Fighting for Us
The Bailey Brothers Book Two
Claire Kingsley
Copyright © 2020 by Claire Kingsley
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, or incidents are products of the author’s imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental or fictionalized.
Published by Always Have, LLC
Edited by Elayne Morgan
Cover design by Lori Jackson
Cover photography by Wander Aguiar Photography
Cover model: Andrew Biernat
www.clairekingsleybooks.com
Created with Vellum
Contents
Keep in touch with CK
About this book
1. Asher
2. Asher
3. Grace
4. Asher
5. Grace
6. Asher
Dear Asher
7. Asher
8. Grace
9. Asher
10. Grace
Dear Asher
11. Asher
12. Grace
Dear Asher
13. Asher
14. Grace
15. Grace
16. Asher
17. Asher
Dear Asher
18. Grace
19. Grace
20. Asher
21. Grace
22. Asher
23. Asher
Dear Asher
24. Grace
25. Asher
26. Asher
27. Grace
28. Asher
29. Asher
Dear Asher
30. Grace
31. Grace
32. Asher
Dear Asher
33. Grace
34. Asher
35. Asher
Dear Asher
36. Grace
37. Asher
38. Asher
39. Grace
40. Grace
41. Asher
42. Grace
43. Grace
44. Asher
45. Asher
46. Grace
47. Asher
48. Asher
49. Grace
Epilogue
Broken Miles: Chapter 1
Dear Reader
Acknowledgments
Also by Claire Kingsley
About the Author
To David.
I would have waited, too.
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About this book
How long would you wait for the love of your life?
The Asher Bailey who comes home to his quirky small town isn’t the same man who put a ring on Grace’s finger. He’s bigger, harder, haunted. Forced to give up Grace and everything else that was good in his life for a prison sentence he barely survived.
Now that he’s home, he finds himself aggressively welcomed by his brothers and gleefully gossiped about by his neighbors. He’d counted on both.
But he never expected to see Grace still wearing his ring.
Grace’s fairy tale didn’t end. It was interrupted. She’s spent the last seven years living her life while waiting for one man. Now that he’s back, she’s got her work cut out for her. He’s scarred and angry, and stubbornly convinced they can’t be together. She’s more than happy to educate him otherwise.
Every beer, every prank, every kiss brings him closer to where he’s always belonged. In her life. In her arms. In her heart.
Asher fears the darkness inside him can’t be contained. But Grace won’t give up on him without a fight.
Author’s note: A brooding, wounded hero and the woman who won’t give up on him. A pack of unruly, prank-loving brothers. A wild neighborhood rumor mill. Spectacular BFF banter. This is a love story about soulmates that delivers the heat and all the feels. The Bailey Brothers series is meant to be read in order and Fighting for Us concludes Grace and Asher’s happily ever after.
1
Asher
A fist hit my jaw, followed by a swift punch to my kidney. Grunting, I took the blows, absorbing the pain. Didn’t have a choice. The guy restraining my arms wasn’t strong enough to hold me for long, but these assholes were going to do as much damage as possible while I couldn’t fight back.
I growled at the greasy piece of shit in front of me. He had a name, but I didn’t give a fuck what it was. The black eye I’d given him last week was fading. I’d have to give him two this time.
He smiled and clocked me again.
Fuck.
I struggled against the grip on my arms. I couldn’t see who was holding them behind my back, but he was slipping. The second guy hit me below the ribs again while the first darted closer and punched me on the other side.
None of them could take me one-on-one, so three of them had jumped me in the library. I should have been ready for it. I was always ready, always watching. I had to be. It was the only way I’d survived prison this long. But they’d gotten the drop on me, and now I was fucked.
“Not so tough now, are you?” the first guy sneered, flashing his yellow teeth.
I met his eyes, locking him in a hard stare. I was going to hurt this guy. Badly. As soon as one of them made a mistake, I was going to unleash on these fuckers. And I was going to enjoy it.
Adrenaline coursed through me, burning everything to ash. My heart pumped fast and my muscles flexed against the arms trying to contain me. Still staring the first guy down, I shifted my body weight. The arms holding mine were tense and rigid. I stayed fluid, ready to strike. Ready to go on the attack.
The first guy’s fist smashed into my face again, flooding my mouth with the metallic tang of blood. And I was fucking done.
