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  Burning Ember

  Copyright © 2015 Darby Briar.

  Published by Darby Briar 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, and locations is purely coincidental. Darby Briar is in no way affiliated with any songs, brands, musicians or artists mentioned in this book. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This 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 person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  WARNING:

  For Mature Audience 18+

  Contains Adult Sexual Situations & Language

  Please, even if you are a personal friend, if you are offended by the word

  FUCK or GRAPHIC SEX . . . then PUT THE BOOK DOWN NOW.

  This is a biker romance novel and as such it contains no princes, unicorns, or rainbows.

  Thank you (:

  HOC Insignia: Andrea Macedo

  Cover Design: Romantic Book Affair Designs

  Cover Picture: Perrywinkle Photography

  Models: Chris York and Megan RaNae Nall

  Editing: Hot Tree Editing

  Interior Design, Formatting and Proofreading: Perfectly Publishable

  To my SS (my Marky Marc) and my minions. If it wasn’t for your patience and love, I would have never finished this book. It was such a huge undertaking. I appreciate you letting me disappear for hours at a time so I could focus on this obsession of mine. I love you with every crazy bone in my body. xoxo

  Table of Contents

  Burning Ember

  Harbingers of Chaos ~ Book One

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Playlist

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  JULY 2008

  When your life burns to ash before you, it’s hard to find hope within the embers of what remains.

  The overwhelming scent of gasoline invades my nose. The stench rises from my clothes and skin, blocking out the smell of the fiery inferno blazing before me. Heat licks at every exposed surface of my body and my eyes have grown as dry as the Mojave.

  Still, it’s impossible to look away.

  Not only is the contrast of the orange-yellow flames against the midnight sky mesmerizing, but I’m too desperate to witness every inch of the basement burn. With each second, the proof of the depravity I’ve lived through turns to charcoal, and a piece of his world crumbles, giving me peace.

  The heavy cry of the fire truck siren grows louder, telling me I’ve run out of time. Even though ash falls like rain around me, blending me in with the night, it’s not enough. I need to disappear before they catch me here. Before they find out what I’ve done, and he discovers I’m still alive.

  Stepping back into the shadows, I lift my hood, afraid my hair will draw too many unwanted eyes even in the dark. But as I lower my arms, the throbbing pain in my wrists registers. The gashes on each are now screaming for attention. Looking down, a ripple of awareness rockets through me.

  No. God, no.

  My gut twists on itself.

  I’ve been so locked in this out-of-body daze, I hadn’t realized I’ve been leaving evidence of my escape all over the grass.

  The siren wails in my eardrums saying, Go! Now! While there’s still time.

  Sucking in a shaky breath, I pray I’ve given myself enough time to get out of the city, maybe even out of the state.

  With one last look at the rising flames, I hitch my duffle over my shoulder, tuck my arms in close to my body, and walk away.

  The warmth of the fire disappears and shivers race over my limbs as the cool, oceanic breeze rushes over me. For a moment, the air I breathe is filled with the scent of tropical flowers and salt water. But all too soon, it’s gone, replaced once again by the acidic smell of gas.

  My heart feels heavy inside my chest as I say goodbye to the sunny place I’ve always called home. I’ll miss it. The beach, the bay, the hub of the city. The ocean and the sun on my skin. To think I may never return physically pains me.

  How did it come to this? How did I slowly let him steal away everything important to me? My home? My family? My freedom?

  I’ve asked myself a million times if I could have prevented this. Did I miss any warning signs early on? Hints that where I saw an angel, a monster lurked beneath.

  There had to have been. However, I ignored or missed every single one.

  Either way, it won’t happen again. I won’t be fooled by a pretty face and a gentlemanly facade a second time. And I sure as hell won’t allow anyone to control me like he did. For the rest of my days, however many there may be, I’ll have my freedom, if nothing else.

  I won’t be locked up for one more second of my life.

  Not. One. More. Second.

  I may no longer be a saint, but at least I’m a survivor.

  AUGUST 2008

  The most dishonorable deed is taking advantage of another person’s desperation.

  Something heavy lands on top of me, expelling the air from my lungs, and my eyes snap open. I’m stunned for a moment, not sure if I’m still dreaming or awake.

  A shadowy figure looms over me in the dark. It takes me a second to realize the musky, sweet scent invading my nose is body odor. That the sour stench hitting my face is someone’s breath and the weight pressing on top of me is that of a man.

  Oxygen fills my lungs as I suck in a breath to scream. But before I can release it, a large, sweaty palm covers my mouth and fingers dig into my cheeks. Panic and adrenaline course through me as I thrash, kick, and push. The man above me growls his displeasure, but I don’t stop. I rake my nails down his skin, anywhere and everywhere. Planting my heel into the mattress, I thrust my hips up, trying to buck his body off, but with him being twice my size, he barely moves. He’s a damn anvil on top of me.

