by Tenaya MKD
Contents
Acknowledgments
1. Taken
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
14. Cages
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
23. Failure
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
38. For Her
Chapter 39
40. Zane
About the Author
THANKS FOR READING!
New Identity
Copyright © 2021 by Tenaya MKD
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events or locales, or to actual persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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For information contact:
[email protected]
tenayamkd.com
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Developmental Editing By: Kimberley J. Wolters
Copy Editing By: Joan McCray
Book Cover Design By: Esther at AtoZbookcoverdesign
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ISBN:
Paperback: 978-1-7365918-0-2
Ebook: 978-1-7365918-1-9
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First Edition: March 2021
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
For my son, Zephyr Lux.
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Never question if you can make
your dreams come true.
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You can, my love.
Acknowledgments
I could not have written this book without the help I received from my loved ones.
First off, thank you to my husband, Chris Dowdy, and my son Zephyr. For having patience with me as I poured my soul into this story and launching my dream career. You mean more to me than you can know.
Thank you to my dear friend, Janin Nikolay. And to the wonderful Emma Cooper. For reading the drafts that will never see the light of day. Your advice was invaluable. And your support gave me fuel to keep going when I questioned myself. I can’t thank you enough.
Thank you to Kimberley J. Wolters. For gifting me your time and loaning me your editing talents. I hope you enjoy working with me, because I hope to never write a book without you.
Thank you, Skye Horn. For answering all the questions I couldn’t answer to on my own. You have made my life so much easier, and I value your friendship.
Thank you to my wonderful beta readers: Emma Cooper, Skye Horn, DDair Sunset, Kaarima Ayna, and Kayla Simonson. Your feedback was key in making this story what it is today.
Thank you to the talented, kind, and brilliant, Joan McCray. Your unending support means an indescribable amount to me. I could not have accomplished this without having you on my team. I don’t know who I would be without the introduction to books I got from you. You have inspired me in so many ways. Thank you. I love you.
Thank you, reader, for picking up this book and taking a chance on me. Your support means the world.
And finally, thank you to my Grammy, Bunny Kensmoe; for making reading look cool. And to my Dad, Wade Kensmoe; for leading me to fall in love with superheroes and everything they stand for.
You will never read my books, but your influence will touch them all. I love you both.
We forget ourselves sometimes.
But oh, the power when we remember.
-Topher Kearby
1
Taken
“Just one more game!” she slurred. “Double or nothing!”
The man’s heavily creased eyes brightened at her suggestion. “You sure you have the money for that, sweetheart? You’re talkin’ a grand now.”
She slapped a large stack of bills onto the edge of the pool table. “You scared I’ll win this time, Jeff?” She stumbled slightly as she reached for her cue.
“It’s John, little lady.” Slamming down his own stack of cash, he yelled, “Another beer!” in the direction of the bar before chugging the one in his hand.
John racked up the balls and took his turn. He sank one solid, then another. But when he crouched down to line up his third shot, his vision blurred. He blinked repeatedly, attempting to focus through the alcohol-induced haze. When he finally took his shot, his hand shook. The cue ball scratched into the corner pocket.
Without a word, she stepped up. Strategically placing the cue ball on the table, she rested her pool cue in the familiar place between her thumb and palm.
Exhale and shoot.
John didn’t get another turn. She cleaned up the table, sinking one shot after another. No longer slurring or stumbling. Her vision crisp.
“Eight ball, side pocket,” she called, sending it in easily.
She dropped the pool cue onto the table and retrieved her cash with a smile. John was stiff. Fuming.
“Thanks for playing, Jeff. It’s been great.”
She wrapped her fingers around his stack of cash, just as John reached out and grabbed her arm. “You hustled me, you bitch!”
“A bet is a bet,” she said calmly. “I played the better game and won.”
He narrowed his eyes on her, leaning in close enough for her to smell the beer on his breath. John was much bigger than her. But she didn’t flinch. Bigger meant slower. She’d have no problem kneeing him between the legs and running out the door with his money.
“Take your hand off me,” she said, glaring up at him.
For a long moment, he didn’t relax an inch. Then the bartender showed up at his side, holding the beer he’d ordered. John sighed and released his grip on the woman who had bested him, in order to wrap his beefy hand around the icy bottle instead.
