Harsh

By Debra Doxer

Each day dies with night, and every dream fades in the morning.

That’s what Vincent Rossi knows. His life has been one tough break after another. Even when good things happen, they get destroyed because that’s how the universe works. It gives and it takes, but it mostly takes.

No matter how terrible today is, there’s always the promise of tomorrow.

That’s what Annalise Cantana knows. She’s experienced tragedy and triumph in her life. The tragedy happened to her. It was beyond her control. The triumph is her spirit, which, despite the odds, remains unbroken.

When this cynical man is hired to protect the woman who refuses to dwell on the negative, their lives become intertwined. Like opposing forces, Vincent and Annalise repel and attract until he is unable to resist the light she brings to each day. She thaws the ice in his veins and makes him smile. She cares about him in a way he doesn’t deserve.

But hidden beneath the closeness building between them lies a secret that could extinguish that light forever. It would devastate Annalise if she found out, and would unravel the hope Vincent finally dares to embrace.

In the end, he must make an impossible choice: hold tight to the first glimmer of happiness in his life, or forsake it all to save her and watch another dream turn to dust.

(HARSH is a stand-alone contemporary romance.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Debra Doxer
• Release date: Sep 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463014349

Debra Doxer

Debra Doxer was born in Boston, and other than a few lost years in the California sunshine, she has always resided in the Boston area. She writes fiction, technical software documents, illegible scribbles on sticky notes, and texts that get mangled by AutoCorrect. She writes for a living, and she writes for fun. When not writing, she's walking her Havanese puppy and forcing her daughter to listen to New Wave 80s music. Connect with Debra: www.facebook.com/AuthorDebraDoxer www.instagram.com/debradoxer www.twitter.com/debradoxer [e-mail]

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Harsh

Copyright © 2018

All Rights Reserved

Edited by Pam Berehulke of Bulletproof Editing

Cover Design by Michelle Preast

Formatted by Stacey Blake of Champagne Book Design

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Debra Doxer.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Epilogue

Another Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Connect with the Author

Books by Debra Doxer

To all the writers who have inspired me and taken me on so many wonderful journeys.

Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget

That sunrise never failed us yet!

~ Celia Thaxter

Be silent or let thy words be worth more than silence.

~ Pythagoras

The lights buzzed to life, bright and jarring, signaling another day, a reality Vincent Rossi met with heavy resistance.

Each day started the same. The lights. The familiar clash of metal. The bars automatically unlocking, and Gus, his cellmate, groaning as he rolled over to shield his eyes from the glare. Gus’s nickname was Geezer. Everyone had a nickname in here.

Geezer would never again see a sky that wasn’t framed by cement walls. Even when he had the chance to leave this cell for a few hours, he didn’t take it, but Vincent jumped at the opportunity like there were springs on the soles of his shoes. The confined space made him stir-crazy. That’s why he liked to sleep. In his dreams, Vincent wasn’t here. He was out there, fucking up like always, but not trapped like an animal. He would never be like Geezer. He would never get used to this place.

The only thing that got Geezer out of his cell was a visit from his family, especially his granddaughter. He was a different person on visiting day.

Considering the pull he had, he could have bargained for more rec time, more hours in the yard, but he didn’t bother. Instead, he sat in his cell and read books from the library. Day after day, he read classics like Moby Dick and The Catcher in the Rye, or nonfiction books about space travel and history. Sometimes he read out loud to Vincent.

Once, he told Vincent he was the best cellmate he’d ever had. You’re respectful. You don’t talk much, but you listen. Tell me what you did to end up here? He pinned Vincent with a hard look.

Despite the grandfatherly image, Geezer was tough and connected. He had connections inside and outside, and when he asked you a question, you answered.

Vincent opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out at first. It had probably been a week since he’d last uttered a word. After clearing his throat, he said, B and E.

Geezer scowled, unimpressed. Short-time offense. How long? A year?

Nine months.

He scoffed. You’ll be gone soon. I won’t bother gettin’ to know you then.

Geezer turned his back on Vincent and hadn’t read his books out loud since. Because Vincent wanted to find out what happened at the end of Moby Dick, he waited until Geezer returned the book to the library, then he checked it out himself.

