Bayward Street
Authors: Addison Jane
Addison Jane
Bayward Street
Addison Jane
Copyright 2016 Addison Jane
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations or places is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author. All songs, song titles and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Editing by
Swish Design & Editing
Formatting by
Swish Design & Editing
Proofing by
Fiona Dreaming – Proofreading & Formatting
Cover design by
Kari at Cover to Cover Designs
Cover Models –
Garrick Murdie
and
Sophie Newton
Cover Photographer –
Max Ellis
Twisted Transistor, Ryder and Ryker Oakley are characters from the novel
Losing Traction
and are used with permission and copyright to
Amo Jones
2016
Cover Image Copyright 2016
All rights reserved
Going to keep it short and sweet!
Sarah –
who keeps me sane and comes up with the most ridiculous plot ideas.
Kim
– who doesn't think I'm crazy when I talk about fictional characters like they're real people.
Kay
– who tells me to calm the hell down when I'm freaking out.
My betas
– the people who think I'm nuts but accept me anyway.
Fiona
– the one who boosts us up all the time with her amazing words and heart.
Kari
– the woman who can see inside my head before I can.
Lauren, Garrick, Sophie and Max
– the team at Uncovered Models – my one stop shop for epic photos.
I’m not sure what God was thinking the day he decided to plant me inside my mother’s stomach. Maybe he was having a really shitty day? Maybe someone had just partaken in some premarital sex, or maybe he just wanted to be a dick? Because deciding that I was the one that would grow up with Allison and Greg Campbell as parents, was a decision I would never, ever fucking forgive him for.
Growing up for me was rough at the best of times. I watched my father beat the crap out of my mother on a daily basis, and I watched my mother act like she deserved it. He would use anything he could get his hands on, or that was within reach—his belt, a lamp, the television remote—and I couldn’t fault him for his creativity. I wish I could blame it on alcohol or drugs, but the reality was he was just a power-tripping fucking asshole. My father was an important man. He did a lot for the city and local council, issuing permits for buildings and inspecting for problems. He also had top say in what needed to be torn down and when. The power went directly to his head, a high that involved degrading and demolishing his own wife and child.
For the most part, he left me alone. By this, I meant he had yet to raise his hand to me purposefully. My father exacted his abuse on me in many other forms. He would never buy food for us until he needed something, then he would give my mother a small amount of money to go to the store. Luckily, I always attended schools that provided meals, but that was often the only thing I would eat for days. I couldn’t even count the amount of times he’d locked me in my bedroom, not even allowing me out to use the bathroom and instead just leaving me with a bucket. Most days, I was neglected and treated worse than your typical household pet.
My mother took every beating like the submissive wife that she was. Always accepting that she was in the wrong and bowing down to that man that, in her eyes, owned her. I guess I should thank her in some ways. She showed me the characteristics of a woman that I would never grow up to be. A man was never going to make me feel inferior, nor would a man ever lay a hand on me without a death wish.
I stood by those words a few months before my fifteenth birthday, and Greg Campbell decided it was time for me to accept some responsibility for my mother’s insolence. I was sure it was going to be the last thing he ever did, and the best thing I ever did.
“Come here, you little brat,” my father screamed at me from the living room. I knew shit was about to hit the fan. I’d prepared for it and convinced myself that the second he touched me, that would be the end of his life. My mother could put up with his crap, get kicked to shit every other day, but like hell I was going to wait around for him to beat me down.
“Keira!” he screamed again. I pulled the kitchen drawer open quietly, finding a large butcher’s knife and slipped it out. I shifted it from hand to hand, feeling its weight press into my palm. It was a good feeling, a feeling of power and strength. The surface was shiny, and I could almost see my reflection perfectly in its blade. And for a moment, I wondered what it would look like tainted with my father’s blood. I angled it into the back of my jeans, not wanting a stab wound in my ass cheek if for some reason the asshole caught me off guard. I took two deep, shaky breaths before mustering enough courage to walk into the lion’s den.
The first thing I noticed was my mother curled into the fetal position in the corner of the room. Her legs were tucked tightly to her chest, her hands matted with blood and pressed to the side of her head. My anger spiked quickly, and I had to calm my urge to unsheathe my knife and run at my father in a rage full of vengeance.
“Your mother took some money from my wallet, said it was because we needed food to feed you,” he said eerily calm, as his fat ass attempted to climb off our old worn couch. “You think that’s okay? For her to take my money?”
