Tortured (Tortured Soul #1)

By Kate Givans

More than a year after the death of his best friend, Josh is still tormented by the past. Everything changes when free-spirited Willow barges into his life. She challenges him, helps him feel something other than the overwhelming pain, sadness, and anger.

There’s just one problem.

Underneath that carefree spirit, Willow is elusive and secretive. Josh believes she may be fighting a few demons of her own, but the harder he tries to uncover the truth, the more she pushes him away.

Can Josh get her to open up before it’s too late? Or will he discover that some secrets are better left untold?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Givans
• Release date: Jul 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9780990519904

Kate Givans

Hello! I'm new adult and contemporary romance author Kate Givans. Those closest to me might say I'm quirky, clumsy, and a little off-key . . . but they also know there's more to me than my oddities and eccentricities.I've always been a bit of a book nerd, reading almost anything I could get my hands on. Now I'm fortunate enough to be the one writing the stories. No stranger to the darker and more painful aspects of life, I drag my complicated characters through unimaginable losses and pain--domestic violence, death, sex trafficking, child abuse, and more. But because I'm obsessed with creating more empathy, understanding, and compassion in the world, those same characters often find the happily ever afters that seem to evade us in everyday life.In addition to my fiction writing, I contribute annually to the End the Silence Campaign. I also blog about parenting at Growing Your Baby, and I provide non-fiction copywriting services. In my "spare" time, I also offer formatting services to other Indie authors.I'm also a wife and mother of five with a serious coffee addiction. I like to dance for no reason at all, I'm a day-dreamer who loves to play with the voices in my head, and somewhere in the midst of all the fun and crazy, I remind myself to "breathe" and enjoy the life I have.

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All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, or stored in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Copyright 2014 by Kate Givans

Smashwords Edition

www.authorkategivans.com

Editor: Marsha Rutt-Thomsen

Editor: Jennifer Clark-Sell

ISBN: 9780990519911

Dedication

To anyone who knows what it means to walk through life, afraid no one will see past your scars or secrets. May you find the beauty within yourself, learn to be your own best friend, and share your heart and kindness with all who are broken, hurting, vulnerable, or lost.

Because everyone deserves to be loved.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Coming Soon

Connect with Kate

Acknowledgements

Prologue

We’re all afraid of something—spiders, heights, the dark. Whatever the fear, there’s usually a story, something that instilled it, a reason it exists. If given enough of a foothold, that fear can take over, casting a dark shadow over everything you say and do, eventually becoming something darker and more sinister. Then, like a plague, it settles into your blood and your bones, eating away at you, until there’s nothing left but the fear.

But there is one fear that needs no explanation; it’s one that almost everyone has:

The fear of death.

Inevitable and unpredictable, death is something everyone thinks about at some point. We realize that, someday, we will simply cease to exist. It could happen in the blink of an eye. No warning. No way out. No do-overs. It doesn’t care about your age or the dreams you’ve yet to realize, the color of your hair, or your gender. It just is, and it scares the living hell out of even the strongest of people.

I’m not like most people, though.

To me, death is peace—peace from pain, and from an existence much worse than death:

Torture.

Your body is still alive. You know exactly what’s happening to you—the endless cycle of pain and mental anguish, the constant drip, drip, drip on your forehead. At first, you’re optimistic, hoping it’ll end, that maybe someone will come along and save you. Then comes acceptance: this is now your life, and there’s no way out except death. You start wishing for each breath to be your last, but your lungs keep working and your heart continues to beat in time with the drip, drip, dripping. Before you know it, you’re crazier than the Mad Hatter in Wonderland.

That’s why I’m here, stuck in a room that’s been stripped of everything except the linens and a mattress. Quite honestly, I’m surprised they’ve let me keep those; I did just land myself on suicide watch. Again. All because I screamed, Kill me already and get this over with during craft time. Seems to me they were overreacting a little. I mean, come on, a guy can only glue so many fluffy pom-poms onto a sheet of paper before he goes certifiably insane.

I suppose it could be worse. I could be in prison.

Then again, the two do have a lot of similarities. And even the differences hold some eerie parallels—the bars are masked as doors, the nutritional food tastes like slop, and the nurses are a little like prison guards, only they have drugs to put you to sleep if you get too far out of line . . . so maybe it couldn’t any worse. 

At least if I were in prison, I’d have a sentence. And I don’t think prison smells quite this bad; I honestly have no idea how anyone manages to breathe with the ever-present odor of urine and feces. I think I might be getting a little more used to it, though. Or maybe my sense of smell has been forever ruined. Who the hell knows?

Not me, that’s for sure. I’m too busy listening to the water drip.