Throwing my weight forward, I bent my knees and hinged at the waist. The guy holding my arms flipped over my shoulder. I roared, surging toward the first guy, and scored a swift punch to his gut. I didn’t have long before they either took me to the ground—it was still three on one—or the guards broke it up. I had to make this count.
A heady sense of euphoria filled me as I rained blows on the first guy. The second jumped on my back, trying to regain control, but I tossed him over my shoulder. He hit the ground with a groan.
Someone barreled into me from the side, wrapping his arms around my waist. We crashed into a table and landed hard on the floor. His body weight smashed the air from my lungs.
Gasping for breath, I fought back, but now there were four. I couldn’t take four guys at once. I held my arms up to protect my face while he hit me. Ground and pound. I’d been here before, but in the ring there was a ref to blow the whistle and stop the fight.
Not here. Not in prison.
“Hey!”
Swift footsteps approached. Guards shouted orders. I took a few more punches before someone dragged them off me.
; Damn it. That fucking hurt.
Another guard hauled me roughly to my feet, then yanked my arms behind my back and cuffed me. I didn’t resist. Just blinked at the blood dripping in my eye and stared daggers at the assholes who’d started the fight, while guards slammed them onto tables and locked them in cuffs.
“Come on,” the guard barked, shoving me ahead of him. “Let’s go.”
I didn’t bother pointing out that I hadn’t started it this time. That three guys, then four, had jumped me out of nowhere. It didn’t matter. At best, I’d be confined to my cell for a while. At worst, they’d throw me in the hole. But nothing I said now would make a difference.
The metal bit at my wrists and I seethed with rage. At those fuckers who’d attacked me. At the guard leading me away. At the concrete and barbed wire that kept me inside. I ground my teeth together, anger pulsing through me, deep as the blood in my veins.
He didn’t lead me back to my cell. I decided I didn’t care. They could discipline me all they wanted. Throw me in the hole again if that was what they thought would break me. Solitary was brutal, but they couldn’t do more damage than had already been done.
I was already broken.
I just hoped whatever punishment those other dicks got was worse than mine.
The guard took me down a hallway and a hint of fear tried to worm its way in through my anger. I didn’t know where we were going. Prison life was built on a solid, monotonous routine. I did the same things, day in, day out. It was boring as hell, but at least I knew what to expect.
New or unknown was always bad.
My senses were heightened as I followed the guard into a small room. It had a metal table, bolted to the floor, and two chairs. Probably for attorneys when they met with an inmate. I’d never used this room because my attorney had never been here. No reason for him to come. My sentence was what it was. Eight years. No parole, no chance for time off for good behavior. That was how it worked in this state. I simply had to wait it out until the legal system declared I’d paid for my crime.
Three hundred fifty-two days left.
I crushed that thought to dust before it could take root. I couldn’t think about getting out. Not now. Once a day, when I first woke up, I let myself reach for the end. I let all my grief in, and for a minute, I thought about the outside. About my family. Gram. My brothers. Even her, although I had to be especially careful with that.
When that minute was up, I slammed it shut. Blocked it all out. I had to. Anything less made me weak, and I couldn’t afford even a hint of weakness in here. I had to be cold and hard as steel. Otherwise they’d have torn me apart years ago.
I held still while the guard unlocked my cuffs, increasingly confused as to what I was doing here. I couldn’t have a visitor. This wasn’t how visiting hours worked. No one had come to see me in years, but if they had, I’d have been notified and given the option to respond.
I always said no. I didn’t see visitors. Which was why they’d all stopped trying a long time ago.
Without a word of explanation, the guard motioned for me to sit and returned the handcuffs to my wrists, locking me to the table.
What the fuck was happening?
The warden appeared in the open doorway. He had a long gray mustache and bushy eyebrows. His barrel chest strained the confines of his shirt and the lines in his face spoke of years of hard living. This guy had seen some shit, and it showed.
“Jesus,” he muttered, his voice gravelly. “Why the hell is he bleeding?”
“Fight in the library,” the guard said.
“Go get something to patch him up.”
The guard left and the warden scowled, tilting his head to examine my face. “You bleeding anywhere I can’t see?”
“No.”
“Good.” He sat down across from me and dropped a folder on the table. “I have some news.”
