by Paige Weaver
Sweet
Destruction
~~~~~
Paige Weaver
Sweet Destruction
Copyright © 2014 by Paige Weaver
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. If you are reading this book and you have not purchased it or won it in an author/publisher contest, this book has been pirated. Please delete and support the author by purchasing the eBook from one of its many distributors.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Published by Paige Weaver LLC, P.O. Box 80016, Keller, Texas 76244
ISBN 978–0–9892698–7–2 (eBook)
ISBN 978–0–9892698–8–9 (Print)
Cover design © Sarah Hansen
okaycreations.com
Editing by Red Road Editing/Kristina Circelli
(www.circelli.info)
For K and A, because you are my heart.
Always.
And for John.
Thank you for playing it by ear with me all these years.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Epilogue
Promise Me Darkness Preview
About The Author
Chapter One
-Walker-
“We got a deal?”
I eyed the little weasel, tired of his bullshit. His punk-ass purple hair was a joke and so was the damn tattoo crawling up his head, making him look like he had road rash.
“I don’t race anymore,” I said flatly, crossing my arms across my chest and peering down at him. “I consult.” A good stiff wind blew against me right then, ruffling my black hair and sweeping it across my forehead.
“You consult? Ha!” the little weasel said with a snort. “Rumor is that you’re the one to beat. The mother of all street racers. You know your cars and you know how to drive them. If you go up against that asshole over there, you’ll easily double your money. Just toe the line, Walker. Toe the fucking line.”
I glanced over at the opponent standing a few cars away. The guy was big, at least two-seventy. His shaved head and numerous lip rings gave him a badass appearance. Didn’t help that his nickname was Edge. From what I heard, the guy had a thin hold on his sanity. Hence the name. Edge of crazy.
I checked out his ride. A 1970 Chevelle SS. Nice car. Decent performance. A little on the slow side, in my opinion.
I turned my gaze back to the weasel in front of me. He was bouncing from foot to foot, his eyes the size of saucers. Most of the people out here were either on something or about to be on something. It was obvious this guy had already snorted or smoked whatever he got his hands on for the night. Add to that the summer heat and the man was sweating buckets, rivers of it. It ran down his face and soaked the collar of his shirt, turning the material darker.
“I’m retired, Milo. Race your own damn car,” I said, ending the conversation and walking away. Truth was I didn’t race anymore but that had never been my specialty anyway.
Grand theft auto was.
“But his is a piece of shit, Walker! A goddamn trash can on wheels. I want some action on your car!” the guy shouted at me.
I ignored the little runt and headed toward my best friend, Bentley Ross, or as everyone liked to call him – Bent. He was one of the fastest street racers around. A real daredevil. He was leaning against my car, a 1971 Plymouth Duster, talking to some chick in fishnet stockings and whorehouse stilettos. My gaze ran over her, liking what I saw. The girl was blonde and built like a Victoria’s Secret model. Low and behold, she had a friend, too. A brunette standing right next to her. My night just went from good to goddamn perfect.
“Walker! I was just talking about you. You in or out?” Bent asked as I walked up, pushing away from the car to face me.
I glanced at the brunette. “If you’re talking about her,” I said, nodding toward the girl, my eyes drifting down her body. “I’m in. All the way.”
She was wearing thigh-high boots and an itsy-bitsy skirt. Just what I liked to see on a girl.
Bent smirked, reading my mind. “I meant are you racing? I know that’s what Milo wanted.”
I glanced around. Mustangs and muscle cars shared space with Hondas, Nissans, and Mitsubishis. This was my old stomping ground. The place where I once felt alive. The roaring of the engines. The screeching of tires. I loved those sounds. They used to be my life.
Now they were Bent’s.
“Milo can talk all he wants. I’m not racing,” I said. I didn’t street race anymore. Nor did I steal, chop, or go on joy rides with other people’s cars.
What I did was drink.
I took the beer that Bentley offered and popped the top. The aroma hit my senses, making my mouth water. It was my vice now. The one thing that dulled my senses and made me forget everything else. Alcohol. Tonight I needed it more than ever. It was damned hot, like a furnace cranked on high, and I was antsy, abnormally so. Only an ice-cold beer could calm me down and cool me off.
The brunette took a step closer, eyeing me up and down again with interest. “So if you don’t want to race, what do you want to do?” she asked in a seductive voice, the smell of her expensive perfume surrounding me.
I didn’t tell her that what I wanted to do was drag her to my car and bend her over. Flip that little dress up and show her just how fast I could make her cross that finish line.
Instead I took a step toward her. Time to lay on the bullshit. Tell her what all girls wanted to hear. Sweet-talking crap. It slipped as easily from my tongue as saying my own name. I played the game all the time. See who I could get, set my goal, and achieve it. Walk in with no emotion. Walk out with even less.
