The Moments We Share Read online

  Table of Contents

  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

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Barbara C. Doyle

  This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The Moments We Share

  Copyright © 2018 by Barbara C. Doyle

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Artist:

  Emily Wittig Designs and Photography

  Editing by:

  There For Your Editing Services Interior Formatting by:

  Ready, Set, Edit

  Published by:

  Barbara C. Doyle

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  This is a shout out to everyone I ignored so I could write this book.

  I’m sort of sorry.

  Except to my brother.

  Not sorry, Brandon.

  Seven Years Ago

  Keep your head down.

  The black hood draped over my tousled hair hides a majority of my face from the pelting rain. No matter how quiet I try to walk, the soles of my beat-up Converse slap against the wet pavement like a herd of sumo wrestlers running by.

  Don’t let them see you.

  The midnight sky is void of any stars, blanketed by unfriendly grey clouds that only block the moon from giving any light. Most of the streetlights are out, and the few remaining are too dim to give off any decent light.

  My shitty night only becomes worse when the cold fall air nips against the wet skin caused from the downpour cascading around me, soaking my clothes and reminding me that I can’t even afford a fucking umbrella.

  Everybody warns people away from this part of town after the sunset, but I had no choice. I missed the bus, and had to walk to Clinton from the city. My cell ran out of minutes days ago, I have no money to use a payphone, and I knew my parents were both working one of their two jobs, so they wouldn’t be able to come get me.

  When I turn the corner, I hear distant footsteps behind me. My body going rigid as they near, I pick up the pace with a heavy weight building in my gut. Fear.

  My socks are soaking wet from the holes in my shoes, my sweatshirt and Teag under it are clinging to my body, and the strong wind is making it hard to walk in a straight line, much less see through the storm.

  The steps behind me start getting faster, like they’re coming for me. I hear plenty about the people who live around here, and I have no interest in getting to know them. But without knowing where to go or hide, it becomes inevitable that I’ll meet whoever occupies the rundown buildings lining the abandoned street.

  My arm is yanked from behind, causing me to jerk backward. I turn to see two guys a little older than me grinning like they won the lottery. They’re both dressed in dark colors—black ripped jeans, black T-shirts, and leather jackets—and tattoos jut out and wrap around their necks.

  “Look what we got here, boys,” the blond one says, circling me. My eyes follow him, fists clenched at my sides.

  The dark-haired one steps closer. “What are you doing in our territory?”

  Jaw ticking, I stay quiet, not giving them the satisfaction of knowing about the terror building behind my secluded eyes.

  Never show your fear.

  The same guy shoves my shoulder, causing me to stumble backward. “You deaf or just fucking stupid, kid? When we ask you a question, you answer.”

  I let out a short breath, eyes darting at the sight of two more men stalking out of the shadows of the alley across the street. They’re drawn to my helplessness like a shark to blood.

  “I don’t have anything you’re interested in,” I finally tell them, voice hard.

  They laugh. “Why don’t you give us your wallet and let us be the judge of that.”

  I know damn well they’ll be disappointed with the pennies and milk card I have stashed away in the wallet that’s only held together by duct tape.

  “I have nothing to give you,” I reiterate, stepping forward. “I’m just going home.”

  “Home,” a new guy repeats, coming at me. His eyes travel down me, taking in my attire like I’m sporting Calvin Klein rather than thrift shop hand-me-downs. “You live on the other side of town, right? Definitely not from around here.”

  Silence.

  The blond asshole grabs my arm, his tight grip making me cringe. “Give us your wallet, kid.”

  I look around me, knowing there’s no way I’m getting out of this easily. The four guys surrounding me are twice my size, and have way more fighting experience than I do.

  Begrudgingly, I hand it to the blond.

  Tearing it open, an angry expression immediately crosses his greasy face. His glazed eyes snap to mine, throwing my wallet into a mud puddle at his feet.

  “This a fucking joke?”

  I try yanking my arm from his grip to no avail. “Just because I’m from the other side of town doesn’t mean I’m rich, fucktard.”

  Before I know what’s happening, I’m on the ground, pain shooting up my back from landing over the broken curb. I groan, struggling to sit up, but a boot lands heavily on my chest, keeping me down.

  “That any way to talk to us?”

  They all strut forward, and I know what’s coming next isn’t going to be pretty based on the hard expressions on their faces.

  Never talk back.

  Maybe if I actually listened to my father’s rules, I wouldn’t be like this. Or maybe these guys wouldn’t give a shit if I gave them my money willingly and I’d still end up powerless.

  The first kick comes from the dark-haired one, his work boot connecting with the side of my ribcage. I cry out, hands shooting to the area of impact. I scream out a curse as another shoe lands on the other side of my ribs, and I ball up on instinct hoping the blows won’t be so bad.

