Laying a Foundation: Bonus volume: Includes series prequel, The Groundbreaking (The Love Under Construction Series) (8 page)

“Do you want out?”

“What?” Krystal replied, confused. What did he mean, did she want out? Out of the car?

“Do you want out of the life? The organization I work for operates a shelter for girls wanting to leave the life. Do you want to leave?” he asked her again.

“Of course I want to leave. But Bledsoe will find me and kill me. I can’t leave. And I’m almost nineteen; places like that don’t take girls over eighteen who are supposed to be able to take care of themselves.”

“We don’t care about your age – you still need out. And as for saying ‘I can’t,’ well, yes you can, if you want.” By now Krystal was pretty sure it was a trick. “You can have a clean bed and clean clothes, and a good breakfast in the morning. Whaddya say?”

Yeah, he was going to take her to a building somewhere, and he and four of his friends were going to rape her; she was pretty sure of it. But for reasons she didn’t understand, she answered, “Yes. I want to go.”

“Well, okay then. Let’s go.”

Once they’d reached the shelter, the man stopped the car. “By the way, I’m Wayne. What’s your name?”

“It’s Krystal.” Not one john had ever asked her what her name was.

“Krystal. That’s a pretty name. Well, this is the place. Let’s go inside, okay?” He came around, opened the door for her, and helped her out of the car.

Stepping inside, Krystal was instantly excited. The building was clean and well-lit, and she could smell some kind of food cooking. That was when she realized she was hungry. Thinking back over the last two days, she couldn’t remember when she’d eaten.

“Let’s get you some clean clothes, let you shower, and we’ll get you something to eat. But I need to know; are you injured in any way? We have a doctor here who can look at you,” Wayne offered.

“Uh, yeah, I hurt. You know – down there.” All of a sudden, Krystal felt shy.

“Then come on and let me show you to the shower, get you some clothes, and we’ll get Dr. Kurt to look you over, okay? He’s a nice guy; you’ll like him.” Wayne led her down the hall, got her some underwear and a bra, plus sweat pants and a tee-shirt, all from a room full of clothing, and, after finding her some athletic shoes, he showed her to the shower. Once she’d finished and dressed, he led her down the hall to an examining room.

Within a few minutes, a man walked in, tall and nice-looking, and stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Dr. Kurt. You’re Krystal?”

“Yeah,” she said, her eyes wary.

“Okay, well, I’m going to let you undress and I’ll do the exam. It’ll only take a minute. Let me know when you’re ready.” Kurt walked out and closed the door behind him.

In fifteen minutes, it was all over, and Kurt pronounced her bruised but otherwise uninjured. She’d thought that as soon as he had her on the table he would probably rape her, but he was very gentle and professional, even using a drape so she wouldn’t be quite so embarrassed. She’d never been examined by a doctor before, and it felt strange for a man to look at her undressed and not abuse her.

Wayne let her choose what she liked of the food in the kitchen, then warmed it in a microwave, and she sat down at one of the dining tables with him to eat a chicken drumstick and some mashed potatoes. They tasted so good that she thought she’d died and gone to heaven.

“We have some things to talk with you about, but that can wait until morning,” Wayne told her. “But basically, you need to come up with a new name for yourself. And if you don’t want to go home to your parents, we’ll have to move you to another state to keep your pimp from being able to find you. Be thinking about what you’d like to be called and where you need to go, and we’ll all talk in the morning.” Krystal didn’t know who “we’ll all” was, but she was willing to find out.

As she snuggled down in the clean sheets on the small bed they’d given her, she thought about the things Wayne had said. She didn’t want to go back home. And she knew what name she’d like to be called: Kelly.

November 2004

“I’m sorry, Miss Markham, but even with your so-called contract, you have no legal claim to anything.” The attorney she’d hired wasn’t good for anything except taking her money.

Gary had been good to her, but he’d been in his sixties when they’d gotten together, and then he’d up and had a fatal heart attack. His kids hated her, and why not? They were older than she was. They saw her as an opportunistic gold digger. She’d loved Gary, they’d had a lifestyle that had suited them both, and it had been good while it lasted. But now that he was gone, she was left with nothing.

Kelly called her friend who was a headhunter and asked for a favor – find her a job, and make it somewhere other than Nashville. She just wanted out of that town. He found her a job in the insurance industry in Louisville, so she started packing. Most people would’ve called a family member or friend to tell them about the move, but Kelly didn’t have anyone to tell. No one knew where she was, and no one cared where she was going, because no one gave a damn about her, hadn’t for a long, long time. The only person who’d seemed to care about her other than Gary was a lady she’d met through a program for alcoholics at a church in New Jersey, but they’d lost touch after she’d moved to Nashville and moved in with Gary.

It had taken her years to start over, then she’d spent eight years with Gary. He’d been a fabulous Dom; she’d never wanted for anything, he’d taken good care of her, and she’d been as devoted as a sub could be. She’d never told him about her past. If he’d asked her to marry him, she would’ve told him, but he hadn’t, so she kept it all to herself. She’d just start over in Louisville. This time she had a leg up; she had a good work history, a nice pair of boobs that Gary had paid for, and some jewelry he’d given her that she could hock. She’d make it in Louisville. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be a damn sight easier than the world she’d grown up in.

