Until Tennessee: Happily Ever Alpha World

by Sarah O'Rourke

  by Sarah O’Rourke

  Until Tennessee

  Copyright © 2019 by Sarah O’Rourke

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Published by Boom Factory Publishing, LLC.

  Sarah O’Rourke, CONTRIBUTOR to the Original Works, was granted permission by Aurora

  Rose Reynolds, ORIGINAL AUTHOR, to use the copyrighted characters and/ or worlds created by Aurora Rose Reynolds in the Original Work; all copyright protection to the characters and/ or worlds of Aurora Rose Reynolds in the Original Works are and shall continue to be retained by Aurora Rose Reynolds. You can find all of Aurora Rose Reynolds Original Works on most major retailers. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, story lines and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or any events or occurrences are purely coincidental.

  Note from Sarah O’Rourke

  It is an honor to be included in Boom Factory Publishing’s first release and to be able to share the characters made famous by the incomparable Aurora Rose Reynolds. We so appreciate the trust that Aurora has placed in us, and we hope we have done her world justice with this novel! Thank you to all of our readers for continuing to read and follow – you mean the world to us!

  The Two Crazies that are Sarah O’Rourke

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  More by Sarah O’Rourke

  Chapter One

  Clarity

  How the hell could this my life?

  This wasn’t the first time today I’d found myself pondering over that particular question. Heck, it wasn’t even the fortieth time the sentiment had come and gone from my thoughts. At this point even my mind was stuck on repeat, debating again and again how I’d landed with my two precious baby dolls in the wilds of this Tennessee outback.

  I shouldn’t complain. With a whole lotta God’s help and just the barest smidgeon of luck, I’d made it across the country in a decade-old-should-have-been-crushed-into-a-soda-can 2002 Honda Civic. I mean, sure, it had a few hundred thousand miles on it, was missing more paint than not, and the best thing I could say about the interior was that at least it had one. None of that mattered a single bit. I had scratched and saved enough money to buy that hunk of junk outright. Even better, a friend from work was allowing me to put the vehicle’s title in her name so my sleazy husband wouldn’t know about it or be able to find us once we left him behind. So far, my theory had held, and most of our days are decent. But every day I wondered, however briefly—would this be the day Paulo found us?

  Anyway, there had been a couple of times I’d questioned my sanity for running away from the life I’d once had. The life where I had a suburban home with a sunken tub that I could fill with hot water whenever I wanted instead of a semi-okay mobile home where I was lucky to get two minutes’ worth of hot water when I showered. Most days, it seemed like a lifetime since I’d had a sleek, black Chrysler 500, a walk-in closet stuffed with some nice clothes, and a husband that no one would guess liked to use me as his punching bag and use our children as pawns in our fucked up version of a marriage. In actuality, it had only been a few months.

  My relationship with Paulo had been poisonous from the moment he slipped the gold band on my finger, and he’d always held the antidote just beyond my reach. No matter how much I begged for my freedom, for my kids’ freedom, he held onto us with a maniacal grip, creating this image that we were the happiest of families and daring me to disagree. It was utter bullshit, but people would pass out cold if I had ever inferred that Officer Paulo Escobar was anything less than an honest, hardworking family man that gave his days to the Sacramento Police Department and his nights to his family.

  But I knew the real man... the one who’d delivered one too many backhanded slaps when I tried to talk to him about our problems. The one that I’d overheard more than once mutter about teaching me a lesson by beating the shit out of our cranky toddler. That had been the kicker. There had been something in the way he’d said it that last time... I don’t know whether it was the slight sneer on his face or that malicious glimmer in his eyes that chilled me to the bone. Either way, I knew he meant it that last time he said it. Both my kids were in terrible danger and the longer I stayed, the more risk I was taking with their lives. Knowing that had been my breaking point. I’d been willing to endure more than my fair share of violence, but I’d never stand by and let the man I’d once loved strike out at one of my defenseless babies.

  NEVER!

  And that had left me with a single option: GET OUT QUICK.

  That night, while Paulo slept, a plan began to form. It began with waiting until a still angry Paulo left for work the next day. As soon as the door closed behind him, I leapt into action, quickly packing up as much of our belongings as I could for myself and the kids, stacking everything in one corner. There was no way I could take my car; Paulo would have it found before we reached the state border. I’d already decided I was going to need to use some of my meager funds to snag a secondhand vehicle. Once I finished cramming as much as I could into the few suitcases and overnight bags I had, I called for an Uber to take me and the kids to our bank to raid our joint accounts, taking my half of what little money we’d managed to save. After finishing that chore, I knew I needed to pick up some speed. Sacramento proper was a big city in California, but we lived in the suburbs where juicy news traveled at supersonic speeds. A well-known local cop’s wife up and pulls half their dough from BOTH checking AND savings was news that would spread faster than a brush fire in the middle of drought season.