  Never back down from defending yourself.

  Dad must have known that listening to the other four rules wouldn’t be so easy for me, so he came up with the fifth. Forcing myself to fight back, I sit up right before a third guy takes his turn. With pain shooting through my body, I shakily get on my feet, fists clenched in front of my face.

  They laugh again, bellowing at my crumpled stance. “Tough guy,” one of them muses.

  “They never win,” another adds.

  Not knowing what else to do, my fist flies forward with all the energy I have, connecting with one their jaws. He stumbles back from the jab, but I can’t imagine it hurts as much as my hand does from the punch.

  Another strenuous line of curse words escapes my mouth as
I cradle my swollen hand.

  Trying to run, I make it as far as a few feet before I’m back on the ground with shoes and fists flying toward me at once. Every crack, pop, and strike from the contact makes me cough and groan. A bitter, metallic taste fills my mouth as one of them kicks my face, stinging pain over my cheekbone and lips radiating through me. My eyes water, body goes weak, and limbs become numb.

  I tried, Dad.

  I let out strangled breaths as I look up at them through swollen lids. “You’re going to regret this someday,” I rasp when the strikes become less frequent.

  Amusement carves into their faces, mixed with disbelief over my bold statement.

  “Somehow, I doubt that, kid.”

  “I’m going to make something of myself,” I say aloud, a cemented promise not to them but to myself and whoever would listen.

  To the universe.

  Never again will I be powerless, poor, and unprotected. I’m going to be bigger than anybody in this town knew, making sure everybody saw the steel skin that would make me untouchable.

  Right before the final blow, the leader chuckles, eyes scoping out my defeated body as it rests in angles it shouldn’t on the grubby ground. “Yeah. And I’ll be the fucking president.”

  Ashton

  We may not be a fairytale ending,

  But we’re a story they’ll never forget

  The familiar lyrics are nothing more than a bitch slap to the face, and every radio station in the country knows it. Every DJ felt the need to play the love song ever since the big news broke of the split between country music stars Ashton King and Rhys Alden.

  “A tragic love loss” is what they deemed it.

  … tragic, as if Rhys died. When really, he’s probably at his mansion in Nashville sticking his dick in some new groupie that can’t get enough of those baby blue eyes and soulful voice.

  Gag me.

  Six years down the drain. That’s the true tragedy. Who spends six years together with a promise of forever just to undo it all right after getting engaged? We’re definitely a story nobody will forget, least of all me.

  The DJ of the night announces the story for the thirteenth time after the song ends, as if America hasn’t heard it yet since it came out this morning over every media source known to man.

  Rhys Alden and Ashton King No More.

  Engagement Off.

  Cheating Scandal: Who Cheated on Who?

  Rhys Secretly in Love with Another Woman.

  Ashton King Cracks Under Pressure.

  It’s almost funny how the press is spinning the rumors. There are articles circulating that blame either party, not that it matters. Fans are always going to pick sides. And since Rhys “made” me the singer I am today, most of the people sympathize with him.

  All because he made a name for himself before I stepped into the scene. It’s pathetic how everybody feels the need to assume I would have never made it if I didn’t start dating him when I was young and stupid.

  “Another drink?”

  I stare at the bartender who can’t be much older than me. I’d say twenty-eight to my twenty-one, somebody who probably came to LA hoping to make a name for himself somehow. Actor. Model. Singer. He’s got the looks to be any of those, and the lustful eyes he’s giving me will probably get him there if he meets the right people.

  However, my sour mood and lack of fucks with most humans today means I am not that person for him.

  “No thanks.”

  He leans forward. “You okay, sweetheart?”

  Slowly, I meet his eyes. “I’m not your sweetheart.”

  A knowing grin creeps on his face. “From what I hear, you’re not anybody else’s either.”

  Gripping the shot glass in my hand, I remind myself that doing physical harm to somebody will not look good in the press. Although the idea of throwing this at his face is tempting.

  Taking a deep breath, I loosen my grip on the glass and sit up straighter. Before I can form my calculated response, his attention is caught by something behind me.

  “Well, shit,” he breathes. I see the familiar starstruck expression on his face as he gapes at whoever came in.

  Given that Lava is the newest hot spot in LA, it attracts a lot of well-known people. It also tends to draw the press, but at least there’s enough other stars to distract them in the crowd when they do decide to flock.

  I’m vaguely aware of a presence next to me, body heat warming up my already overheated skin. I’m overdressed for a club, wearing leather leggings and black mesh top with my favorite pair of beige-colored, embellished cowboy boots that my grandma bought me years ago.

