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  Absolution

  The Survivor Series

  Absolution:

  Noun

  The act of forgiving someone for having done something wrong or sinful.

  A formal release from guilt, obligation, or punishment.

  By S. Kirkpatrick

  Absolution

  Copyright © 2021 by S. Kirkpatrick

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked and copyrighted status and owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission.

  Cover art by: Amanda Walker, PA & Design Services

  Though my soul may set in darkness,

  it will rise in perfect light;

  I have loved the stars too fondly

  to be fearful of the night.

  -Sarah Williams-

  Acknowledgments:

  Thank you to every person who has ever truly hurt me. Without you, I wouldn’t have a single story to tell, let alone four so far. So thank you. Thank you for being so careless with my life that I had to find a way to dig in deep and learn how to care about it myself.

  Because of you, I learned how to love myself. Because of you, I learned how to truly love and care about others. Because of you, I learned how to pick my broken mind, body, and soul up off the ground and keep going. You’ve (all) provided me with the circumstances and strength necessary to become a survivor.

  When you thought you could break me… All you did was make me stronger. I am a product of your own making.

  I couldn’t have done it without you.

  ***TRIGGER WARNING***

  This book contains extremely dark content that may upset or offend some readers and is not suitable for readers under 18. If there are any topics you feel sensitive to and are uncomfortable reading in explicit detail, I urge you to proceed with caution and at your own risk.

  Prelude

  Remi

  Hands.

  Everywhere I look, I’m surrounded by hands.

  They reach out to me. Some caress me, some strike me.

  There are so many of them that they create a sound, a whipping thrum of the air around me. With each passing second, the sound gets louder and more hands keep joining the rest. There are so many that I can’t see through them or around them. There’s no blank space to be found anywhere.

  My heart rate increases and I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. My face feels hot with the extra blood rushing to my head. I feel myself sweating and yet my hands are motionless at my side, I can’t seem to move a muscle.

  The rush of adrenaline makes an audible sound and all at once the hands freeze above me, suspended in the air. Together we wait, though I don’t think any of us know what for. That’s when I realize that the hands don’t belong to anyone. I can’t see people or faces. There are no bodies. Just the hands.

  Kill.

  The whispered word reaches out to me, it caresses my ears like a plea. The sound feels like a needle in my ears. Piercing. Painful. Something I should run away from.

  You know you want to.

  The words beckon me.

  “Who’s there?” I cry out.

  Kill him, Remi.

  There’s a familiarity in the voice. Do I know who it belongs to? They sound like they know me. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have known to call me Remi.

  What are you waiting for? Do it!

  “Who are you?” I ask, all the hands still frozen above me.

  It’s time.

  The hands descend once again, but this time it’s like they’re angry. They’re angry with me for ignoring the instructions of the voice that’s so familiar, yet I can’t seem to place.

  “No!” I scream, begging the hands to leave me alone.

  You had your chance.

  No sooner do the words reach my ears when the hands begin ripping at my clothes, my hair, my skin. I feel them ripping me apart, bit by bit. All the while, the noise of the hands begins to rumble. I feel it in what’s left of me, lying frozen beneath them. It quakes through me like a physical blow giving off a sense of finality that I am unprepared for.

  I begin to wonder if this is how I will die. If all the horrible things I’ve done in my life have finally caught up with me. If this, being ripped apart, is what I truly deserve.

  It seems oddly fitting in the most depressing sort of way.

  I feel a hand take hold of my heart, its fingers digging in, literally squeezing the life out of me. The air in my lungs catches. I feel myself choking, being strangled from the inside out. Like a bad cliché, I see my life flash before my eyes. I see all the good and all the bad fly through my mind like a kite whipping in the wind.

  A face assaults my memories, the first face that I’ve seen since I opened my eyes and saw the hands all above me.

  “Brody?” I choke out his name, breathless.

  The hand around my heart loosens, its grip faltering on my question.

  “What did you say?” The familiar voice demands.

  She’s angry, though I don’t understand why.

  My words fail me. I can’t answer, nor would I want to. If she doesn’t know who he is, I’m damn sure not going to tell her.

  He’s mine to protect.

  He’s mine to love.

  He’s mine.

  “Have it your way then!” She booms out, sounding further and further away.

  At the sound of her angry voice, the hand resumes its grip on my heart, squeezing harder than before. And that’s when I know.

  This is the end.

  I’ve run from death long enough. It’s about time it catches up with me. The voice was right.

  It’s time.

  I surrender to my fate, knowing that I can’t run this time. I’ve lasted longer in this life than I should have. At least I have Brody’s face to ease some of the pain. A light in all the darkness my life has been. Something to hold on to as I slowly fade away.

