didn’t have to look at your pathetic fucking face every day. You’re lucky I love your mother. She said she always wanted a daughter, but I think she expected you to be prettier. Maybe I wouldn’t hate you so much if you were. For some reason, she wants to keep you around. But your momma isn’t here, is she?” He cracks his knuckles. “Maybe we could make it look like an accident this time.”

  Closing my eyes, I pray to hear the jingle of her keys in the door, but all I hear is my heart pounding in my chest. I wonder what time it is. I wish Momma would come home. She knows how to calm him down. What would she say? “I’m sorry. I know how lucky I am to have you, Daddy. You give me so much.”

  “And how do you repay me? You let that damn cat out of your room, didn’t you? After I told you I never wanted to see it.”

  “I had to pee. She ran out. I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  He steps toward me violently, and I cringe. I never did make it to the bathroom. Suddenly, I feel the warmth as it stains my corduroy pants and explodes down my legs. I’m scared, and I can’t control it.

  “You disgusting pig! Now look what you’ve done.” He grabs my hair once more and I know it’s coming. His fist hits my cheek and the room goes dark as the pain radiates into my skull.

  I wake in a cold sweat and my chest heaves as a feral cry escapes my lips. Panic sets in and I push myself upright, grasping hold of sheets damp with sweat. I hold onto them tightly and catch my breath, trying to remember where I am, who I am, and how far I’ve come.

  “A dream,” I whisper. “Only a dream.”

  The words barely calm me. It isn’t only a dream, it’s a memory. A memory I thought I shut out. One I thought I put in the past, where it belongs.

  Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I place my feet on the cold hardwood floor. It grounds me. I swipe an arm across my forehead and brush the sweat away. Pushing upward, I move toward the fan in the corner of my bedroom and angle it to face me. Kneeling in front of it, I hope the cool air will drive away my thoughts.

  I focus on the hum of the blades whizzing around. When that doesn’t work, I close my eyes and listen to the murmur of cars on the distant highway. “You’re safe,” I say out loud.

  Realizing I’m still rattled, I stand abruptly and shake out my arms. I cross the room to the nightstand and open the drawer. I pull out my Glock to make sure it’s loaded. It is.

  Holding the cold, heavy steel calms me. I
’m a cop for Pete’s sake—at least, for now. I shouldn’t be scared of anything and I’m not, except for him. His face is etched into my memory like a permanent scar. Every physical wound from him has healed, but there’s a corner of my mind where I still feel the pain. Even though I moved away from him decades ago, my twenty-eight-year-old self can’t forget the eight tortuous years of living under his roof.

  Brushing loose strands of hair from my eyes, I pull the tie from my shoulder length blond hair and put it back together again, replacing the tie even tighter than before. It may be a little too tight, but the ache reminds me I’m here in the now, so I stop my visitation to the past.

  I carefully place the gun back in the drawer and walk across the room, physically aware of every step I take. In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face then glance in the mirror at my reflection. I can’t help but be disappointed in myself.

  Seven years of a perfect record in the department. Hours spent becoming sergeant and then detective possibly blown on one night and one person. I see his face again and shake my head. The anger still boils hot within me. It’s why I have to face a review board—my uncontrolled rage, rage I thought was buried deep and a wound I thought had healed until that fateful night, the night when everything changed.

  “All I’m asking is that you take the meeting. See what he has to say.”

  I prop my feet on the desk, crossing them at my ankles. I swivel slightly in my chair and angle my neck left to get a better look out my second-story office window. The waterfall pool outside is calling to me. Even though I don’t swim, I love sitting by the water. It helps me focus. I need this stupid meeting with Clark to be over.

  The pad of paper resting on my legs starts to slip and I catch it before it hits the floor. I don’t need Clark to see my comical drawing of him.

  He moves around the desk to face me. Glancing up at him through the tops of my eyes, I notice I’ve been successful at agitating him with my silence. Serves him right. This idea of his is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever brought to me.