Chapter 1

I first met Willow out on Old Mill Road. Standing on the ledge of the arched concrete bridge, her arms spread wide, she looked like a bird about to take flight. I might have taken more time to admire the absolute freedom she embodied in that moment, those red curls whipping around her upturned face as the moonlight shimmered against her porcelain skin, but it looked like she was about to jump.

I remember my hesitation, how desperately I wanted to turn back the way I’d come and pretend I’d never seen her. I know it makes me sound like an insensitive prick, but I wasn’t exactly thrilled at having the life or death of some crazy chick thrown in my lap.

Not that I didn’t understand, at least on some level, what might be going through her head.

I knew, better than most, what it meant to feel like life would never get better . . . but I wasn’t the person to talk her down. It’d only been six weeks since my release from Shady Oak’s mental facility, and I still had moments where I’d much rather climb up there and jump with her than face another day. I couldn’t find the light at the end of the tunnel for myself, let alone someone else.

But it wasn’t like I had a whole lot of options at that point.

I could have turned around and gone back the other way, but I wasn’t exactly up for visiting the cemetery twice in one night. Walking past her could spook her, and call me crazy, but I didn’t really want the responsibility of dealing with the aftermath.

It couldn’t hurt to at least try talking her off the ledge, right?

Having made my decision—or my decision made for me, it seems—I edged cautiously along the gravel path, taking slow and calculated steps toward bird-girl. Stopping just a few feet away, I thought about using that oversized sweater she was wearing to pull her back to safety. With my luck, the damn thing would come clean off and she’d end up in the water anyway, so I decided against it.

I was still trying to decide on my next course of action when she said, I’m not going to jump, her voice confident, face upturned toward the night sky.

I cleared my throat and hoped to God the irritation didn’t seep through. No offense, miss, but that’s not what it looks like from here.

Her head tilted slightly, as if she were trying to shrug, but the movement came up short. I waited for some other response, for her to climb down or tell me to get lost—anything, really. But the uncomfortable silence stretched on, eventually giving me the impression that my presence was both unwanted and unnecessary.

Well, you . . . uh, have a nice night, I finally said, taking a couple backward steps toward town.

You could join me. Her words, prying and inquisitive, stopped me dead in my tracks.

Yeeaaah . . . thanks, but I prefer to keep my feet on the ground.

She chuckled. The light, carefree sound intrigued and, for some unknown reason, annoyed me all at once. Maybe because I’d never laughed like that. Hell, I didn’t know anyone that had. It made me question what the hell she was doing up there in the first place.

Crazy. Definitely crazy.

Determined to get as far away from her as possible, I started backing away. I didn’t make it but a few steps before she glanced over her shoulder at me. I found myself rooted to the ground, ensnared by the wide-eyed conviction in her sparkling, crystal blue eyes.

How will you ever learn to fly if you don’t take time to spread your wings? she asked.

And just like that, the pull I’d felt shook free, floating away with the cold, bitter wind. Well, anyway. It was, uh, nice meeting you, I said, backing away again. I’d taken enough rides on the crazy train to last a lifetime.

With no intention of looking back, I made a full turn on my heel and headed in the other direction. Just seconds later, I heard the sound of her feet crunching on the gravel behind me. Apparently, the bird had mistaken our happenstance meeting as some sort of an invitation.

Hey, what’s your hurry? she asked, leaping to my side.

I continued to walk, hoping that maybe she’d go back to her perch. I’m not in a hurry. I just want to go home.

Where’s home?

You know, most people start with names and introductions, I said, pulling the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head, hoping she’d catch the hint.

Oh, right. She jumped in front of me, stopping me in my tracks. Her hand shot out so quickly from under the sleeve of her sweater that I instinctively jumped back. I’m Willow.

What an odd name.

Staring at her hand for a moment, I toyed with the idea of declining it and going about my not-so-merry way. Rude as it sounded, I was pretty sure I’d never be rid of her if I told her my name. Of course, good manners won out and I extended my hand anyway. Josh, I said, feeling more like a car jack than a human being as she pumped my arm up and down, her lips pursed and twisting a bit as if she were chewing over my name.

I like it! She grinned, finally releasing my hand.

Didn’t know I needed approval.

So, where’s home? Willow asked, going back to her original question as she followed me toward town.

Great, now she’s going to bombard me with incessant chatter and pleasantries, I thought, fighting the urge to roll my eyes at the situation manners had landed me in.

I live over by the college.

You go to ESU?

Hence the reason I chose those apartments. Again, fighting off the eye roll.

She walked backward, stray strands of hair whipping around her head as she tapped a finger to her lips. Let me guess . . . doctor? No, wait. Teacher. She pointed, emphasizing her appraisal of me.

I wasn’t surprised at either guess, probably because my parents had tried talking me into both professions. Life had made other plans for me, though. Physical therapy.

Giving me a solemn nod, as if we were discussing means by which to end world hunger, Willow turned her body around to walk forward again, this time in silence.