  His fingers fumble with the
button of my shorts for only a second, before he violently yanks at them, forcing them down over my hips.

  The idea of taking this foul creature into my body has nausea crawling its way up my throat. It also opens the iron box inside my head. The one full of long ago locked away memories. Memories of my time with Warner. And I’m reminded that fighting my captor only made the sex more brutal . . . more painful. Left me with scars.

  The more you fight me, the more this is going to hurt. Let me in, Em. Let me in.

  I lock my eyes closed as my assailant rips at my underwear, and try to find my place. The place where no one and nothing can find me, hurt me.

  But just as I’m pulling away from reality, he stops . . . stills. I gasp, and the sour stench of him fills my nose. Opening my eyes, I see his chest rise and fall heavily, but otherwise he’s a statue above me.

  “Get the fuck off her, you animal, or I will slice you like a fucking cantaloupe,” a young female voice hisses.

  The glint of a knife pressed against my attacker’s throat catches my eye. He turns his head, but then his eyes widen as he’s jerked back.

  “Don’t,” the voice barks.

  He hesitates as if calculating his odds. Or maybe he’s deciding which he’d prefer. To die. Or rape me. A second later, he cries out and scrambles off me. His hand goes instantly to his neck and a dark liquid leaks out from between his fingers. Stumbling away, he mumbles something unintelligible.

  My heart’s thumping wildly inside my chest and I fight back the burn of tears building behind my eyes.

  I will not cry.

  “Don’t you dare. You’re fine. Alive. Breathing. Free,” I hiss at myself under my breath. Then I inhale gulps of air, rushing to fill my lungs as I right my shorts, and button them. I yank on the zipper, but it doesn’t zip because it’s broken.

  Dammit.

  I lift my gaze, and it centers on a small figure standing not two feet from me. Her black clothes blend her in with the dark room. She appears pixyish with short dark hair cut to her jawline, slender limbs, and small hands. Like Tinker Bell in human form. Only this one holds a knife.

  It’s eerily silent all around us. When I speak again, my voice is louder than I intended. “I can’t believe that just . . . thank you.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I thought this room was only for women.”

  Without saying a word, she spins and climbs onto the top bunk of the one next to mine. Staring after her, I wait for a reply. Only it never comes.

  Pulling myself into a sitting position, my knees to my chest, I scan the sleeping area. I find eyes, lots of them, watching me, and ask myself . . . how is it a girl, even more petite than I am, was the only one with the guts to do something? Why didn’t anyone else help me?

  As the minutes pass, my eyes darting to any movement or sound. Thirty-eight days on the street, and I’ve been reasonably safe. But I don’t feel safe here, not anymore.

  If it weren’t for the promise of food and a shower, I’d grab my bag and leave. Also it’s still raining, which is what drove me to stay here in the first place, since the rainstorms in New Mexico are a lot like mini tsunamis. Honestly, had I known, I would’ve moved on straight through to Texas like I’d originally planned. But now, a bus ticket will set me back much more than I can afford to spend.

  Hours pass. The sun gradually filters in through the windows causing the occupants to stir, wake, creating a bustle of movement and a steady hum of voices in the overly crowded room.

  Closing my eyes, I clear my mind and mentally prepare to start my day by telling myself positive things I need to hear. Things will get better. You’re stronger than you think. There’s a better life out there waiting for you. But it’s my mother’s voice and not mine I hear.

  Standing, I turn side to side and stretch my aching back. I get the sense I’m being watched, and drop my arms.

  “First time here?”

  I glance to my right and see an older woman standing there. She peeks out at me through a bushel of salt and pepper hair.

  “That noticeable?”

  She shrugs. “Takes some time to get used to the helter-skelter of this place. Didn’t get much sleep?”

  I look at my cot and for a moment relive last night all over again. A shudder rakes through me. When I gaze back to her, I say, “No, not much.”

  “Give it some time. You’ll get used to it.”

  Mmmm . . . I’d rather not.

  She asks as she folds a blanket, “You gonna shower? The hot water doesn’t last long if ya are.”

  Peering down at my hands, I see grit under my fingernails, which I’m sure consists of his skin, and blood. “Yeah . . . I could use one.”

  She nods. “Do you mind watching my bag while I go? You can’t trust some people ‘round here.” Her gaze swings to a group of women in the far corner who are fixedly watching our exchange. “I’ve made a few enemies in my day,” she says, “and I’d rather not leave my stuff out in the open. I’ll do the same for you, if ya want.”

  When I hesitate to answer, she adds, “You’ll learn fast you gotta earn trust first, before people will give it back to ya.”

  “I get it.” And I do. If you want something from somebody then you need to give them something in return. It’s the reality I learned at a young age.

