Forever We Fall: Broken #4 (The Broken Series)
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Authors: Chloe Walsh
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Disclaimer.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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Forever We Fall
Broken #4
Chloe Walsh
For full enjoyment of this series, the broken series books should be read in order of sequence:
Break My Fall
Fall To Pieces
Fall On Me
Forever We Fall
To my readers.
I love you all.
Thank you for your patience while I navigate these crazy waters.
And thank you so much for making my dream a reality.
January 11
th
2014
Lee
I always found art to be a form of therapy for me. I clung to it as a lifeline. Music and books. Two forms of art that saved my life on more occasions than I dared to think about.
In the lyrics of a song I could pretend. I could be a different person. In the pages of a storybook I could travel. My emotions grew through the words of famous people who sang of their troubles and wrote about their grief.
I could relate to this.
I survived through this.
I was sure I would have died many years ago without it, maybe not physically, but in a deeper way. Yes, my heart would have kept beating, but sometimes dying is the least of a person's worries. Sometimes…sometimes living can be a much crueler fate.
I knew that sounded ridiculous, but for the people who have never been in control of the physical pain their body has to endure… I was certain they would understand my words. My meaning.
It's a complicated state of mind to put into words. How do you make people understand something you don't entirely understand yourself? All I knew was this…
I was born into a cruel world, to a family who didn't want me, into a life I didn't fit into. I grew up in a home where the screams and cries of a young child were ignored. I grew up with my shoulders slumped and my mind set on flight mode.
Empty. Ugly. Scarred. Cold. Lonely. Hungry. Terrified.
Seven words that defined my childhood. Described me. Described the people of my childhood. I suffered extreme cruelty. I was lost. Lost in this crazy world, full of lies, full of liars. Trust was something I couldn't afford to hand out easily, for betrayal was the reward for my misguided trust.
I had one friend –one consistent rock– for the first eighteen years of my life.
Camryn Frey.
She died for me.
Took a bullet intended to end my life.
I watched her blood spill, felt her skin grow cold as death filled the room she took her last breath in. She died and my unborn child died. Sometimes, in the dark of the night when I lay awake in my bed reflecting on all my past mistakes, I wondered – no, I hoped – they were together.
If I was a piece of drift wood, I would surely be far out in the ocean, drifting aimlessly, hopelessly.
But I had an anchor.
My anchor came in the form of a six feet-two inches, temperamental, beautiful man who, in many ways, was as broken as me. He pulled me to the surface, saved me from drowning in the depths of despair and desolation. He waded into my ocean of solitude and rescued me. The events that followed our meeting were some of the worst I'd ever witnessed–some of the worst I'd ever suffered. But it was too late for me by then because I'd fallen.
I had fallen in love with my anchor.
And with love came more sorrow, heartache and pain than I could have ever anticipated. Loving him almost killed me. And knowing that it still could only added to the paralyzing concoction of pain and pleasure that coursed through my veins. He was more of a warrior – more of a hero – than any of the men in the books I'd read. He was real. He had flaws, many of them, he said the wrong thing. He did terrible things. But his heart, oh god, he had the heart of a lion. He loved fiercely. He protected me to the death. I had never felt love like that.
He would kill for me.
He would always keep me safe.
What an extraordinarily perverse feeling. To find comfort in the knowledge that another human being would shed the blood of another to keep me safe. To keep me alive.
Two years ago I would have shuddered at this notion.
Two years ago I hadn't known Kyle Carter…
"You ready to go, baby?" Kyle called out from the doorway of the hotel suite, stirring me from my reverie. We'd been cooped up in the honeymoon suite of the Henderson hotel for the past hour, waiting for a break in the storm. It wasn't coming. Instead of going away, more and more reporters had arrived to stake us out. To get their pound of flesh.