Despite my former annoyance with her, I felt this sudden obligation to keep the conversation going, to explain further, or at the very least, probe her about her life—where she lived, what she did for a living, or her plans for the future. But I shoved it down. Stupid manners had landed me in enough trouble already. Besides, it wasn’t like I’d invited her along on what was supposed to be my solitary stroll home.

When the fork in Old Mill Road came into view, I silently prayed for her to go left, since I had to go right. But then there was a little twinge of something—although I couldn’t say what—that almost wanted her to go the same direction as me. Maybe it was the way she’d looked up on that ledge, as if she really was a bird that might take flight at any moment.

Or maybe it was because, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was walking on eggshells. Not that it was anyone’s fault but my own that everyone looked at me like a ticking time bomb that might explode at any moment. The truth was, I was as harmless as a fly . . . more or less, anyway.

Willow stopped and jutted her hand out again when we finally reached the fork in the road. Well, it was nice meeting you, Josh, but I should get home, too, she said, nodding her head in the direction we’d just come from.

Full of lead, my stomach sank.

Besides the cemetery, only one thing could be found down that road: Mill Road Trailer Park. Not that it needed a name; it was the only one in town. And it meant only one thing to me, or anyone else for that matter. Trouble.

Nothing good ever came out of that park, and that included the people.

All kinds of yard art—if you could even call it that—littered the small little lots. And the police were out there all the time, handling everything from domestic violence calls to late night drunken redneck fights. Those that had lived there most of their lives were known as the scum of our sleepy little college town.

Then you had your roadies.

A breed of a different color, roadies lived on the road all the time. They’d set up temporary homesteads in parks like the one down on Old Mill, but they never settled down. The worst kind of people, roadies partied hard, played hard, rarely held jobs, and rumor had it, most of them were ill-mannered ingrates. At least that’s what all the business owners called them.

Either way, no matter which breed she was, she was trouble.

Not that I hadn’t known that from the second I laid eyes on her, but now I had solid proof. I needed to stay as far away from her as possible. In fact, if I had any luck in this life left at all, she’d walk away and I’d never see her again.

But little did I know, that strange little bird would change my opinion of more than just trailer trash. When she was done with me, not a single part of my mind, body, or soul would go untouched.

Chapter 2

Trudging into my apartment, I tossed my keys onto the kitchen counter. They landed in a heap of unsorted mail, but I didn’t have the energy to care. Instead, I headed for the refrigerator, shooting the answering machine a quick glance along the way. Sixteen messages. I already knew that most of them, if not all, were from my mom, so I didn’t even bother to check.

Don’t get me wrong; I loved my mother. She stood by me, even after I’d driven everyone else in my life away. But she could also be a little overbearing at times. It was part of the reason I refused to buy a cell phone. The other part was that I liked my space. Outdated as they were, answering machines gave you an excuse to not return calls, at least for a few hours, without seeming like an ass.

I needed the precious time that day.

It had been days since I met bird-girl out on Old Mill; her bubbly personality and crazy antics still lingered. I couldn’t dislodge that image of her, standing on that makeshift perch, like she really could fly. Her tinkling laughter still echoed in my ears. Bright blue eyes, etched like a scar into the insides of my eyelids, reminded me of the unnerving hypnotic trance I’d found myself in that night.

I wasn’t in love with her, or anything stupid like that—love at first sight doesn’t exist—but I did need to find a way to rid myself of the sick infatuation plaguing my every thought.

Glancing around my apartment, I considered my options. Other than some unidentified leftover containers from my mom (God knew how long they’d been there), my fridge was empty, so eating my way to mindlessness was definitely out. I could study—I did have those mid-terms to make up—but when my gaze landed on the cluttered contents of my coffee table, the idea of cleaning off a space to work drained me.

If it were any other day of the week, I could have flipped on the tube and lost myself in the latest episode of The Walking Dead, or The Following. Hell, even one of those stupid vampire shows on the CW sounded good right about then. But it was Sunday. Nothing on but infomercials. And a guy could only watch so many ads for makeup and cooking gadgets before going insane.

I’d already been there, done that, burned the fucking t-shirt.

My last option—a nap—sounded pretty enticing. Unfortunately, sleep wouldn’t come easily; I’d have to drug myself up first, and that would mean being out for the evening. My instructors had already granted me more leniency than I probably deserved, so even if I didn’t feel like it, I’d have to study at some point. That meant no sleep for me.

Had Brad been there, he’d have cajoled me into visiting the only bar in town. Somewhere between chicken strips, cheap beer, and ogling girls we’d known since the fourth grade, the foothold bird-girl had on my brain would have been lost. Afterward, we would have made our way back to the apartment, cracked the books, and then called it a night, ready to ace the test the next day.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

Brad wouldn’t ever be there again. No more trips to the bar. No more late night studies. No more zombies on late-night horror flicks. My best friend was gone forever, and that only made the 900-square-foot space all the more suffocating. As if being surrounded by dead houseplants, strewn about pizza boxes, empty Cheetos bags, and cluttered countertops wasn’t depressing enough already.