  With hurrying on my brain, I pushed the double stroller with my kids in it across the street to the Sunshine Budget Car and Truck, my eyes scanning the lot for something that looked like it wouldn’t fall apart after a thousand miles of open road. Once my eyes landed on the dark blue Civic, I felt almost relieved. Even at its current sticker price, I could’ve afforded the nondescript car, but after a quick conversation and a couple of flirtatious smiles, I’d convinced the salesman to lower the price by a couple of hundred dollars. My friend Felicia arrived just in time to sign the title documents, as we had pre-arranged. I’d known Felicia from before I’d married Paulo, and she had helped me concoct part of my plan. As soon as it was done, she gave me a long hug, we both cried a bit, handed me the pay-as-you-go phone she’d gotten for me, then she reluctantly left. Twenty minutes later, the faded blue car was mine and I was back on the road to collect our stuff.

  I moved at warp speed after that, but I also made sure to obey all the traffic laws. Getting tagged by one of Paulo’s cop buddies was the very last thing I needed to happen on the way out of town. Instead, I focused on my plan. I’d googled a map of the United States on my phone the night before, closed my eyes, and blindly pointed at the screen. My index finger had landed on Murfreesboro, Tennessee. Since I’d always wanted to visit the South, it sounded like as good a place to start our lives over again as any. I had no connections there, and Paulo would never think of it on his own. My mind was made up; my babies and I deserved a fresh start
, and I was going to give them one no matter how far I had to drive to get there.

  The first leg of our travels actually went as smoothly as any trip could go when you were hauling around a toddler and a four-month-old baby. Scared, nervous, and in full-on Momma Bear mode, I was determined to put as much distance between my kids and their father as I could during that first twenty-four hours. I had to keep them safe and the only way I knew to do that was to drive.

  So I drove.

  And drove.

  And drove some more.

  Along the way, we had a few problems. What family didn’t experience a handful of problems when traveling? Like when Zain chose the height of a thunderstorm on the darkest night in New Mexico’s history to have his diaper blow out completely. Tired and poised on the precarious edge of a nervous breakdown, I’d cried as my daughter gave me a play-by-play of where my little four-month-old son had flung his poo.

  “Momma, it’s on the windows!” Addison announced as she’d pinched her nose with her thumb and forefinger.

  “I see it, Addy,” I’d replied tiredly.

  “It’s on the car seat, too, Momma,” Addison pointed out in a nasally wheeze as her baby brother’s toothless grin eroded some of my desperation.

  “Uh huh. I got it, sweetie,” I’d assured her as I plucked more baby wipes from the diaper bag with one hand as I tried valiantly to keep my son from squirming.

  “Ewwww! It’s in your hair, too, Momma!”

  I totally could have done without that last warning, but what are you gonna do? I, for one, briefly considered moving my destination from Tennessee to Mexico City. I was pretty sure it was closer than Tennessee was at the moment, and everybody knew tequila was considered a food group there. But while I was fairly confident I could master the Southern slang of mid-state Tennessee, I was absolutely positive I couldn’t master the Spanish language by the time I hit the Mexican border.

  So, I pulled over and cleaned up the poo as best as I could before I kept on truckin’ until we came upon a motel with a shower where I could pay with non-traceable cash.

  After that, all went well for the next day or so. Until my parental fortitude was tested once more. This time, somewhere near the Texas – Arkansas borders when my normally sweet, docile two-and-a-half-year-old girl decided she needed the one lone taco left under the heat lamp in the old, dusty gas station we’d found. I’d been nearly out of gas when we pulled into the gravel parking lot, and the little store had seemed like a miracle from heaven when I spotted it on the side of the road. The Devil, however, has many disguises, and I now realize that deceptive bastard had to have been the one to place that nightmare convenience store in my path.

  “I want dis, Momma,” I’d heard my daughter’s determined voice proclaim as I’d been shifting her brother from one of my arms to the other while I desperately hunted for the bills in my purse to pay for my gas. I knew better than to use one of my cards. It was way too easy to track my movements with them. Consumed by my task, I barely spared my girl a look before I shook my head. “We’ll eat after I find us a room for the night, Addie. Put that down and come stand by me, please.”

  “But I’m hungwee,” she whined, scuffing the toe of her tennis shoe against the floor.

  Locating a twenty-dollar bill, I shot a look toward my daughter. I’d known that taco was cursed from the moment I saw the oil-soaked tortilla shell clutched tightly in Addison’s hand. It looked disgusting with sauce-drenched meat dripping out one side of the shell.

  “Pwease, Momma,” my toddler beseeched as the cashier behind the counter gave my daughter a soft look while the taco was lifted higher for me to see.

  “No, Addison. We’ll eat soon. I promise,” I answered, hoping against hope the mommy authority wouldn’t be tested by either the child or the weakening cashier behind the counter.

  “Oh, of course you can have that, sugar. That’s the very last one and has your name all over it,” the cashier contradicted me in a sweet voice, apparently unable to deny my daughter that which her PARENT had already quashed.