  It’s more of a mercy than I deserve. He’s more than I deserve. He always was. It’s the only truth I knew in life, and I refuse to deny it, even in death.

  My eyes begin to flutter and the hands begin to fade before my eyes as my vision blurs and my heart rate slows.

  Death.

  It’s here.

  As my eyes close, against all the strength that I put into trying to keep them open, I hear the faint sound of a cell phone ringing. I wonder if the hand around my heart will let go long enough to answer it, but I know it’s just wishful thinking.

  They have a job to do.

  Everything around me goes black, and all at once, I go numb. It’s over. The pain… It’s finally over.

  But the cell phone keeps ringing. It gets louder with each passing second, burning through me with so much force that I wonder if it’s the noise that will accompany me on my descent into hell.

  I jolt awake, pulled from my reoccurring nightmare. The phone in my dream turns out to be my cell phone in real life, ringing incessantly, even louder than how it appeared in my dream. I grab it off the nightstand, noting that it’s still pitch black outside of my window.

  “Hello?” I say into the speaker, my voice
still rough with sleep, my hands still shaking from the adrenaline.

  “Are you safe?” She asks.

  “Barely.” I whisper, my hands flying to my sore ribs.

  “You should have called me.”

  “You know why I couldn’t.”

  “I know, I just…” She sighs, the sound holding more weight than anything else she’s said so far.

  “I get it. Trust me, I get.”

  Some say ‘we’ve been down this road before’ when they talk about repeating certain events. It’s often accompanied by a shoulder shrug as if to say ‘what can you do?’ But that pales in comparison to the endless cycle of what we do.

  What we have to do.

  There’s never enough time to voice the same concerns over and over again. It’s repeating the same shit on a different day, knowing there’s no real end in sight. There never is. Not for us. Not for me. So we say these things involuntarily with sighs or shakes of our head, communicating the obvious, without having to waste our breath.

  “Are you leaving today?” She asks, pulling me from my internal ramblings.

  “I was waiting until daylight but now that I’m awake I might as well get started.”

  “Call me when you get where you’re going.”

  “If it’s safe.”

  “Well then make it safe!” She says, as if that isn’t always my number one goal in life.

  A crashing sound from outside of my window makes me jump.

  “What was that?” She asks, fear in her voice.

  I grab my pistol underneath my pillow and tiptoe to the window, looking between the blinds.

  “Tell me what’s going on!” She demands in my ear, worry seeping through the speaker.

  I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

  “Calm down and stop yelling at me, damnit. It was just some cats knocking trash out of the dumpster.”

  “I don’t like this, you need to leave. Now!” Worry transforms into fear as it often does for us. For me.

  “I’ll call you when I’m safe.”

  “Good luck.” She tells me before ending the call.

  Yeah, luck. Sure thing.

  I place the phone back on the bedside table as I sit down on the rickety bed. My elbows hit my knees and my head falls into my hands. I can still feel the dried blood along my scalp line, a reminder of how close everything came to falling apart yesterday. As much as I need a shower, that’s precious time that I just can’t afford to waste right now. I’ve gotta get the hell out of here as fast as possible. I won’t get so lucky with cats in a dumpster the next time.

  Brody’s face flitters behind my eyes again, my breath catching in my lungs as I suppress the tears that desperately want to fall.

  Fuck, I miss him.

  I shove the tears away with the back of my hand, rising to my feet. I can’t let my emotions get the best of me. Not when I have to get the fuck out of here.

  Now!

  I’ve already been here too long as it is.

  I grab my holster off the armchair beside the bed and fasten it in place. Grabbing my gun off the side table, I ensure the safety is on and then place it in the leather frame against the outside of my thigh. My body already feels better with the little bit of added weight to my frame, a sense of security that nothing else can bring.

  Grabbing my leather jacket, I shove my arms through the sleeves before snagging my helmet, phone, keys, and small duffel bag, then make my way to the door of my latest shitty motel room.

  When it’s safe. I think to myself, rolling my eyes.

  When has it ever really been safe? I don’t think I can remember when that was. Ever?

  I slam the door closed as soon as I walk through it, reminding myself to walk at a normal pace to my motorcycle.

  Don’t draw attention to yourself. Blend in with your surroundings. Let them think you’re a normal girl, living a normal life. Stay calm.

  I find my bike exactly where I left it, hidden behind a bush on the side of the motel, making sure the only way it would be found is if someone already knew it was there.

  I stuff my duffel into the saddle bag strapped to the bike and bring the giant piece of machinery to life between my legs. As the vibrations of the engine match the racing of my heart, I take in one last lungful of fresh air and then slide my helmet on.