When Geezer saw Vincent reading it, a smile touched his withered old lips. That smile sparked a quiet comradery between the two men that persisted despite Geezer’s earlier dismissal, and soon he was back to reading his books out loud to Vincent. It was the one thing that made their shared hell a little less hellish.

Hey, Wordman, another inmate called out to Vincent, cackling on the way to first chow.

Due to his silence, Vincent had been given the nickname when he first arrived, and unfortunately, it stuck. Most of the criminals in here couldn’t add two and two together, but sarcasm was a concept they grasped just fine.

Breakfast most mornings wasn’t much more than lukewarm oatmeal and toast, but Vincent ate it hungrily and washed it down with a cup of coffee. Since he wasn’t known for his engaging conversation, he usually sat alone at the end of a table.

That morning, Carl, another inmate who worked in the laundry with Vincent, slid into the seat across from him. He’d shown up yesterday morning looking like shit, and Vincent had covered for him. He didn’t ask Vincent to pick up his slack, but Vincent liked to keep busy. The day moved faster that way.

Heads up, Carl said quietly. Your cell is going to be a real unfriendly place after second chow today.

Vincent stilled and arched a dark eyebrow at Carl.

Don’t ask questions. Blood is getting spilled. I was supposed to give you a heads-up. With that, Carl stood and walked away.

Geezer. Someone was gunning for him, and Vincent wasn’t surprised. He didn’t have any questions either. A move like that could get you credibility in here, even though it would get you killed out there. Touch Geezer on the outside and your life was over. Hurt him in here, and the situation got a lot more complicated. Maybe more complicated than Vincent needed.

After breakfast, Vincent stayed alert as the day dragged on. The monotonous task of folding laundry and putting it into the numbered bags of each inmate allowed his gaze to drift in different directions. As he delivered the clean laundry bags, it soon became clear that Carl was on to something. A strange buzz of energy had overtaken the place.

At second chow, Vincent looked for Carl, but he wasn’t there.

Later on, Vincent stood in the doorway of the laundry area, restless and torn. Help Geezer out, or stay away? There were pros and cons to both. He liked the old man, but he also liked being disconnected, on his own, under the radar. Standing up for Geezer would end that. It would open a door Vincent wasn’t sure he wanted to walk through.

Fuck. He bit the word out because there was only one decision he could make.

Vincent liked to think he had free will, but he didn’t. He had no choices. He didn’t have the luxury of judgment or righteousness. He only had this moment and every stupid thing he’d done that had led up to it. With that dark thought, he sighed and his feet moved.

Dishes clanked in the background as Vincent walked past the kitchen, and when he rounded the stairs, the guards who usually stood there were missing. Dread pooled in his gut.

Moving faster, he burst through the door of his cell block, and as he passed the other cells, voices warned him to stop, but he didn’t. Breathing hard, he didn’t stop moving until he was standing directly in front of his open cell door.

Sitting on the bed was Geezer, book in hand like always. He gave Vincent a wry look. You practicing for the marathon, Wordman?

Geezer was clueless. Nothing had gone down yet.

Exhaling in relief, Vincent turned his head to survey the hallway when he was hit from behind. Pain exploded in his head. He went down, and once he was on the floor, he was held there by a knee to his back. Craning his head, he glimpsed the cell bars reflected in the blade of a knife. Not some DIY shank you could piece together in this place. It was long, serrated, and deadly.

The man holding Vincent down passed the knife off to someone else. While his attacker’s attention was diverted, Vincent used all his weight to push him off his back. Soon he had him on the floor, knocked out cold.

Deep inside the cell, Geezer was on his feet, staring down the knife without fear, calling the man holding it every name in the book.

It was two against one, and at that moment, Vincent had more admiration for Geezer than anyone he’d ever known. He also flashed back to too many other fights he’d been in. Times when he’d stared down predators while they tried to take what little he had. Fighting wasn’t for sport where Vincent came from. It was survival, and he’d been a survivor all his life.

Familiar fury boiled to the surface as Vincent pushed forward. He jumped the men attacking Geezer and they both went down, but they didn’t stay down. The one with the knife slashed the blade across Vincent’s arm, slicing deeply through his skin, but adrenaline masked the pain.

Geezer moved beside Vincent and landed a punch to the other one’s face, knocking him back a few steps. Before Vincent could look for the first man again, his legs were kicked out from under him, and the back of his head hit the floor hard.