I stiffened, my eyes lifting to meet his. A jolt of fear shot through me like lightning, and a sick feeling spread through my gut. Something horrible must have happened.
Fuck. Please not Gram.
“Is it my family?”
“No. It’s not bad news. In fact, I think you’re going to find it unexpectedly good.”
My brow furrowed. I had no idea what he was talking about.
“You’re going home, Bailey. I just received an order for your immediate release.”
2
Asher
My eyes were locked on the floor, although I was well aware of the guard watching me. I sat in a hard metal chair in a holding cell, my wrists cuffed, hands in my lap. Instinctively, I twisted my wrists, seeking the bite of metal against skin, like I needed something to prove this was real.
The cut on my forehead throbbed and my knuckles were battered from the fight this morning. Vaguely, I wondered if my hands would finally heal, or if they’d be perpetually black and blue. Every time the bruises faded, they’d get banged up all over again.
I flexed my fists a few times. The dull pain was still there. I wasn’t dreaming.
Another guard came in, and the two of them spoke a few quiet words to each other. Then the first guard nodded to me. “Time to go.”
I’d spent the last several hours doing nothing. Just waiting. After meeting with the warden, I’d been escorted to my cell to clean it out, taken to make a phone call, then brought here.
Ripples of confusion had spread in my wake as the other inmates watched. This was out of the ordinary, and it made them uneasy. Hell, I was uneasy too. I’d kept my head down and did as I was told, all the while wondering if this was really happening, or if it was some kind of sick prank.
I followed the guard to a counter protected by a barrier. He motioned for me to lift my hands so he could unlock the cuffs. They came off with a dull clink.
“Asher Bailey,” the man behind the counter said. He passed a manila folder with my wallet in it through the opening, then handed me a rectangular box. It was brown and unmarked, about two feet long and a foot wide. The tape on the top barely stuck anymore, but it was better than nothing.
I took my things—the only stuff I had left—and followed the guard through another door.
“Your ride is waiting out in visitor parking,” he said.
“Okay.” I was surprised my voice sounded so normal. So calm. On the inside, I was reeling.
I was going home.
That should have been good news. I was supposed to have another year. But just like that, a letter from the governor’s office had changed everything. They were actually letting me out of this hellhole.
But I wasn’t prepared. I had a mental routine, a way I survived each day. And I was having a very hard time processing that it wasn’t going to be necessary anymore.
We came to another door and I almost stopped to ask if he was sure. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being set up—that as soon as I set foot outside, I’d be tackled and restrained. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust this particular guard. I didn’t trust anyone.
He opened the door and I blinked at the bright sunlight. The early May sky was pure blue without a single cloud. I stepped out and nothing happened. I was still inside the walls, but this was out of bounds. Movement within the prison was heavily restricted, and just a few hours ago, I wouldn’t have been allowed out here.
But no alarms went off. No guards came running.
The guard and I walked across the concrete to the tall fence topped with barbed wire. My heart thumped in my chest and my mouth went dry. The guard signaled. A few seconds passed. And then the gate moved.
It rumbled open with a metallic scrape, revealing the outside world—or what I could see of the outside world from here, which was mostly a parking lot. But the mountains rose in the distance, snow still covering their tips.
Those mountains were home.
With a deep breath, I walked through the gate. Still no sirens. It immediately began rumbling shut behind me. They were really letting me go.
The doors of a dark blue S
UV flew open and four men poured out. I stared at them, dumbfounded. I’d thought one of them would pick me up, not all four.
Relief slammed into me, so potent I almost couldn’t breathe. They swarmed around me, and someone took the stuff out of my hands.
My brothers. They were here. I hadn’t seen any of them in so long.
Gavin shoved his way to the front and barreled into me, bear-hugging me with surprisingly thick arms.
“Hey, brother,” he said, squeezing me tight.
I hugged him back. How the hell was he so strong?
“Back up, brozinski. Give us a turn.” Logan whipped off a pair of aviators and grinned at me. He looked different. His jaw was more square and the stubble he was sporting made him look older.
Of course, he was older. He’d been a nineteen-year-old kid the last time I’d seen him.
Fighting for Us: A Small Town Family Romance (The Bailey Brothers Book 2) Page 1