July 2006

“I
have more, I have more! Don’t knock me down!” Peyton was laughing as the children crowded around him, yelling and jumping. His body armor made it harder to get to the pocket of his shirt, but he dug around and found two more packs of gum. “Here! Let me get it open and everybody can have a piece!” He broke open both packs and passed sticks around. As they took a stick, they ran away to play. In two minutes, every stick of gum was gone.
I’ll have to ask the folks to send more
, Peyton thought.

“Stokes! We’re not babysitters!” Sergeant Colson yelled at him from across the road. People were everywhere, walking, running, riding bikes. Kandahar was busy in the mornings, the markets open and locals scrambling back and forth, trying to get good deals on the few goods available before they were all gone. The war had severely limited supplies of everything, and if you couldn’t get it early, you probably wouldn’t get it at all.

“Sorry, sarge!” Peyton yelled back, but he’d never stop doing that kind of thing. Children always flocked around him and everyone seemed to like him. The blond, blue-eyed soldier couldn’t look more unlike the people around him, five feet and eight inches with a bodybuilder physique and a sweet, boy-next-door charm. Even though it was obvious he wasn’t a native of the country, he loved the people of Afghanistan and hated the way the Taliban had hijacked their country. His parents had always taught him to remember how he’d feel in any situation and then try to empathize with whoever was in that situation. There wasn’t enough gum in the world to make those kids feel better. Many had lost their parents; a good number of them had wounds of some type.

He checked his weapon; matter of fact, he checked it every five minutes. He’d heard Vietnam vets talk about the Viet Cong, and the Taliban operated in much the same way. Every person he passed on the street was a potential enemy, and you could never be too careful.

A knot of young women stood at the side of the road, speaking rapidly and making lots of hand gestures. When Peyton got close, they moved a little to the side, and he brushed past them. As he did, a man brushed against him from the other side and, a split second later, Peyton heard a thud behind him. He turned to look.

The IED was only ten feet from him.

Yelling at the top of his lungs, he dove into the cluster of young women, sending them face down in the dirt, and before they could even fall all the way to the ground, Peyton heard the pop. It didn’t sound at all like he thought it would; later, as he thought back, he’d remember that it was an unusual sound, not big, just piercing. A burning sensation hit him like a tsunami, and he screamed over and over and couldn’t stop screaming. He heard Sergeant Colson yelling something, saw others from his unit running and pointing, heard them shouting, but everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, and then it all started getting fuzzy.

About thirty hours later, Peyton woke in a hospital. He’d been flown out almost immediately after the bomb blast, and he hurt all over, at least the back half of his body. It was impossible for him to see what was going on because he was face down on a bed, his face in a donut-shaped cushion lower than his body, almost like the massage tables he’d seen at the salon back home where he’d always gotten his hair cut.

He managed to get his forearms on the table and pushed himself up so he could see. There were other people – soldiers, he assumed – in other beds all over the big room. A nurse looked up, saw him looking around, and made her way over to him. She had to be military, because she looked at the chart on the wall beside his bed and said, “Stokes, lie back down. You need your rest.”

“What happened?” Peyton asked, his voice groggy and hoarse.

“IED. You probably don’t remember. You’re going to be okay. You were lucky; they say it mostly propelled itself up into the air, but it still blew. It sent shrapnel all over your back and gave you quite the concussion, so you need your rest.” She pushed on his shoulder, and he was so weak he couldn’t fight her. “I’m going to ask the doctor to give you some more pain medication.”

In less than ten minutes, Peyton saw someone sitting on the floor, looking up at him through the hole in the face cushion. “Hi, Stokes!” a voice said, and a face popped into his field of vision. “I’m Dr. Klein. I’m taking care of you. Are you in any pain?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Peyton managed, confused and suddenly tired.

“Good. I gave you a little more painkiller. You’ll sleep for awhile.” The physician smiled. “Before you’re back out, do you have any questions?”

“Yeah, how bad . . .”

“Well, the concussion, not so bad. Your back, pretty good, actually, surprisingly so. We’ll be able to roll you over tomorrow. But your leg, not so good.”

“What do you mean?” Peyton didn’t understand. “I can feel my legs, so they can’t be that bad, right? I mean, the left one hurts, especially my foot, but not too bad.”

“That’s phantom pain, Stokes. Your left leg below the knee is gone.”

February 2010

Another rejection letter. Peyton slammed the mailbox door shut and limped back into the house. It was the day he had early classes, so he was hurrying to go when he opened the envelope.

“Did you get anything?” his mother asked, excitement filling her voice.

“Yeah.” Peyton threw the letter on the table. “I’ve gotta go. Class in forty minutes. I’ll see you guys this evening.” He had to go back to physical therapy; his prosthetic just wouldn’t stop rubbing his stump, and someone was going to have to help him. Even though they lived only four blocks from campus, he couldn’t even walk that distance. Trying to get a job in law enforcement was ridiculous; one look at him in an interview and they’d turn him down cold.

He’d gotten through University of Louisville’s criminal justice program in record time. Of course, he’d done it by taking twenty-one hours every semester, but his parents had insisted that he live with them, and he had the money he’d saved while he’d been in the service, so he didn’t have to work. Now it was time to find a job in his field, and that just didn’t seem to be happening. And forget women – none of them wanted an unemployed amputee, so he didn’t even bother to ask. Feeling especially low, he parked the car in the student lot and struggled painfully to walk the half block to class.