Blinking away the darkness, he pushed to his feet, but after that, there were no coherent thoughts. No strategies. There was nothing but noise and pain and blood as Geezer and Vincent fought for their lives.

When the situation seemed bleakest, Vincent didn’t know if he’d made the right choice or not. All he knew was that Geezer had been kind to him, which was more than he could say about most people.

Two glorious sunrises ushered in days that changed my life. One day was the worst, and the other wasn’t the best. I hoped I hadn’t had my best day yet. But it was good. It was important. On both days, the morning seeped slowly into the night sky, ripping red and orange streaks across an inky backdrop.

Both days dawned indifferently. The sunrise doesn’t care about our daily struggles. It doesn’t shine down on little old me and think, I hope Leisi has a fantastic day. Its autonomous beauty rises above the horizon, regardless of what’s taking place below it.

Like always, the sun rose that first morning I woke up and knew my mother was gone, even though I was still here. It was a midsummer day that dawned warm and peaceful before my sleepy thoughts coalesced into the images that would shape my childhood. It should have been raining that day. It should have been storming violently after the events of the night before.

I hated that sunrise and the day it ushered in. I shouted at the sky, daring to dawn when my world had gone so dark. That was when I realized the sun would rise over any tragedy, shine down on every sorrow, turn a spotlight on events that should stay hidden in the night.

The second sunrise that marked a change in my life rose into a perfectly clear sky. It was the day I declared my independence and left home for college, moving into a small apartment in the city. I relished that sunrise, watching the world brighten from the first glimpse of daylight to the full roundness of the sun. Every day since, I looked out the window of my own bedroom in my own apartment and watched pink slowly saturate the sky beyond the tall buildings that sliced my view into vertical segments. It’s a view I’d enjoyed for almost five years, only missing this particular perspective when I lived abroad. I liked to travel and watch the sun rise over other horizons.

Every sunrise had the power to remind me of that first one, but I tried not to dwell on that day and looked forward instead. Sometimes my smiles felt painted on. Other times I was accused of wearing rose-colored glasses, but I didn’t care. I liked the way being happy felt, even if it wasn’t always real.

After rising with the sun this morning, I started my day as I had every day since I came back to school to finish my degree. I’d promised myself and my father not to take any more time off and stay put until I had all the required credits to graduate. Easier said than done since the volunteer program I worked with had emailed me about an opportunity in Thailand. I was tempted to find out more, but I held back. I had to finish school before my father caught on to my delay tactics and decided to stop paying the tuition. That’s why I was rushing to class now instead of googling Thailand.

Despite being an early riser, I always seemed to run late, constantly rushing off the subway to get to campus. If running with hot coffee and not spilling a single drop were an Olympic event, I’d be a gold medalist. I could also medal in losing my cell phone, putting my foot in my mouth, and tardiness. I was good at so many things.

My bag slammed against my hip as I dashed across the street, ignoring the glares of moody cab drivers who had ample time to stop since traffic was crawling as usual. Boston drivers always made the top-twenty list for worst drivers in the country, but everyone knew we belonged in the top ten. Bostonians hated to lose at anything.

Hey, Leisi. You’re late, one of my classmates called out to me.

And you know this because you’re late too, I shot back.

Sebastian arrived at the door first and held it open.

Thanks, I said gratefully, balancing my coffee.

You know, the fact that we’re walking into class together this morning might give people ideas.

I rolled my eyes. Is that so?

He smiled. It’s giving me ideas.

Aww. Are they lonely in there?

Sebastian chuckled, arrogant enough not to be bothered by my jab. He wasn’t too serious or overly encumbered by modesty. Like so many of the privileged college boys I’d met since starting at Wexler College, he was confident and handsome, sowing his wild oats before real life set in.

Even as I envied his carefree attitude, I had no respect for Sebastian or those like him. He had no character, no social conscience. Responsibility to him was like steak to a vegetarian, distasteful and to be avoided at all costs.

As Sebastian and I walked into art history class together, we did get attention, but not the kind Sebastian had implied. The professor eyed us with disapproval for our lateness, and I winced apologetically under his glare as I waited for Sebastian to sit down. Then I purposely chose a seat on the other side of the room. Earlier in the semester, he’d sat beside me and talked through the whole lecture. I wasn’t going to let that happen again.