Folding her stacks of cash into the pockets of her leather jacket, she flashed him her winning smile. “Have a great night, Jeff.”
On the way to the bar, she freed her dark curls from the messy bun she’d piled on the top of her head. A thousand dollars would buy her and Putt-Putt a lot of gas. Tomorrow she would be in a new state. And that always put a smile on her face.
“New roads, new people, new bars,” was the motto she lived by.
The barstool scraped against the floor as she pulled it out. The grating sound earned her the attention of the few people sitting at the bar. Plus, helpfully, the bartender.
“Bulleit rye. Double. Neat,” she called as she sat down. Pushing the curls that framed her face over to one side of her mane, she noticed the pair of eyes still on her from a couple of stools down. They belonged to a broad man, with short, black hair, full lips, and a nearly full beer in front of him. “Can I buy you another drink?” she offered. “I’ve had a pretty lucrative night.”
“I saw that.” His voice was deep and as smooth as the array of glass bottles behind the bar. “Do you often hustle people out of their money?”
> She raised her hands in a show of mock innocence. “I just play pool.”
He chuckled, giving her a glimpse of his white smile. “Sure, I’ll take another beer.”
“How about something stronger?” she asked, with mischief in her eyes.
Three rounds of whiskey later and she was nearly in his lap. His arm was wrapped around her waist and her hand rested on his thigh, just above his knee.
“You wanna go somewhere more private?” he whispered into her ear. Goosebumps traveled down her neck.
“My bed is in the parking lot,” she whispered back. His eyebrows raised, and she chuckled. It was a reaction she’d seen before. “It’s a queen-size. Trust me. It’s nice.” She paid their bill, leaving a generous tip.
Holding his hand, she led him across the parking lot toward the forest-green 1971 GMC Custom Camper she lovingly called Putt-Putt. With only a few feet left between them and the door, he used his free hand to grab her ass, making her laugh. The sound cut through the otherwise-silent night.
She reached into the pocket of her jeans for her keys.
But before she could get them out, she heard her new friend fall to the asphalt with a groan.
She spun around. “What hap—”
But he was limp, already being carried into a van by two large men, all in black.
A third man came up behind her. He wrapped a damp cloth tightly around her mouth and nose. She tried desperately to hold her breath. To avoid inhaling the chemicals that soaked the rag. But she couldn’t thrash without breathing. And she couldn’t help but thrash.
The men lifted her feet off the ground, just before the world went black.
“Get in here, Cayde!” The chief called over the comm system.
A minute later, Cayde came through the metal door into the dim room. “Is everything okay?”
“These readings are insane. Look.”
Numbers highlighted in red were flashing across the screen. Cayde had never seen the system highlight readings in red.
“Jesus. Who are those coming from?”
“Someone just came up, in Washington. I don’t know why they are reading like this. It needs to be looked into. Will you go?”
Cayde nodded. “I’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”
2
“Rise and shine, ladies and gentlemen! It’s a brand-new day!” a man’s chipper voice screamed by my head.
“A fresh start, full of possibility and opportunity!”
I squeezed my eyes shut and wrapped the pillow around my ears, willing the man to shut the hell up.
“I’m Freddy Calhoon and you are listening to the Great Day Morning Broadcast on KFPG radio.”
“Seriously?!”
Refusing to open my eyes, I reached toward the terrible voice. I flailed my arm around, hoping to land it on a way to end the torture. Instead, I smacked my hand against the corner of a nightstand. After uttering a few profanities, I finally found the plastic radio clock and managed to press on the button on top that made the thing shut up.
Groaning, I reluctantly rolled out of bed. My feet landed on a bubblegum-pink shag rug. It perfectly matched the knobs on the baby-pink dresser and nicely complimented the sheer, blush-pink fabric that hung from the four-poster bed.
There was something about the room that was off-putting. It made no sense, but I felt out of place in it. Like I wasn’t supposed to be there.
When I left the bedroom, I found myself at the end of a hallway that led to three other rooms. The bathroom was just to my left. Another door was closed. And an archway went into the living room.
“Hello?” I called as I stepped through the arch. But no one was around to answer.
Do I live alone?
How do I not know that for sure?
The white walls held a few frameless, abstract paintings. Each one was unique, but they all featured pink in one shade or another. I didn't dislike them, necessarily.
Do I really like pink THIS much?
