by Jody Kaye
Sharp Edges Ahead
Shred of Decency
Copyright
About this book
Reading Order
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A Request from Jody
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
epilogue
Sneek Peak: Sliver of Truth
Let's talk typos
Author Notes
Sweet Caroline's Marquee
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Also by Jody Kaye
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the end
©2020 Jody Kaye
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design ©2020 by Jody Kaye
No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the consent of the Author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a creation of the Author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, establishments, events or locales is coincidental. Except the original material written by the Author, all books, songs, and product references are the property of the copyright holders.
This book contains adult language and scenes. It is not recommended for readers under 18 years of age.
Hindsight is 20/20
A lot of people ensured Aidy’s future was filled with endless possibility. She never saw the guy like me—who belonged behind bars—coming.
So, I’m going to make sure he pays… And in the meantime, do whatever it takes for Aidy to smile again.
There’s no doubt she makes my meaningless existence worthwhile.
If I had a shred of decency, I’d have left it alone.
Because if Aidy’s determined to stand alongside me, it will destroy her perfectly planned out life.
—Morgan
**This book contains sensitive scenarios that may trigger readers. Please consider reading reviews or contacting the author if you have questions.
Shattered Hearts of Carolina
Splinter of Hope
Shred of Decency
Sliver of Truth
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For all the women healing from what they prefer not to discuss.
“You should report this, sweetheart.” The nurse practitioner’s voice is soothing, and in harsh contrast to the echo of the speculum clattering onto the metal tray. She rolls it out of the way, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder as I sit up.
I don’t want anyone touching me. Shrugging her off, I reach for my clothes heaped on a nearby chair. I pull my panties and slouchy sweatpants up to cover myself before a physician excuses themselves from the room during a normal exam.
“What is there to report?” I ask with a quiver in my low voice, hardly audible as the vents in the small room kick on.
My internal thermometer is off. I’m bone-chilled and my skin is prickly hot. Tunnels of darkness and spots have threatened my vision for hours. The walls have been closing in, even when I walked outside across campus to the health center.
I push up my sweatshirt sleeves and am as quick to drag them back down, covering my wrists. Having my skin exposed to the nurse was enough. I don’t want anyone to see any part of me and will risk becoming overheated and passing out to keep covered.
After slipping on my shoes, I focus on my bent knees. She crumples the blue paper that covered the tray and the trash can clangs open and shut. Coming into the clinic was a mistake. I was trying to prove to myself I was being stupid. That if I didn’t remember what happened then it couldn’t possibly be the truth.
The nurse steps in front of me. She holds out an appointment card. I take it because my parents raised me to mind my manners and, in this situation, I don’t know how else to act.
“Aidy, you may not have bruises on the outside, but it doesn’t mean there aren’t any on the inside. Your confusion is obvious.” She looks at me with so much sympathy. It’s as if she can see red gushing out of the gaping wound in my heart. “Sweetheart, there are people who can help you. I’d be glad to stay with you the whole time if you need someone. If it means anything, I don’t think you changed your mind.”
Gee, what made that obvious? I think to myself. I have zero inclination to be sarcastic when she’s trying her best not to rattle me any more than I already am.
I’d confided I wasn’t on birth control when we were reviewing my medical history. There was no reason for a healthy nineteen-year-old to be when they weren’t sexually active. My periods were enviable; a few light days on the twenty-eighth of each month. Can I be any luckier? Even February has that number on the calendar. Because of this, I’ve never had an internal exam until a few minutes ago. I hadn’t been sure what to expect, but the way the speculum hung from my lower area reinforced the discomfort I’d already been feeling.
“It’s best to report a rape right away.”
The shame and self-loathing connected to the word is too much for me. I haven’t been able to meet her eyes the whole time. How did I allow myself to become a woman who had to deal with these emotions?
“I can see how troubled you are accepting this, Aidy. I want you to understand I’m here no matter what you decide.” She wraps her hand around my fingers, now holding the appointment card. “Come back this week no matter what your choice is. I’d like to see for myself you’re okay. Can you do that for me? It would make me feel better, and I’d be glad to answer any questions you think of between now and then.”
I finally look up. The kindness in her face reminds me of my mom’s. She wants to help me, but this isn’t a skinned elbow from landing on the grass when I skidded, missing while trying to catch a fly ball. I want to forget whatever game this is because my name wasn’t supposed to be on the roster. I’d gladly rewind to the point where I booked this appointment. I’d almost rather have lived the rest of my life in limbo than know this happened to me.