I snaked my hand around her waist, planning on telling her what I would much rather do than race a damn car, but Bent’s voice stopped me.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” he snapped, staring across the clearing at someone. His nostrils flared and his teeth were clenched. The man was a driver but damn if he didn’t have the attitude of a fighter instead.
I turned my head, searching the crowd. People milled between the cars and by the old industrial building. Talking. Laughing. Exchanging joints or passing booze back and forth. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Just a bunch of college kids breaking laws and bragging about cars.
But then my gaze landed on her.
Samantha Ross.
My enemy.
Chapter Two
-Samantha-
In my neck of the woods there were three things you did in the summer. You worked at a boring sucky job, went to parties, or hung out and watched illegal street races. At least that’s what the kids on the south side of town did.
And tonight was no different.
Six days a week, forty hours a week, I flipped burgers at Red’s Meet and Eat. Stupid name but the hamburgers were awesome. It wasn’t my dream job but it paid decent money. The real kicker was I got free food. Many nights I went home with hamburgers and fries, sometimes a chocolate shake too. Some people might take that for granted but not me. I went to bed most nights with a full stomach, something I didn’t do very often growing up. So despite having a less-than-stellar job, it was turning out to be a good summer. At least it started that way…
I had put in a full day at the Meet and Eat, getting off in enough time to go out. Tonight there was a gathering of party-goers at the old Western Plastics industrial plant. It was in a deserted area of the city, surrounded by empty roads. Perfect for drag racing and drifting, just a few of the illegal activities occurring around here.
Weeds had taken over the broken pavement surrounding the building and there was more graffiti on the metal walls than there were windows. But it was clear of cops and set far enough away from town that no one could hear the roar of the engines or the screeching of tires.
It was every street racer’s dream.
But I gotta say, it wasn’t mine.
I was here for something different. Something that would bust your eardrums and make you scream.
The music.
The abandoned plastics factory had been converted into a so-called club by the owner’s great grandson a year ago. It was crude and operated under the radar of government regulations or city ordinances. I figured they knew about it but turned their heads. Not many people wanted to mess with the locals on this side of town. We were a nasty bunch and it took a real ballbuster to deal with us.
I was here with my pseudo-boyfriend, Lukas, to hear Dark Paradox play. They were a local hardcore punk band, which wasn’t my favorite type of music but he loved them so I tagged along.
Lukas Ryan was a year older than me and played bass with his own alternative rock band. They made a name for themselves around here, booked most weekends. It didn’t hurt that the band members were all gorgeous. Girls seemed to have a thing for guys who knew how to rock and carry a tune. Not me. I hung out with Lukas because I had known him since high school. We had recently started dating but before that we were only friends.
I glanced back as Lukas and I wove our way through the sweaty, dancing crowd. He was following me, keeping close enough that if I needed to I could reach out and grab his hand. His dyed-black hair was long, covering most of his face and hiding the tattoos that ran up his neck. He had at least five earrings in one ear and wore nothing but black. Black shirt, snug black jeans, and black Converses. He was a social reject. A misfit. A black smudge on the face of society. At least that’s what the other kids in school had said. His dad was a doctor who sampled his own medicine too often and his mother was a stay-at-home mom who was more concerned about her nails and hair than Lukas. But at least he had both parents. I only had one and she was high or drunk most of the time.
At nineteen, I was also a misfit. I considered myself withdrawn and misunderstood. I had few friends and even fewer reasons to smile. I would rather get lost in an Edgar Allen Poe book than watch the latest reality TV show like other kids my age. I never attended sleepovers or sat around and giggled with girls from school. Steven King and Anne Rice were my best friends, telling me stories that made my own life seem innocent and sweet. I was afraid to get close to anyone because if I did, they would leave. Everyone always did.
I was different. Unlike the other kids, I knew what it was like to go hungry. To wonder if I would have a roof over my head the next day. To know I was only one second away from being homeless. If living like that made me weird, then I was weird.
Hot, humid summer air hit me as soon as I walked out of the club. My thin cotton dress stuck to my skin, soaking up my sweat. I pulled it away from my body, hoping for a breeze. Instead a gust of southerly wind lifted my long hair and swirled it around my face, blocking my vision. I grabbed a chunk of the black strands and tucked it behind my ear, my short red nails snagging a few pieces.
I hadn’t always had black hair. The day I turned eighteen, I decided I needed a change. A big one. So I dyed my blonde hair black. It was still long and thick with soft curls at the end, but now the tresses were the color of midnight, making my green eyes even brighter and livelier, even if that’s not how I felt.
