Read Scarred (Lost Series Book 2) Online
Authors: LeTeisha Newton
Scarred (Lost Series Book 2)
SCARRED
A NOVEL
LETEISHA NEWTON
Scarred
Copyright © 2016 by LeTeisha Newton
Cover Art: LeTeisha Newton
Editor: Erin Foster
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Dedication
This book is for you, Kokoro. Because… Well, just because.
Watashi wa, anata o aishiteimasu.
Acknowledgements
Amanda Maria, that’s M-A-R-I-A, make sure there isn’t an ‘e’ down there. (She totally understands this joke.) There aren’t that many words I could say to show you my appreciation. Just… Wow. You amaze me.
Jessica Adkins-Charles, for slapping me upside the head when I wanted to do crazy things like stop writing and chuck out whole chapters trying to get my story straight. You loved what I wrote, forced me to look at it with fresh eyes, and pull things together. You rock!
Lauren Smith, because you are the best friend-turned-sister from another Mister LOL. You are a wonderful mother, friend, supporter, and auntie. Love you sis!
Erin Foster, you are like Wonder Woman! Your way with words and turning my baby into golden prose is amazing!
Life beats the shit out of you. Crying about it only gets you killed, so stand up and fight…
River
B
reathing hurt. I forced each painful breath through my body, pumping my arms and legs to run faster. My enemy wouldn’t stop; he wouldn’t tire or leave me in peace. The ground was solid beneath my feet. That I could rely on, trust it to always be there. I’d come to appreciate the small things in a life was fraught with dangerous pitfalls and terror-filled nights. Pain, for instance, reminding me I was alive, that I could still feel something. And sometimes, just sometimes, it made my body sing.
Sick, fucked up, and twisted as shit, but true nonetheless.
Running kept my mind clear, my body loose, and my limbs agile. I needed all of that, and more, to keep away from the man who was chasing me. Derrick Reese wanted to make sure I didn’t survive the mistake of falling in love with him. It had been a stupid thing to do, really. Looking back, he never should have come up on my radar.
I didn’t date play boys.
There was something about the look in his eyes that drew me in. Coupled with his boyish-charm and the way he told me he wanted to change but hadn’t found the right woman, I was hooked. Yeah, it was stupid, but I’d fallen for it. I’d been blinded by his attention, the feel of his hands on my body, and by the way he looked at me—like I was the only girl in the world.
It had only been a ploy.
A perfectly designed game I hadn’t realized I was playing. Not before I no longer had friends, stopped going out, and found myself appeasing his temper tantrums because not doing so hurt me in ways I was terrified of.
I ran harder, trying to escape his memory and the bitter taste of failure in my mouth. The gravel under my feet crunched and slid but I held my ground. Each step made me stronger; pushed my limits; and made sure when I asked the right question, when I finally did what I meant to do, I would be ready for it.
One breath, two.
My lungs felt like sandpaper grating against the insides of my ribcage, punishing me for making myself better. This pain felt good. It reminded me I was alive, that I survived him, and would continue to do so.
The woods were quiet, the solitude easing my frayed emotions as I came to a stop, the silence only broken by my labored breathing. I placed my hands on my hips, pacing slightly back and forth to calm my heart rate and stop my limbs from cramping up.
Walk it off,
I told myself.
Keep moving and always keep watching.
Those words had become my mantra in the two years I was away from Derrick. I didn’t contact my friends or family anymore; he always found me when I did. I stayed off the grid, paying for everything in cash, never staying in one place longer than a few weeks, and getting under-the-table jobs where they didn’t care about paperwork or identification.
It was a tough life, but at least I was free.
Well, sort of. I had to always look over my shoulder and I was tired of it. Derrick sometimes got close to me. He left notes where I might see them or showed up at places I worked and tried to follow me home. I was through with being scared. I wanted to get away from him, entirely—or die trying.
Getting to my efficiency room only took a few minutes. A quarter of an hour later I was showered, dressed in jeans, tank top, and my sneaks, and I was out the door. I learned to think in matter of minutes to hours. I always had to leave earlier because she didn’t have a car. Having a car meant I had to get it registered, maintain my license, and insurance. Not safe with Derrick always out there to find me.
I walked to Pantera Jiu-Jitsu MMA Gym and stood outside. It looked like a large empty warehouse with its rusted metal siding and steel sign. This place, in the center of Stockton, California’s mixed martial arts scene, was understated, unwanted, and tossed aside.
Its appearance on the outside didn’t match the reputation it built up. Fighters vied for the chance to get inside, to be trained by coaches who worked with big name fighters, and who they knew could make or break careers. I didn’t care about its notoriety. I had no use for its coaches and the prestige of being a Pantera fighter. What the fuck did I care about some UFC title?
What I needed was so much worse than that.
I heard about the owner, Ethan Kendall. He was no good, a convict who served hard time in Wandsworth Prison in London, England. He didn’t know how to be nice. His Russian Mafia ties and the money from the fights drew him to open the gym initially. He loved violence.
He was a sociopath.
He was a killer.
I didn’t care. Because I needed a monster to make me into one. I wasn’t going to survive Derrick unless I made sure he could never touch me again. I had to kill him and I wanted Ethan Kendall to teach me how.
I took a deep breath and headed for the entrance. Twilight would be fading soon, turning into crisp darkness, accented by the heavy breeze. Winter was coming soon to Stockton, and I wondered if I’d be here to see it.
I hoped I would.
Because that would mean Ethan had helped me; I’d done what I needed to and I could live in the city I loved. The door to the gym was inside to the right. The scent of sweat, plastic mats, and oil struck me immediately after I entered the room. The fighters squaring off inside different rings and working on mats didn’t notice my entrance.