I stuff the card into my hoodie pocket next to the wallet holding my Pinewood College ID. Clutching them as if a thief will steal them the way my virginity has been stolen, I run-walk back to my dorm.
I’m filled with anxiety and unanswerable questions. How could he have done this to me? How could I have been so naive? Was it even him? And if
it wasn’t, then who?
I take the stairs up to the fourth floor because I’m petrified to be with anyone in an enclosed space. Halfway up, I start to cry because maybe waiting for a group of people to get on the elevator was safer. I fall to my ass on the concrete step, choking down sobs. The rocky texture of the formed stone grinds into my bottom, making my butt hurt. I may not have bruises, but it hasn’t stopped everything from aching. When I regain the strength to walk again, I make it to my door. With my head ducked low, I fumble with the lock. It opens and the door swings wide. In a swift motion, I have it shut and flip the bolt.
The wet towel I’d used to shower with has fallen on the floor and there is the faint outline of the puddle my shampoo caddy had sat in while it dried. The sight of my long twin bed attracts my attention. Its perfect hospital corners mock me. I couldn’t stand the rumpled sheets, thinking about what’s been done to me without my consent. I’d tidied up as best as possible in between trips to the bathroom to clean myself off, waiting for my lower GI to settle, and pressing cool compresses between my legs. I sat in my roommate’s Papasan chair for twenty-four hours before the burning sensation from the angry hives on my inner thighs became too much to handle and I called the health center.
I approach my desk and take a puff from the inhaler for my asthma. The nurse said with my latex allergy it was best to keep using it the way I have been. I thought it was a simple anxiety attack that had made it difficult to breathe. The allergy is another way she saw through to what he’s done to me. I am, was a smart girl. I would have told him we couldn’t use those types of condoms.
I take the throw pillow off the chair and lie down on the area rug with my back away from the bed. My slouchy sweats are the only thing covering me. The appointment card pokes into my stomach.
My mind reels over all the questions the nurse asked that I was unable to answer, repeating the ones I could as if they can save me still. How many partners have you had? None. Did you know you were allergic to latex? Yes. Do you remember anything?
I remember getting ready and being excited to wear the new Rincon dress I’d found on a clearance rack because the weather going into fall has been so beautiful. The curved, athletic hem scooped above my knee, which I loved since I have longer legs and a shorter torso, and simple summer dresses are my jam since you can put them on and run out the door when you’re late.
It’s the beginning of my sophomore year. Students have just moved back to campus. My new roommate went home for the weekend. When we agreed to bunk together, I was aware she picked up as many hours as she could at her job. I don’t go places alone at night, and my other girlfriends—many of whom scattered amongst other dorms and Greek houses this year—hadn’t approached me with a plan. So, when Brandon invited me to a welcome back kegger on Friday night, I agreed.
I’d met him while standing in line at the college store for what seemed like an eternity. We’d struck up a conversation which led to lunch together in the cafeteria a few times over the past week.
When we got to the party, I saw a friend I hadn’t seen yet this semester. While she and I were catching up, he asked if I’d like a drink and took off to get our beverages. I didn’t think anything of the grin on his face as he walked back with those two red plastic cups. He’d bought me a fountain drink not eight hours earlier. I’d let him put the plastic tops onto our cups and the straw in mine while I’d reached for some napkins to wipe up a spill.
Bass pounded from the speakers in the house and the music got incredibly loud, so we went outside to talk. The sounds became more muted and my recollections foggy. I have no clue how I got back to my room or if Brandon was the one who brought me here. I woke up on Saturday feeling like a truck hit me. My dress was rumpled past my midsection. The tie at the waist bound at my armpits. My bra was trapped underneath, unclasped in the back. The straps hung loose at my shoulders. I later found the underwear I’d worn in a knot where the sheet tucks into the mattress. The ache between my legs didn’t register at first. My head throbbed too hard. Then all I thought, as searing pain stabbed inside me, burning my thighs, was how this couldn’t have happened? I would’ve known.
I waited twenty years for that moment. It was supposed to be...Unforgettable.
There’s no erasing the past few hours from my memory and back in my dorm, lying on my side, the seconds tick by like minutes. Time stands still, mocking me. I stare at the dust bunny clinging to the mini-fridge under my roommate, Hailey’s, bed watching it get pushed around by the whirr of the motor as it clicks on and off. As if attached by a tiny invisible chain, the puff of dirt never lets go of its captor.
The sunlight has faded to a deep navy shadowing the room when a key tumbles in the lock. Hailey flips on the light, throwing her clean laundry bag and the backpack she took home with her on her mattress. Like mine, her parents live in the area and her weekend job at a cinema is near their house.