  Inclining my head to see who joined me at the bar, I know why Bartender Boy is suddenly struck speechless.

  Dylan Hilton, bass guitarist of the band Relentless, is leaning against the bar, taut body angled toward me with a predatory smile on his clean-shaven face. His hair isn’t as long as it used to be, but still longer than most guys in the scene like to wear it. It makes him look unkempt and care-free, and from the headlines he makes with half-naked women on either side of his arm, and half-empty bottles of vodka in his hands, that’s exactly what he’s going for.

  Relentless played at the Staples Center last night, creating a lot of buzz since their arrival the day before. Their music isn’t bad, and on a good day I sing along to their songs during my morning run, but I won’t give his ego the stroke I know it doesn’t need.

  “Hey,” he greets, his lips going into a crooked grin as he scopes me out from where I’m perched on my stool.

  His hand runs along his sharp jawline as his eyes roam over my body, the tight sleeves of his heather grey T-shirt bunching up around his ripped biceps.

  He may be an asshole, but that doesn’t cloud my attraction toward him. The clothes he wears show off his fit body, barely masking the form of chiseled abs and hard planes that I know are hiding under his shirt. He’s done plenty of photoshoots that show them off, even flashing the paparazzi his body more times than not.

  Yet, despite the pending attraction for him, I know better than to get involved with his type. Not to mention hooking up with somebody two seconds after a breakup would only stir rumors that I don’t need.

  “Not interested,” I inform inadvertently, looking away. I roll my neck, letting my brown hair cascade around my face to shield him from staring, but I can still feel his heated eyes.

  “Can I get you another drink?” he persists despite my lack of enthusiasm.

  I sigh. “You can go away, pretty boy.”

  The stool next to me moves, the legs scraping against the floor. He sits down, a little too close to me, and goes in for the kill.

  “I’m just trying to be friendly,” he swears, although his low tone and hunter’s stance says anything but.

  I glance at him through narrowed eyes, shaking my head. “You’re just like every other guy, you know that? You think because you’re attractive and part of some famous band you can get whatever you want. Let me tell you something, pretty boy. When a girl says she’s not interested, that’s when you walk away.”

  His chocolate eyes dilate, golden rims doing nothing to lighten the darkening hues. “You think I’m attractive?”

  Sigh. Of course that’s what he takes from the conversation. I count my breaths until I get to three, giving my anger a chance to simmer down before gracing him with a reply. “You’re as egotistical as they say,” I drone, crossing my arms on my chest. “Most times I ignore what the press prints because they love making assumptions about people. It’s best to hold off judgment until it can be made in person. But you? You’re arrogant and don’t know how to stop. For once, the press got it right. Good for them.”

  Standing up, I brush my shirt flat, then grab my bag from the bar counter.

  He shifts in his seat, hooded eyes scrutinizing my brazen remark. “Who the hell are you to assume I’m an arrogant asshole from one conversation?”

  I’m about to reply when I stop myself, my eyes narrowin
g and head tilting to observe him.

  He doesn’t know who I am. Interesting. Some people would probably be offended by that, but it gives me leverage. But if he thinks I’m just one of the easy screws he can pick up during his nightly escapades, he’s sadly mistaken.

  Sharp jawline be damned, he won’t use me like he does everything else with a vagina.

  I give him a sly smile. “I’m nobody you need to worry about. But if you really don’t know how you come off, you might want to start thinking about what you say and do. Nobody likes a pushy guy.”

  His eyes narrow. “Some women do.”

  I step forward. “Well not me.”

  We’re gawking at each other like our lives depend on winning the stare-down.

  He breaks first, his eyes roaming the length of me again now that he has the full view. It’s heated, judging, and his spends an extra long time on my legs, probably seeing how tight the leather is against my thighs. That always tends to get people’s attention.

  “You look like a bipolar cowboy,” he states, eyes raking back up my body before landing on mine. “It’s like you can’t decide if you want to rock out to ACDC or sing along to Johnny Cash.”

  My hands instantly go to my hips in defense mode. “What’s wrong with liking both?”

  Scrunching his face, he asks, “You like country music?”

  “I like a lot of music,” I ground out.

  “But … country?”

  “What’s wrong with country?” I snap, feeling my irritation grow to an all-time high. I can handle a lot, but the more it builds the harder it is to hold back.

  “It’s depressing. Unless you’re into old trucks, beer, and wives leaving their husbands, then I guess it’s good.”

  Is he for real? “As opposed to what? Rock songs are about sex and drugs. What’s so special about that?”

  He shrugs, leaning his elbow on the bar. “It just sounds better.”

  That’s it. “You know what else sounds better? Sticking my foot so far up your—”