Thorn: Carter Kids #2 (16 page)

I PHONED THE PRISON AGAIN
last night and left a message – my third one this week.

Of course I didn’t actually get through to anyone useful, but I had to try because ever since Hope told me about Noah’s mother dying last week, I couldn’t get him out of my head. All he had gone through with George Dennis and those criminals had been to keep his mother safe.

And now she was dead.

It made my heart hurt so badly. The unfairness of it all was crippling.

I didn’t use my own name when I called and spoke to his correctional officer. Instead, I swiped Hope’s phone and pretended to be her, calling to check in on my uncle.

I never expected him to return my call.

But as I sat here in the office of the gym Liam and I had taken over running from his uncle six months ago, with my phone vibrating in my hand, I felt a swell of emotions churning through me.

I didn’t want to talk to Noah.

I just needed to know he was okay.

At least I didn’t think I wanted to talk to him…

With shaky hands and a nervous disposition, I clicked receive and held my phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“You have a collect call from an inmate at the Colorado State Penitentiary, would you like to accept the charges?” a prerecorded voice asked me.

“Yes, I do,” I replied immediately. “I mean I will accept the charges.” The line went silent for a moment, and then there was a high-pitched buzzing sound.

“Hope,” a deep, gravelly, familiar voice said down the line. “I got your messages. What’s wrong?”

“It’s me,” I replied, hyperventilating at the sound of his voice.

Breathe,
I told myself.
Just breathe.

There was silence; a drawn-out pause before finally he spoke. “And who is
me
exactly?”

“Teagan.” I closed my eyes and tipped my head back, stifling a groan.

More silence followed, longer this time, until I couldn’t stomach it a second longer.

“Uh…Teagan Connolly,” I added, voice high and squeaky. “From Thirteenth Street–”

“I know who you are!” he responded with a bark. “What I want to know is why you’re calling me now?” The bitterness in his voice stunned me and I took a moment to steel myself.

“I’m so sorry about your mother, Noah,” I blurted out, biting the skin on my knuckles anxiously. “I wanted to call you and…well, I just wanted to tell you that.”

I heard his cruel, harsh laugh seconds before his voice was bellowing in my eardrum. “Let me get this straight,” Noah sneered. “You’re calling me, after five years of
nothing
, to offer your condolences?” He laughed again, crueler than before if that was even possible, before saying, “You’re some piece of work, Thorn – calling me now, with less than three weeks left to serve.”

“That is not why I called you and you know it,” I snapped, feeling flustered and hurt. “I was worried about you. God, Noah, I know how you felt about your mother.”

I opened my mouth to say something else, but he beat me to it, and with his words he buried any hope I ever had for us.

“Don’t worry about me,” he sneered. “In fact, don’t fucking think about me at all. Forget I even exist, Teagan, just like I forgot about you!”

The line went dead, and I sat, frozen to the bone, as his words of malice began to slowly sink in.

All the years I had held myself back from moving on had been pointless because Noah Messina hated me more than I hated him.

It was really over for us.

And my heart was breaking all over again.

“THAT IS NOT WHY I CALLED YOU
and you know it,” Teagan hissed. “I was worried about you. God, Noah, I know how you felt about your mother.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I interjected, feeling more furious than I had in years. She had some nerve, calling me up after all this time. “In fact, don’t fucking think about me at all. Forget I even exist, Teagan, just like I forgot about you!”

And then I hung up on her.

“Goddammit to hell!”

Slamming the receiver down over and over again, I tried to rein in the tsunami of emotions raging through me.

“That fucking woman!”

Anger, pain, and most predominately lust, hit me straight in the chest like a fucking wrecking ball. Followed swiftly by a huge churn of regret.

Why the fuck did I hang up on her?

Grabbing the receiver I held it to my ear. “Thorn, you still there, baby?”

Nothing.

Fuck.

Slamming the receiver back down, I stalked back to my cell.

That night, instead of having nightmares about my mother’s last moments on this earth, I dreamt of Thorn.

One phone call.

One fucking call after five years and I was a mess.

Christ, I felt like a dog that had been thrown a bone, a scrap of hope.

Somewhere, deep down inside, there was a part of Teagan that still cared about me and I held onto that thought like it was my last lifeline.

Thorn was still out there, thinking about me, worrying…
waiting
.

All of a sudden, the prospect of my impending freedom was more appealing than ever.

All of a sudden, I had a goal.

I was getting out of here next month, and when I did, I was going to sign any contract or deal the MFA threw in my direction – I knew they were still interested.

When I had all of that done, I would go and get my Thorn, because there was no way in hell I was turning up empty-handed and broke. No, I was going to make something of myself, something good.

And then I was going to make her regret walking away from me – regret leaving me high and dry when I needed her most.

Knowing I could never trust her again wasn’t enough to deter me – I was going to make her love me so hard she would
never
contemplate leaving me again.

I was taking back what had always been mine, and Thorn was
mine
.

I just needed to make her remember that.

LIKE TOMMY HAD PREDICTED,
I was signed to the MFA exactly two weeks to the day that I was released from prison, with a six-figure salary that within three months had turned into seven figures. One year had passed since I had been released from one cage and thrust into another.

Except this one was different.

This was on my terms and I was the fucking king. The MFA were paying me a shit ton of cash to do the only thing I was good at doing – inflicting pain.

The sweat that dripped from my brow screwed with my vision as I stalked my opponent – my prey. I couldn’t see properly, not that poor sight ever affected me.

Fighting for me was primal.

It was gut instinct.

It was in my blood.

My body was primed for this stage. It was all I had ever known. And the pain only encouraged me, turned me on, fueled the beast inside of me. The guy I was fighting, Justin Philippe, was one of those annoying as fuck all-American boys – wholesome and god-fearing. God only knew why the douche was even involved in the MMA circuit. He had a rich daddy and an even richer granddaddy.

Fucker was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I hated that shit. Seriously, I fucking hated those types of fighters – the ones that were carried.

Every hair on my body stood on end as I pummeled the poor bastard through his attempts to block my left hook. The feeling of adrenalin pumping inside of me was like a drug and I couldn’t get enough.

The more blood he shed, the more pumped I became.

I showed no emotion because I didn’t fucking feel. I was ruthless, methodical and composed. To the outside world, I didn’t have a weakness, and that made me dangerous.

I wasn’t born like this – a heartless bastard. It was something I had turned into as the years passed by and life got cold – something I had been twisted and morphed into.

The crowd roared out my name and it didn’t mean a damn thing. These fuckwads didn’t have a thing on me and that’s exactly how I wanted it.

The women eye fucking me in the crowd didn’t faze me either. I didn’t raise an eyebrow when panties were tossed in my direction, or when I found naked women skulking around in the backroom after each fight. It was the life I lived now. They were enthralled with an illusion. They didn’t know me. None of these women did.

They satisfied my needs – sated an itch that needed to be scratched – but I was only interested in turning the head of one woman.

Smirking to myself, I grappled with my opponent, tackling him to the mat, and executing the final blow.

The bell sounded, and the referee dragged me to my feet, raising my hand in the air in victory.