Despite being late, I studiously took notes during class. I always took notes in every class, even though they usually ended up in crinkled piles at the bottom of my bag, never to be seen again. As my friend JC often said, I was a curious combination of contained chaos, disorganized organization, and scatterbrained clarity. I didn’t look like I had my shit together, but somehow I made it all work.

When class ended, I gathered my things and tried to escape the lecture hall without Sebastian stopping me to talk again, but Mallory got to me first.

Are you coming to study group, Leisi? she asked, moving beside me as the class filed out the door.

Sorry, I can’t.

You don’t even know when it is because I haven’t told you yet.

Oops. When is it?

"Tonight.

Friday night? I thought Mallory was more of a social butterfly than that.

At Ryan’s apartment. She punctuated the sentence with a knowing look.

You’re going because of Ryan.

And to study. I have a dual purpose.

I smiled. Even though we weren’t friends, there was something sweet about Mallory. I can’t make it, but you should go. It sounds fun.

If it sounds fun, come with me.

There was no part of me that wanted to go. I wasn’t even tempted.

Before I moved here, I’d dreamed of living my life freely, out from under the shadow of my family name. I thought I’d go to parties and have friends, keep my apartment constantly filled with people. And I did at first.

Then I discovered I wasn’t much of a party girl. I didn’t enjoy standing around a keg or shouting to be heard over loud music. I didn’t like getting drunk and acting stupid, and since I’d had so little practice, I wasn’t very good at socializing. I didn’t enjoy small talk, and stumbled for answers when people asked me about myself.

When it came to Partying 101, I was an abysmal failure. But that was okay, because even though I wasn’t a party girl, I was a different kind of girl. By moving out on my own, taking time to travel and volunteer, I found who that girl was, and decided to be true to her as often as I could.

I declined Mallory’s invitation one last time and quietly slipped out of the lecture hall.

When I walked into the café, I spotted JC at our usual spot in the back corner. On the table sat two non-fat mocha lattes. Mine called to me like a siren song.

Next time I’ll try to have a caffeine IV drip waiting for you, JC said, obviously noting the longing in my eyes.

Is that a thing?

Not yet. Sit down, you sleep-deprived zombie, texting me at five in the morning.

I sleep. I just like to get up early.

That isn’t early. That’s crazy.

Over our years together at Wexler—five consecutive years for her since she was getting her PhD in biochemistry, and many nonsequential, pieced-together semesters for me—Jacinda Collette Rubin had become my best friend. We met our first week of freshman year, and despite my best efforts to keep her at arm’s length, she wouldn’t stay away. And I was so grateful she hadn’t.

As I sat down across from her, I took in her outfit. JC was a science nerd who didn’t fit the mold. She was outgoing and enjoyed styling herself the way I enjoyed coffee drinks. While I preferred loose dresses and sandals, comfortable clothes, she liked to show off her assets, but did it with her own unique taste. Today her blond curls were pulled up into a high messy bun, and her long legs were on display beneath a teeny red leather miniskirt. She’d paired the skirt with over-the-knee boots and a Metallica T-shirt.

While my outfit said, Move on, nothing to see here, hers was a neon sign flashing, Look at me! And it worked. She got plenty of attention when she stood up to get us some sugar packets.

What are we going to do about your situation? she asked upon her return.

I ripped into the yellow paper and watched the sweet white grains flow into the steaming liquid. What situation?

You only need one more semester to graduate, and you’re talking about taking time off to go who-knows-where again.

Thailand. I was thinking about going to Thailand for a minute, but I’m not anymore.

Because you actually want to graduate this year?

My eyes met the challenge in hers. Yes, I do. I gulped the scalding-hot liquid, studiously ignoring her skeptical expression.

How’s Dominic? I asked.

JC sighed. His name is Derek, and you’re changing the subject.

Because my lack of college credits is not nearly as interesting as your love life.

She made a face. Sex life, not love life.

You’ve been dating for almost three months now.

Because I hardly see him. If we were around each other more, it would have been over weeks ago.

JC’s brow wrinkled, and I scrutinized her expression as a realization hit me. Are you upset because you don’t see him more?

She pressed her lips together.

Oh my God. You are. You really like Dominic.