“What are you doing on the floor?” she asks in a laughing tone, suggesting I’ve partied too much while she was away.
“I don’t feel well. I think I came down with something.” I’m surprised at how easy the lie rolls off my tongue.
“Make sure you go to health services tomorrow if it gets any worse,” Hailey says, scooting a trash basket closer in case I’ll need it in an emergency.
“I’ve already been.”
I’ve had blood taken. Urine. Pictures. The nurse gave me the morning-after pill to be “on the safe side”. Safe seems like a comical word. Safe is pouring your own drink. Safe is not having sex with someone who is blacked out so that they don’t have to safely use medication to prevent an unwanted pregnancy. Should I be grateful whoever it was used a condom to be safe when it protected them?
“You want a blanket?” She tugs at my bedding.
“No!” I sit up too fast and have to lay right back down when my head spins. I cover my eyes with the crook of my elbow. The material of my sweatshirts absorbs the moisture from my eyes and hides the harsh and critical light shining down on me.
It’s been days since my roommate found me in a heap on the floor. I exist in the spot now, not venturing farther than the vending machine at the end of the hall. Nothing has seemed more important than yellow bags of Peanut M&Ms. I’m not even sure why I’m staying at school. My parents will kill me if they find out my tuition is going to waste. Textbooks sit uncracked on my desk. I’ve missed classes before most students consider starting skipping.
What I didn’t miss was my period, along with the big fat zit on my chin you’d have to be blind not to notice. Although, I hadn’t expected the relief is yet another thing to send me spiraling down in a puddle of tears.
I went back to health services today after the nurse called me a bunch of times as a reminder. Her true intent—to get me to file a report—was obvious, and her persuasive techniques were a failure. The pity etched across her forehead was enough of a deterrent. I don’t want anyone else looking at me that way. Who will believe me, anyway? I don’t know if it was Brandon and have struggled with his absence. Am I putting distance between us? Did he decide we weren’t compatible? If it was him, had Brandon gotten what he wanted? Am I worthless now?
The nurse convinced me I should go on the pill. I’ve brought the prescription to a local pharmacy. Although, I don’t know why I’m taking it besides the fact that a medical professional told me to. Does what happened mean I’m sexually active if I’m not planning to have sex and never was?
Why are there so many unanswered questions floating around in my head? I’m so confused, and it’s easier to take her advice than fight with my morals.
My parents took me to church. It’s how my birth mother met them. But my choice to abstain didn’t have much to do with God. More, I hadn’t wanted to make the same error and have any of the three of them upset with my lapse in judgment. Me, of all people, understood the consequences. I am the outcome.
All I ever wanted was to make them proud. Be the best person I could be. I’m not sure wh
y I’ve bothered.
“Do you have any questions about your prescription for the pharmacist?” The assistant slides a white bag with red lettering toward me.
I shake my head. I haven’t had a lot to say recently, and my voice is squeaky and scratchy when I open my mouth. Hailey thinks I have the plague. She keeps spraying disinfectant in our dorm room that makes me gag. It’ll take a lot more than a stream of Lysol on my pillow to banish what happened in my bed.
I nibble a finger, walking toward the far aisles on the perimeter of the store. What happens if they find out? I’ll have to step up and explain missing classes at some juncture or they’ll know.
It would be easier if I’d been more rebellious, less honest. Owned my flaws the way some of my friends do and tried imperfection on for size. It hadn’t occurred to me those qualities might come in handy until it was too late.
I stand looking at my drawn face in one of those skinny makeup mirrors. My red hair is a matted mess, pulled back against the nape of my neck with a hair tie. There are black circles under my blue eyes and my lips are chapped, not only from crying but from dehydration.
What did he see in me that made him do it? Nothing. I look like hell and hunger has me feeling the same way. My bones and muscles hurt from sacking out on the carpet and not moving for days. Maybe I was attractive once. I hate my hair, my skin, my stupid zit, and the dull frost in my gaze.
I turn away from the mirror as if hiding my reflection will stop everyone else in the pharmacy from seeing what a wreck I am. I feel exposed, which is funny since I have on three-day-old sweats, tube socks up to my knees, and untied running shoes with the laces tucked inside. The sun beats down in September in North Carolina. I’m a sweaty, ugly sight to behold. I don’t want to be me anymore. There was no reason to better myself. No excuse for straight-As. No logic behind waiting for the love of my life to sweep me off my feet. Not when all of it can fall apart at the drop of a hat.