There wasn't a lot of furniture: a gray-upholstered couch in the middle of the room with a bubblegum-pink coffee table centered in front of it, and a moderately sized TV hanging on the opposite wall. In front of the only window was a desk painted in that same bubblegum shade.
Maybe there was just a huge sale on pink paints, and I am not a human Barbie…
I could only hope.
On the other side of a counter was a simple kitchen, with everything you need and nothing more: an old fridge, electric stove, coffee pot, and white painted cabinets. Overall, the apartment was small, outdated, and overwhelmingly pink.
It had the vibe of a young girl’s first apartment. Like it belonged to someone who had put away her Barbie dolls, but was still really into boy bands or… whatever eighteen-year-old girls are into.
How old am I?
A shiver ran up my spine.
I should definitely know that!
My stomach twisted into tight knots.
Something is very wrong.
I hurried back to the bathroom, unsure if I’d be needing to heave or pee first, but positive that I needed a toilet. When the door closed behind me, I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror that hung behind it. I froze, staring into the wide, brown eyes of my reflection.
I don't recognize myself.
Nothing about the face in the mirror was familiar. My hands flew up to touch my face, as if it might not be real. I pushed around my features—wrinkling my straight nose and shifting the mole under my eye. But no matter how these things moved, they still felt foreign.
When I thought I might collapse, I finally sat down to pee. As I pulled down my pink cotton pajama shorts, I decided.
I hate the color pink.
I flushed and returned to the mirror, hoping the obvious gaps in my memory would suddenly fill in if I stared just a little longer.
Maybe I changed my hair yesterday and I’m just not used to it being this short? Or this brown?
But looking more desperately at each of my features, I knew this was not that simple.
I don't remember anything about myself!
Around my neck was a chain holding a rhinestone charm of the letter A. I didn't even know what it stood for.
I don’t know my name…
The A could have stood for something else, but the necklace wasn’t the point.
My breathing quickened frantically. I couldn't take in air fast enough to keep up with the panic crashing over me. I started to hope I had a roommate behind that closed door, because otherwise there was no telling how long I’d lie on the bathroom floor after the heart attack I was about to have.
I might just be having a stroke! Maybe that is what's to blame for this whole fucked-up morning!
You know things are bad when you're hoping you’re having a stroke before breakfast.
The bathroom walls were closing in on me fast. I ran to the other door in the hall and threw it open.
It was only a closet.
I’m alone.
I rushed back into the living room, but those walls were moving too. My heart was beating so fast, I thought I could see it under my skin. My lungs felt too small.
Air. I need air.
Running out the front door only brought me to a hallway. I took a sharp right, following a beam of sunlight coming in from around the corner. There, on the other side of a small lobby lined with mailboxes, were glass doors.
Too frantic to slow down, I slammed into one. It flung open, and I stumbled out onto a sidewalk slick with rain. My bare feet skidded across the cold cement. I nearly fell before I brought myself to a stop.
Within seconds, I was completely soaked. But the air was crisp. It stretched my lungs, and they finally felt full. My heart was still pounding though.
There wasn’t a person in sight. I ran into a courtyard, desperate to find something I recognized. But everything looked the same—green, gray, and wet.
And all of it was new to me.
There were four buildings surrounding the grass
y center. Three were two-story buildings, identical to the one I’d left. The other was a longer, single story with a sign: “Student Housing Office.”
I ran through the sopping grass to the door, hoping help was on the other side. But it was locked. A “closed” sign stared at me through the door’s window glass, rubbing it in. I backed away from the building, feeling defeat sink into my wet skin. Tears streamed from my eyes, mixing with the rain that already ran down my face.
Beyond the courtyard was a parking lot. Without thinking, I dashed onto the asphalt. I must have looked insane wearing my cotton PJ shorts and a tank top, running through the downpour. I felt insane.
Before I could get far, I stepped heavily onto a shard of broken beer bottle. It lodged itself into my foot.
“Fuck!” I sobbed.
Blood seeped from around the glass. I pulled it out with a shaking hand, and the wound gushed even more. I hopped back to the courtyard. Crying. Afraid. Bleeding.
The grass at the courtyard’s edge squished beneath my foot with every painful step. When I reached a tree, I leaned my shoulder against it, using it as a crutch.
Which building did I come out of?
I’d run out in such a hurry I didn’t notice. That realization dropped me to my ass.