I had one lip ring but no tattoos. It just wasn’t my thing. And, unlike Lukas, I didn’t wear all black. I preferred pink or white. The more feminine and retro, the better. And since I could only afford discarded clothes from the local thrift shop, it worked out perfectly. They were packed full of dated outfits that fit my style to a T.
With my inky-black hair and over-the-top girlie clothing, I was a contradiction in style, confusing those who didn’t know me. That’s why Lukas and I were perfect together. He had his own ghosts to deal with and I had mine. Everyone thought Lukas was the epic emo but I thought he was just deep. We spent hours sitting around and talking about life. He had this wicked outlook on living versus dying that I found interesting. Even the band he played in sang songs full of lyrics about emotionless human beings trying to love. I sometimes didn’t understand them but the music was crazy good and fun to dance to.
Guess that’s what I liked about Lukas – he didn’t conform to anyone’s expectations. Kind of like me. The difference between us was he knew what he wanted out of life. I was just hoping to get through the next day.
We crossed the weed-infested area of grass in front of the factory and headed for the strip of concrete straight ahead. At least twenty cars, maybe more, were parked along both sides. American muscles cars sat next to foreign imports. A real hodgepodge of powerful, fast machines. Whenever there was a party or a strip of empty road, you could find street racers gathered to show off their cars and race for title of fastest car around.
Tonight was no different.
I walked between a slick black Shelby GT500 and an electric blue Honda Civic, Lukas on my tail. Both cars were pimped out, sitting on high-dollar rims and tires. Tuned out to the max with the latest performance parts. I knew all this because my brother loved his cars.
Almost as much as he loved women.
“That band was pretty sick,” Lukas shouted over the sound of screaming engines around us. “I mean that bass player really blew my mind. What did you think? Was that some messed-up shit or what?”
Instead of answering him, I scanned the crowd, watching for my brother. Chances were he was here. If there were fast women and faster cars meeting somewhere in town, he could be found.
But I was hoping he wouldn’t see me.
I waited for an old Chevelle to coast past, its music turned up to ridiculous levels. The driver craned his neck to look at me but I ignored him. Taking long strides, I rushed between the cars, Lukas jogging to keep up with me. The wisps of hair along my hairline started to curl with perspiration and I could feel a trickle of sweat roll down between my breasts. It was sticky hot tonight and I wanted to be in Lukas’s car as soon as possible, the A/C blowing cool air on my face.
My gaze stayed glued to the cars parked out in the distance, away from the street racing action. Lukas’s Acura was among them. All I needed was to get past the group of racers and I would be home free.
&
nbsp; “Did you hear me, Sam? What did you think of the band?” Lukas asked again, walking behind me.
“As far as punk goes, they were good,” I said over my shoulder. “But I like your band better.”
“We are frickin’ awesome,” Lukas said with a laugh. “Could have blown them away, if we wanted to.”
“Wow. Talk about humble,” I said smiling.
“You know it,” Lukas chuckled, reaching out to entwine his fingers with mine.
I turned around, walking backward while holding his hand. “What now? I’m not tired and it’s early. Let’s do something else,” I said, hoping he would agree. I really didn’t want to go home. Home meant a rundown trailer and a drugged-out mom. I just wanted to escape, if only for one night.
“Well…I can hang out at your place the rest of the night. Isn’t your mom gone?” Lukas asked, raising one eyebrow.
I tapped down my nervousness. The thought of being alone with Lukas was not a bad thing. I had known him forever. We had been dating for a couple of weeks. He was nice and treated me with respect. Deep down I knew he would never hurt or use me but he was also a man, which meant he would want sex eventually. They all did. But I would never go through with it.
I didn’t want to be like my mother.
When I was little, my daddy left to work the oil rigs stationed in the Gulf of Mexico. The day he walked out, he left a note saying he was never coming back. I remember lying in bed that night and listening through the paper-thin walls of our trailer as my mother cried herself to sleep. For weeks she waited for my daddy to come home but he never did. Life was decent until he walked out. We had food and new clothes. We were a family. After he left, my mom struggled to make it from day to day. She started drinking and taking pills in order to cope. My sweet, caring mother was gone, just like my dad. The woman that replaced her was someone I didn’t know and wasn’t sure I liked.
She didn’t care if there was enough food to eat or a home to live in. By the time I was nine, all she cared about was sex, drugs, and drinking. Men and little pills were her hobby. Her children were not. At first she was looking for love, hoping to fill the void my daddy left, but after she got hooked on drugs and alcohol the sex turned into a business arrangement. The men used her and in return they supplied my mother with pills and booze. If they paid in cash, the money always went to her vices, never to food or bills. It was no secret; everybody knew she was the town slut. I had a feeling a quick lay and my mother’s name went hand-in-hand.