It’s Derek, and so what? She shifted in her chair. It doesn’t matter. He’s all about his career and his internship and the fact that the news is twenty-four seven. Do the math. Not much room for me in there.

Derek was a fellow graduate student interning at a news service, writing stories that were sometimes syndicated in newspapers across the country. He wasn’t like JC’s usual dates, who always seemed to be bartenders or bouncers until something better came along.

My lips turned up at her telltale discomfort. JC had feelings for someone. This was big and unprecedented. Too bad it was making her miserable.

Have you told him?

Told him what? How much I’m into him? Are you kidding? The fastest way to send a guy running is to tell him how you feel.

Or to tell him how you don’t feel after he tells you, but maybe that was just my life.

Do you really like him, or do you like that he seems unattainable? Usually, guys are chasing you.

JC absently stirred her coffee. I’m screwed up enough to think you might be right. He’s the first guy I really like in a long time, and he’s indifferent to me. Maybe it’s not a coincidence.

You’re not screwed up, at least not compared to me, and I think when it’s meant to be, it happens. I’m not saying it’s easy, but it’s not like pushing a boulder uphill.

It’s more like pushing a boulder uphill with an elephant sitting on it. Besides, college isn’t where you meet your happily-ever-after guy anymore. Don’t you know that college boys would declare sex as their major if they could?

I laughed, but then Sebastian came to mind. Maybe her theory wasn’t too far off.

Speaking of sex, you should get out there, Leisi.

I nearly choked on my coffee. How are we back on me? We’re not finished with you yet.

That European guy was ages ago. Time to move on.

I have moved on.

With no one. JC shot me a knowing look.

That European guy was Ambrose. He was British and a fellow student here at Wexler, but we didn’t meet here. We met when I volunteered in Uganda last year. We grew close until he said he loved me. Then I left and never spoke to him again. I was more screwed up than JC, and we both knew it.

My cell phone rang with an unmistakable tone, one that made my heart beat faster and my stomach sink. Rhinestone Cowboy.

That ringtone is ridiculous, JC said, laughing.

It was an old Glen Campbell song I’d jokingly chosen for Marty, my father’s right-hand man, since he fancied himself an outlaw despite his thousand-dollar suits, and the fact that he’d never owned a pair of cowboy boots in his life.

Sorry. I have to take this, I muttered as I answered my phone and turned away from JC.

Where are you, Lollipop?

Marty’s scratchy tone echoed in my ear as I cringed at the nickname. My last class got out an hour ago, but you know that.

I do. That’s why I’m sitting outside your building, wondering where you are.

A familiar knot twisted in my stomach. I’m having coffee with a friend. Is it Grandpa?

No. He’s fine, but I need you to come home.

Can I stay and finish my coffee?

You’d better take it to go.

There was no point in arguing. Instead, I released a long puff of air, one that had been gathering in my lungs for almost a decade. Fine. I’m leaving now.

Then I guess I am too, JC said, apparently having listened in. The rhinestone cowboy wants you home?

I nodded.

Everything okay? she asked.

I’m sure it’s fine. Unfortunately, my definition of fine wasn’t like most people’s.

Call me later, Lollipop? She giggled.

I scowled. Of course you heard that.

Is it because you have such a big head?

I do not have a big head. It’s because when I was a kid, my father always brought me home lollipops at the end of the day.

Uh-huh, right.

I have a normal-sized head.

JC laughed. Keep telling yourself that.

After we parted ways on the sidewalk, I sipped my coffee as I walked home, wondering what disastrous news awaited me there.

It was nearly dusk when I rounded the corner to my apartment building, feeling a strange mixture of reluctance and anticipation. I didn’t want to know why Marty was here, but I wanted the meeting to be over as soon as possible.

Hey, Lollipop. Marty’s big smile didn’t fool me. He was like a shark in a teddy-bear suit.

Please, Marty. Would you stop calling me that?

Sorry, you’ll always be Lollipop to me, kiddo.

Is my dad okay?

He’s fine. That’s not why I’m here. He took a step back. Look at you. You’re tired and too thin. You need some good home cooking and a boyfriend who knows how to take care of you.

I wanted to roll my eyes, but you didn’t roll your eyes at Marty. You swallowed every argument and let your tight-lipped silence convey your