I watched them going through the motions, attacking pads and bodies with single-minded determination. Coaches off to the sides of the rings called combinations and advice, but the fighters were silent.
There was a controlled rage seething through the room. Here violence had been morphed into a sport with rules, respect, and honor, despite the personae the fighters sometimes portrayed. My blood raced through my veins. I had the same boiling anger, burning through me, scalding the back of my throat.
I needed it to be tempered, and forged into a weapon. I could find that here. Scanning the crowd, I stepped farther into the room, looking for a back office.
“Can I help you?”
I turned around slowly. A gray-haired older man, with a scar closing his right eye, stood behind me. He wore loose fitting white pants held up by a black belt with a tight white shirt tucked in. I was surprised by the hard form of his body. He had the physique of a man who couldn’t have been much older than I was.
“I’d like to see to see Ethan Kendall,” I told him, my voice gravely. I didn’t often talk to people anymore.
“Women meet on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Come back tomorrow and we can see if there are any openings,” he said.
“I’m not here to be a fighter.”
He looked at me, his one brown eye scanning my form, as if he could see through to the inside. Something in his stance was different. A slight spread of his bare feet, firm on the padding, his hands loose by his sides and his hip slightly canted.
“You are a fighter. Come back tomorrow.”
He spoke slowly, his accent hard to place. He put pressure on the consonants in a way I found odd, but nice. I could barely see the tips of tattoos on his chest beneath the edge of his shirt. The faded blue ink grabbed my attention before I realized what he said and rolled my eyes.
“Sir, I would just like to see—”
He moved too fast for me to see. One moment I was standing up, the next I was flat on my back, gasping for breath. Instinct kicked in. I ignored how I struggled to breathe.
Lung may be collapsed, but I’ll be dead if I stay here.
I rolled, just as he stomped the ground where I had been, swinging his foot up and outward. Heaving, I came to my knees and blocked the kick, but didn’t prepare for his swinging punch. It didn’t hurt, but the shock to my head had me rocking. He twisted his body, jumping over the leg I was holding and broke my grip before tackling me to the floor.
I fought him, elbowing his inner thigh, biting at his arms when they came close. It took me minutes to realize he wasn’t striking, but mimicking hits in the air around my face, around my head. I bucked under him, trying to dislodge him, but he rode the wave, holding on and never breaking his concentration.
I tried to calm down, stop my heart from pounding, but at the edge of the rage, fear was encroaching.
No.
Panic immobilized me, made me a victim. I was a survivor. Clawing at his legs, I braced my feet on the floor and bowed my back and threw my hips into the air. Shock filtered through his gaze before he gripped me by my shirt and dragged me to my feet.
“You are a fighter.”
A fighter, yes; I was a fighter. But a fighter could still lose. A fighter could be destroyed. A killer survived; a killer was still standing after everyone was long gone.
That was what I needed to be.
“I am a fighter. But it’s not enough.”
The older man nodded at me, understanding written all over his face. Was I so obvious, so weak? Did I have a sign on my forehead that told others I was wheat to cut?
“Sometimes it is not. Other times, it is enough. For you, I think it is.”
I couldn’t be turned away. Coming tomorrow so I could just be pushed into some girls’ class or to be brushed aside, was out of the question. I knew how many people tried to get in this gym. I wanted to be a student way off the books.
“Pantera doesn’t see clients,
malyutka
.”
This was getting me nowhere. I wasn’t going to leave without seeing Ethan. For me this was life and death. I spun around and ran across the floor.
“Ethan!”
The room went silent at my scream but I ignored it. The patrons’ world was based on who they would face in the next fight. How to get to the title. How to change their regime to get in the best physical shape. Fuck them. Fuck them all.
“Ethan!”
The second scream sent the room into motion. The coaches sprinted for me at once, the fighters looking on from varying phases of shock and irritation to humor. I dodged an outstretched arm, scanning the back wall for some sort of stairway or door that led to somewhere.
“Class dismissed!” someone yelled, but I ignored it. At the end of the wall, almost invisible, was a white knob. I slid to a stop and wrenched it open as I was tackled sideways.
“Oh, malyutka. Sometimes the darkness is better left alone, ya?”
The old man’s soothing voice from earlier didn’t lessen my anger. Failure. Again. Always failing, always falling short. I stretched my hands toward the dark hallway as tears scalded my cheeks.
“I need him,” I choked out.
Needed him.
Needed the darkness. I needed to feel a purpose in my life. I needed, for once, to finally feel safe. Ethan could give that to me. I knew it, somewhere deep inside. If I could just get to him, he would understand. He wouldn’t turn me away. He’d help me and I could live again.
“Please,” I begged.
“Enough.”
The voice rolled over me. Cold and calculated, deep and rumbling. That one word parted the bodies around me as someone helped me to my feet. I scrubbed the tears out of my eyes, clearing my vision and looking into the face ravaged by his past.
If I imagined Ethan to be massive, I was wrong. The grainy picture I saw hadn’t done him justice. He was built with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, but he was more slender than I expected. The rough shadow of a beard graced his strong jaw and framed his chiseled lips. His nose was slightly bent in the center and his eyebrows were thick. His eyes though, that was where I saw his past and the violence he committed. They were deep brown, almost black, and devoid of any emotion. Hollow pits in the face of a beautiful man. Tattoos banded his arms from what I could see under his black T-shirt, and he wore his jeans low and loose on his hips. He watched me with ill-disguised irritation and I could taste the threat of retribution.
That was what I needed. Whatever I had to give him, anything he needed to take from me, I would give. If I could get just an ounce of that glacial stare, I could face my fear and take back my life. I needed to learn to fight again.
“Help me.”
It was all I could say.
Please, help me.