I didn’t answer him, even when he raised his eyebrows, almost inviting me to talk back so he had a reason to attack. I stood calmly in the doorway between our kitchen and living room. My hand itched to grab the knife. It was like watching an old western, both of us staring each other down, waiting for the other to make the first move. I knew it wouldn’t take long, though, my father hated being ignored just as much as he hated back talk.
“Answer me, Keira,” he growled, taking a few steps closer. It was the slap across the face that took me by surprise, followed closely by my mother’s scream. I was dazed for a moment, having to grip onto the doorway to steady myself. Pain radiated through my jaw and tears burned in my eyes. I could feel his hot breath as he stood over me, taunting me, trying to show me who was boss. I steadied myself with one hand and pushed my shoulders back, daring to look him in the eye. His dark eyes blazed with anger.
“Pathetic little shit,” he spat at me. My free hand reached back into the waistband of my jeans, and I gripped the handle of the knife tightly. “Just like your whore of a mother!” I watched him pull his fist back and suddenly everything slowed. I could feel the change in the air and a high feeling of satisfaction knowing that my world was about to be thrown into a different course.
Before he could throw his fist forward, I yanked the knife out and forced it with all the strength of my small body into the center of my father’s torso. I pushed with every ounce of strength, knowing I only had one shot at this, one shot and I was determined to make it count. My arms burned with the force and my lungs begged for breath as I now realized I was screaming like a crazed warrior running across the battlefield. A blow to the side of my head finally caused me to release my weapon and sent me sprawling across the living room floor. My ears were ringing, and my breathing was ragged, but I looked up in time so see my father stumble backward and land with a jolt into his space on the couch. His eyes stared widely in shock at the foreign object now protruding from just above his belly button. You couldn’t even see any of the blade, it was forced in all the way to the hilt. For a moment, I was completely stunned, not realizing I had that much strength—but they say that adrenaline allowed people to do super human things.
“Y...you fucking b...bitch!”
Jumping at the force of his anger, I scampered across the floor. Blood was pooling around the knife, drenching his off-white T-shirt a sickening bright red. He just laid there, staring at the black handle of the knife, his shaking hands framing it like he was unsure of whether to leave it there or pull it out.
I could hear my mother’s voice, it was frantic and shaky. She stumbled into the room from the hallway, cell phone pressed to her ear and tears streaming down her cheeks.
“He’s been stabbed ... His stomach ... Please!” she cried into the phone before rambling off our home address. I realized then that she was calling an ambulance for him.
“No…” I stumbled as I tried to push myself across the floor, burning my knees on the frayed carpet and grasping at her dress, “…let him die,” I pleaded. Taking a hold of her shoulders when I finally found my weak footing, I shook her harshly.
She wouldn’t even look at me, she continued to sob into her cell phone.
No!
They couldn’t save him.
If they saved him, then there would be no justice served.
He needed his life to be stripped away from him, just like he’d done to mine, and like he’d done to my mother’s. I looked around frantically before finally deciding on a course of action that would no longer allow this man to destroy our lives. I straightened my shoulders, and walked with strength and purpose to the kitchen, throwing open the drawers in search of another large knife. By now I could hear the sounds of sirens tinkling in the distance, growing closer with every second. Reaching in I found the next best thing, a black-handled steak knife with a serrated edge. It wasn’t as large and it wasn’t as heavy, but I was running out of time.
My steps were sharp and solid as I returned to stand before my father. His eyes were starting to glaze, and I knew it was only moments before he would pass out completely.
“I hate you,” I told him darkly. “You made it your mission to make mine and Mom’s lives a living hell. But the funny thing is, now you’re the one who’s going to be hiding from the Devil. Rot in hell.” I raised the knife, ready to thrust it through his lower belly. Unfortunately, once again God threw me another big fat ‘fuck you’ as I was tackled to the ground. The knife was ripped from my hand, and my arms were wrenched harshly behind my back causing a cry of pain to escape my mouth. I felt the cold steel of the handcuffs encompassing my wrists as I looked up to see a rush of paramedics working on my father’s now unconscious body.
My mother’s attention was focused on my father as I was pulled by several policemen out the front door. I wondered why she was crying. Why she didn’t just let me kill him and let us have a better life? I knew my life was about to change dramatically, and as I sat in the backseat of the police car I smiled, knowing that no matter what, it was for the better.