My gaze flitted back over to the answering machine. Maybe calling my mom wasn’t such a bad idea. My therapist, Dr. Parker, had said I should reach out to friends—which I didn’t have anymore—and family when I started feeling down. It didn’t get much further down than I’d been feeling that afternoon.

Well, it did. But I didn’t feel like revisiting rock bottom.

On a heavy sigh, I shoved myself off of the fridge door and made my way over to the counter. I knew I should probably listen to the messages first, just to see if I missed anything, but I didn’t think I could handle sixteen panicked messages: Where are you? Are you okay? Do you need anything? I’d be hearing it as soon as she picked up the other end of the line anyway.

She answered on the first ring. Josh? Honey, is that you?

Knowing she couldn’t see me, I rolled my eyes. I shouldn’t have been so annoyed—I was the reason she’d turned into this panicked helicopter mom—but I just couldn’t help myself. My therapist called it a defense mechanism, a way of not having to deal with the guilt. I guess that sounded about right. Yeah, mom. It’s me.

Oh, thank God! I was so worried. You didn’t call back, and . . . She trailed off into silence, but we both knew the weight of her unspoken words.

No, mom. I’m fine. I’ve just been . . . studying. I lied, but what else could I say? That I’d been wandering the streets for days, not really sure where I belonged or where I was headed? Not that I cared much about my lack of direction; it kept me out of the apartment and away from my ghosts, which was good enough for now. Unless, of course, it meant staying at my mom’s, and that’s what she’d insist if I told her the truth.

As if reading my mind, my mother cleared her throat and asked, Are you sure you don’t want to stay here for a while, sweetie? I’m worried about you in that apartment all alone.

Yeah. I know. And thanks, but I promise, I’m fine.

I wasn’t.

Well, why don’t you at least come over for dinner?

Raking my hands through my hair in frustration, I let the third lie escape my lips. I’m not really that hungry.

Nonsense! You’re male, and men are always hungry. I’ll be by to pick you up in a few.

No!

Rustling came over the phone line. She’d probably dropped her phone out of shock. Or worry. Or both.

I took a deep, measured breath, trying to rein the fear and irritation back in.

I really did feel bad for not visiting more often; she just wanted to be there for me, like she always had been. But this was different. This beast—my depression, anxiety, guilt—was all mine to deal with. Besides, I’d already put her through enough, had probably even stolen a good ten years of her life expectancy.

She didn’t need any more of my crazy.

Unfortunately, she’d come to me anyway if I refused her offer of dinner altogether. In less time than it’d take for a redneck to jerry-rig a busted pipe, she’d be at my door, frazzled and worried. One step into my apartment would send her on a cleaning and shopping spree. My space would smell of lemon and pine. My fridge will be fully stocked.

Most people wouldn’t complain about something like that, but with us, it was a game of pretend—one where we acted like everything was okay when we both knew it wasn’t.

Then there was the alternative: she might see this for what it was—regression. If that happened, any actions thereafter would be considered those of a loving mother, worried sick that her son might accidentally off himself in the middle of the night. She’d move in. Or worse, call Dr. Parker.

I’m sorry, mom. I didn’t meant to yell. I just mean, I’ll come over there, I finally said, my anxiousness repressed but still buzzing below the surface.

It’s cold out. You sure you don’t want me to come and pick you up? You know Dr. Parker wants you to get back to normal life. It might do some good, knowing it’s your mother driving.

What she really meant was that Dr. Parker wanted me to face my fears. Overcome them. Tell them who’s boss. Fake it ‘til you make it.

Yeah, I know. But it’s not that far. I’d really rather walk.

Alright, honey. If you’re sure.

I’m sure. Be there soon. I placed the phone into the cradle with shaky hands. The sorry state of my living conditions would go undetected, and my mother hadn’t pushed too hard on picking me up. I’d avoided the inevitable, at least for the time being.

But I still didn’t want to go.

It really was cold out there, and I’d barely warmed up after my destination-less stroll. But I’d still rather brave the cold than add another worry line to my mother’s once-younger-than-her-age face.

***

Dinner had been nice—well, as nice as things could be when trying to re-acclimate to life outside of an institution. The walk home was an entirely different story. It seemed colder than the trek to my mother’s house. Or maybe my thoughts were. It was kind of hard to tell for certain which one might be most responsible for the uncontrollable shivers coursing through my body.

According to the forecast, we were in for another ice storm. In March. A rarity, in and of itself, but the irony of a cold front, the exact same week, two years in a row, hit a little too close to home. The silent, empty