  Opening my mouth to intervene, I met my daughter’s conniving eyes with a narrowed gaze of my own while she quickly sank her teeth into the soggy shell. “Crap,” I groaned, shooting the cashier a dirty look before slapping down a couple of twenties for my gas. “Thanks for nothing, lady,” I hissed as I snagged one of Addie’s hands in mine and marched her toward the door, silently calculated how many minutes I had left before the diarrhea and vomiting began. Because if there was one thing I’d already learned on our trip of horrors, it was that gas station goodies and my baby girl’s tiny tummy did NOT agree upon anything.

  Two hours later, I sat on the edge of my motel room bed and held her honey blonde hair back with one hand while rubbing Addie’s back with the other while she puked up the taco she’d thought she needed so desperately. I thought of that oh-so-generous cashier that had put us in this position, and I prayed for a plague to befall her household.

  One that included lots and LOTS of barf.

  Thankfully, not all of our days were that exciting, and we made great time on our road trip across the country. Less than a week later, we arrived safely in Tennessee, and as of yesterday morning, we’d been here for six months.

  Six long months.

  In that time, I’d finally painstakingly carved out what could only be described as some warped version of normalcy. Now, I was no June Cleaver or Carol Brady, but I wasn’t Peg Bundy, either. Suffice it to say that my parenting train somehow stayed mostly on track. Most days, anyway.

  The majority of the first month after we arrived in Tennessee was spent in a no-tell motel room on the outskirts of Nashville. With my budget iffy and my hope for a better tomorrow hanging on by a thread, I concentrated on my kids, filling their days with countless hours of story time and cuddles. The owners of the surprisingly clean motel, an elderly couple who seriously reminded me of the Costanza parents from Seinfield, immediately fell in love with my littles. Each time I’d take Zain and Addison outside, one or both of the couple usually found their way over to us, bringing little surprises for the kids and a friendly ear to listen to me. As far as Addy – and Zain, by extension - were concerned, she had found a set of heretofore unknown grandparents (since my own parents and grandparents had long ago passed away.) Joe and Betty Turner were truly my kids’ guardian angels in disguise.

  As for me, having Joe and Betty in my corner as my insta-babysitters made my job searching much easier – especially since there was not a whole lot of opportunities for a single mother trying like hell to fly under the radar. The stars aligned a whole lot quicker than I ever expected them to when I landed a gig as a cocktail waitress at a local Gentleman’s Club where the owner was highly distrustful of our government and was more than willing to pay me under the table. A tiny, sparsely furnished trailer behind the club also came with the position if I agreed to clean up the joint in the mornings before the mid-day waitresses and exotic dancers reported for duty. Since I finally had the chance at a place I could call home that didn’t have a slot for quarters beside the bed, I jumped all over the opportunity. Sure, waitressing and housekeeping were menial jobs, but I got to keep my clothes mostly on and on the nights that Joe and Betty couldn’t look after my kids, my new boss’s niece provided in-home childcare to his employee’s for half the local daycare’s rate. And since her views on the government ran along the same lines as her uncle, I was able to avoid a paper trail there, too! It wasn’t exactly an ideal situation, but it would have to suffice for now.

  No, I shouldn’t complain that the volume of the music at the club could sometimes rattle the walls of my trailer until the dust shook off the windows or that my boss’ idea of a waitressing uniform included booty shorts and a couple of nipple pasties, right? I had a roof over my head and a flippin’ job to support my babies.

  I was doing okay, wasn’t I?

  Hell, yeah!

  And this life was a lot better than the one I’d had previously. The one wher
e I lived in fear of what my husband might do to me and my kids. At least, here, I got to be the one calling the plays on my life like any other normal person.

  Gosh almighty. This was my definition of normal, right? Uh huh. Okay, sure. Maybe normal was a stretch. Let’s amend that to say it was my new version of hell and normal rolled all up into one tidy, little, nightmarish package - except instead of fearing my husband’s fists, I now feared making ends meet.

  Today had just been the cherry on the crap sundae that was my life. While I had been doing my level best to keep everything rolling along at the club with as much guts and gusto as I could, fate just had to leap in and take another swing at me and my kids.

  The bar had been in full swing last night thanks to a local convention that had been in town all week. On a more personal note, that meant I had been pulling double shifts for the last four days and barely seen my babies at all. When I did pick them up late last night, I felt like the worst mother in the world. Addy was sniffling and warm to the touch, and the babysitter said she'd barely eaten all evening. Her cough had kept us all awake throughout the night, and I had done my best to bring down her temperature with some baby Tylenol. Today, after a quick trip to the local clinic where I could pay in cash, we left with a diagnosis of influenza and a handful of medication samples. My baby girl sounded just pitiful, and it broke my heart when I glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing her just curled up in her booster seat, not even wanting to watch cartoons on my phone. We all wanted to go home.

  And for a moment, I wanted to go to my real home. The comfortable home I had left because of the bastard who wanted to hurt us. The home where we weren’t safe any longer. But there, at least I didn’t have to worry if I could afford medical care for my babies or if I would get fired and evicted if I missed a shift.

  Or, if my car would sputter and sputter and die. Like my ever-faithless Civic just did as I was stopped at the intersection of Main and Fourth - the absolute busiest intersection around for miles.