  Also staying off the grid, moving from place to place, it’s a lonely and isolated existence. Having a friend, or even someone to give me advice, would be nice.

  A heavy thud sounds to my right. Spinning around, my gaze lands on a pair of leaf-green eyes. They belong to a girl. The girl from last night. She stands about five-three, five-four. Her body’s almost childlike. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s no older than sixteen. But that can’t be right since she’d have to be eighteen to be admitted into the shelter. Although, I’m starting to think whoever is running this place isn’t a stickler for the rules. Considering men and women are supposed to be segregated and that wasn’t the case last night.

  The girl has an oval face, high cheekbones, and big eyes lined with kohl under dark eyebrows. Her raven hair is short, shaggy, and sets off her ivory skin. She’s dressed a little gothic for my taste, in a black tank, shorts, high leather boots, and rubber bracelets cover half of her forearms.

  Not so much Tinker Bell after all, more like a young Joan Jett.

  Her rough exterior looks like an attempt to push away the world. But then why, out of the two hundred or so occupants of the shelter, was she the only one to come to my rescue?

  “Whoa, settle it down, Red. It’s not like I’m gonna slit your throat or anything.”

  Red. I’d been called worse. Ginger, Carrot Top, and my ‘oh so’ not favorites, Fire Crotch and Freckle Monster. Though, I haven’t been called either of those in years.

  Mini Joan Jett turns to the old woman and her features contort, her nose wrinkles. She makes a hissing sound while curling her fingers, further proving my theory she’s a young teen.

  “Brat,” the old woman sneers at her and I’m taken aback by her sudden vehemence.

  “Helga.”

  “Slut.”

  “Wicked Witch of the West.” Joan looks at the ceiling and circles around. “Now if only we could find a house to fall on you.”

  The old woman rolls her eyes.

  Joan crosses her arms over her chest and faces me. Curtly, she asks, “Who are you? What’s your story?”

  “Uh . . .” I don’t give out my real name. Ever. “Red, works. Um . . . it’s my first night.” I stuff my hands in my back pockets. “Thank you for—”

  She shakes her head. “Just watch your back next time, so I won’t have to. There’s more than one wolf in this forest. If you know what I mean.” Then, I’m yet again caught off guard as she fake lunges at the old woman who flinches. Joan gives an amused huff, turns and saunters off, kicking items on the floor that have the misfortune of being in her path, leaving me with the impression that she’s a little bit of a mini tornado.

  The thought brings a small smile t
o my face. She’s got spunk, like someone else I know and miss.

  Helga, as Mini Joan referred to her, is not impressed. In fact, she seems rattled as she grumbles something under her breath.

  An awkward silence descends between us. Then she mutters, “Don’t pay attention to Ivy. That girl’s an ungrateful shit.”

  Ivy. Is that the girl’s name?

  Not facing me, she says, “You know, you have the look of the Irish about ya. The red hair, freckles. But blue eyes instead of green.”

  They’re actually blue-green, but I don’t correct her.

  “I may have the look, but none of the luck.”

  “Mhmmm.” She drops her bag by my foot. “Maybe you need to learn how to make your own luck. I’ll be right back. Don’t let this out of your sight.”

  “Sure.” I nod and sit back down onto my cot as she walks away.

  A few moments later, as I comb the rats out of my hair, a melancholy feeling hits me. It hits me about the same time every day. I pull my notebook slash scrapbook out and flip through the pages, running my eyes over a photo, then the drawings done by a five-year-old. They are the only things that cure the homesick feeling I get in the pit of my stomach.

  Soon enough Helga returns with her hair wet and her skin clean, although, she’s put on the same tattered clothing.

  “Your turn.”

  I pull out my shampoo and conditioner from my bag. But she stops me with a hand on my arm. “Don’t go wasting your own. They have that stuff in the shower room, and Uncle Sam can afford to help you out.”

  “Oh . . . right . . . thanks.” I shove my shampoo, conditioner, and scrapbook in my bag then zip it closed.

  After grabbing a change of clothes, I head toward the showers, disheartened because the highlight of my existence is now a decent meal and a shower.

  Yeah . . . this is certainly not where I pictured my life going.

  The water’s not ice cold, but not hot either. Bearable enough. At least it lets me clean away the visible and invisible filth I can feel covering my body. I quickly shave my goosebump covered legs and wash my hair, thankful the old woman spoke up about using the facility’s shampoo and conditioner. I can’t afford to waste the necessities I have left.

  After towel drying my hair, I comb it straight and twist it into a braid. If I don’t want it to go frizzy, it’s my only option besides a bun. I slip into my other pair of jean shorts, a white tank top, a somewhat clean blue and white plaid shirt, and pull on my tennis shoes.