  Before I leave, I take my phone out of my pocket and snap it in half, shoving each half in a pocket on either side of my body, and then take off like a bat out of hell.

  I’m sick of living like this.

  I’m sick of running. Sick of hiding.

  But what choice do I have?

  As soon as I hit the highway I drop the first half of my broken phone. Twenty miles later, I drop the second half, watching as it rolls away from me and gets crushed under the tires of a black Ford F350. I don’t even know which highway I’m on or where the hell I’m going.

  But I guess that’s why I’m still alive.

  It’s hard to anticipate my moves when not even I know what they are.

  Chapter One

  Brody

  Sitting outside the back of the shop, I’ve got a beer in one hand and Chevelle blasting through the speakers. It’s a damn fine way to end the day if I do say so myself. The harsh sun beats down on my back, a damp sweat coating my skin. There’s something about sweating your ass off all day that makes ice-cold beer taste ten times better.

  The rest of the guys have all finished up, leaving me to polish off the day by myself. They’ve either headed out to be at home with their wives and kids or if you’re Ryan, you’re headed over to Henry’s to find some unsuspecting girl to fawn over your motorcycle.

  Those poor girls will never learn that the phone number he pretends to type in his phone is really him just sending a text message to himself, reminding him of what her name is, that way he never forgets.

  After what I can only assume is a subpar night between the sheets, they’ll never hear from him again. Trust me, they aren’t upset by it once the night is up. I assume they’re all relieved when he doesn’t call or text them after that.

  Me on the other hand, I’m always the first one here and the last one to leave. There’s always RedBull and Guinness stocked in the fridge that I keep in my station bay. Whatever I need to start and end my day.

  The girls all poke fun at me, telling me with how much time I willingly choose to spend here, that I might as well convert the upstairs office into an apartment. The truth is, they’re not far off. Other than our group of friends and the nights we all get together, there isn’t much else holding my attention outside of these grease-stained walls anymore. Yeah, we all still get together several times a week, but it’s just not the same as it once was.

  Max and Abel have the twins. As cute as those little girls are, they’re a goddamn handful. I don’t know how my parents raised us, three boys, without losing their damn minds.

  Bree and Dex are expecting their first kid here in just a few months. A little boy that they’ve yet to decide on a name for. Kat’s always locked away in her art studio, and of course Jake is always trotting after her like the love-sick fool he is. Karen’s always in some new city, photographing someone famous, coming and going with barely a moment's notice. Sonya, Talon, and the band are always off on tour or some kind of business trip. And Ryan… Well, Ryan’s a whore.

  So that just leaves me and the shop. A boring routine to some, but one that feels just right to me.

  It’s been a hell of a week here though. We’ve been rotating bikes in and out of this shop so fast, I can hardly remember what it was like when we were dreaming up the days when we’d have our own business.

  If I’m not repairing old ones that come in or delivering new ones that have been built, then I’m with Abel, learning how to build them from the ground up. He and Dex have always been the two in charge of custom jobs, but the poor bastards need a vacation. Between kids, weddings, and the lack of a ho
neymoon due to how many jobs were on the books, they could use an extra hand.

  Today alone I’ve worked on a total of 11 different bikes. Whether it be normal maintenance or building a body, there’s never a slow day at DRAB. I’m living my dream.

  Or so I tell myself every day.

  A shuffling sound and low muttered curses filter in from the shop, pulling my attention. I stand from my chair outside and drop my now empty beer bottle into the trash. Grabbing a torque wrench that was left out, I make my way back inside, prepared to swing if need be.

  I shouldn’t have left my gun sitting on my work bench but I just needed to take all the weight I could off my body when we called it a day. After everything that’s happened with our family, I should always anticipate shit to hit the fan, no matter how calm our lives appear.

  Coming around the corner, I have the wrench raised over my head, ready to knock a motherfucker into next year if I need to. I laugh to myself though when I see Abel frantically searching for something, mumbling to himself while he does.

  “Shouldn’t you be home, fuckin’ your wife right about now?” I ask, tossing the wrench down.

  If only he could feel how fast and hard my heart is beating right now. I don’t think he understands how close he was to becoming a floor decoration.

  “That would require the twins to actually take a nap once in a while. And Emery can’t take a nap without her ‘softie.’ Have you seen it anywhere?”

  Abel’s twins, Breelle and Emery, are the cutest little girls you’ve ever seen. With dark brown hair and indigo-rimmed eyes just like their father. But don’t let their looks fool you, they’re also little hell-raisers, just like he was. Just like their mom too, if I’m being honest. But I’ll be damned if I ever say that to her face.

  Breelle is just as dramatic as the aunt she was named after, creating chaos out of nothing. Her pissed-off scream could rival a heavy metal band, piercing through your ears without warning.