I nodded my head in reluctance. I wasn't ready. If I had my way I'd never leave this room again. I was freaking terrified. It was starting up again. Perry Franklin had made sure of that when he went on television and slammed me to millions of people. My father had enforced every fear I could dream up with his phone call. I was choking on my anxiety and the familiar taste of fear was sour, sharp and cutting. "How many do you think are out there?" I asked nervously as I glanced towards the window.
It was freezing cold outside, as per normal for the month of January in Boulder, Colorado, and to be perfectly honest I couldn't understand why these people were prepared to stand out there and wait for us. Yeah, the murder trial was an attraction–a lure–but for god's sake, we weren't celebrities. There were no actors, musicians or athletes inside this room. We were normal people. We didn't deserve this. None of it.
"There'll be a lot more if you two don't get a move on," Derek Porter, our longtime friend and roommate, muttered as he hoisted Hope into his arms and moved over to the curtains. "Dibs on the kid. She's like a cheat sheet," he chuckled, his smile not quite touching his worried green eyes. "They can't touch her," he added softly, his eyes on me as he spoke. I knew he was trying to comfort me and in any other circumstance I would answer him, but my lips were wobbling so much I wasn't sure what would come out if I spoke.
"Kelsie," Kyle snarled into his phone, startling me. I watched in dismay as Kyle paced the suite like a mad-man, one hand holding his phone to his ear, the other tugging at his tie. "I want him tracked. I don't give two shits what the
correct
procedure is," he continued, oblivious to the fact that we were listening to his rant.
"No,
you
hear me," he roared, raising his hand to yank on his hair. Things were bad when Kyle yanked on his hair. I had a fear he would have premature baldness from the amount of punishment he put his hair through on a daily basis. "Keep that fucker where you can see him. I want a daily report on his movements." Kyle's brow shot up in obvious surprise and he dropped his hand to his side, momentarily silent, and I was desperate to know how his faithful attorney had managed to silence him. He was a hard man to stump.
I needed some tips from her.
"Rachel?" Kyle whispered. "Pushed back? To when?" His eyes flicked to me and he visibly flinched. "This is a goddamn nightmare…"
"Okay, buddy," Derek interjected, taking the phone from Kyle's hand. "He'll call you later, sweetheart," he said into the phone before ending the call and sliding the phone into Kyle's shirt pocket. "Priorities, dude," Derek mumbled. "You've got bigger ones here."
Derek inclined his head in my direction, eyeing Kyle meaningfully. Both men stood staring at one another and I almost felt like I was eavesdropping on a moment. Something passed between them–their close bond ensuring no words were required–some unspoken agreement and I watched as they simultaneously nodded before turning their backs on me and facing the window.
"Let's go home," Kyle said finally, breaking the unnerving silence.
"Kyle," I mumbled, feeling incredibly nervous. "Is there any way…could we stay here…"
"We are not hiding," he said calmly. Stalking towards me, he wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. "
You
are not hiding, princess."
"It's not about hiding," I countered quietly. "It's about not giving them any more ammunition to fire at us."
"Fuck that," he snarled, his tone agitated, his whole frame trembling with what I was sure was anger. "Tell me something, Lee," he said. "Tell me what the hell we have to be ashamed of? What any of us have done to deserve this punishment?" He shook his head to make a further point. "All we are guilty of is having come from shitty families. We're not killers. We're not rapists and we are not fucking child-beaters. So, yeah, princess, fuck that."
I had to smile at his straight-laced, black and white way of thinking. That was Kyle all over. He didn't give a damn about what people thought of him. It never cost him a seconds worth of sleep and I was incredibly envious of that. To be that self-assured. To be that comfortable in your own skin…
"You're right." I closed my eyes and sagged against him, reveling in the way his body calmed mine. I felt like a leech, sucking his strength into me. I didn't feel too badly about it though. Kyle had more strength than all of us. He wasn't afraid of anyone. He really was like superman – a potty mouthed version. God, I loved that man. "Keep us safe," I begged, my voice barely more than a breathy whisper.
I felt his lips touch my forehead, his fingers trail over my cheekbone. "Always," he murmured for my ears only.
****