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A date with the devil, p.1
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       A Date with the Devil, p.1

           Kira Adams
 
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A Date with the Devil


  A Date with the Devil

  By: Kira Adams

  Copyright © 2015 Krista Pakseresht. All rights reserved.

  http://kristakakes.blogspot.com

  https://www.facebook.com/KiraAdamsAuthor

  http://www.wattpad.com/user/xKiraAdamsx

  http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7179367.Kira_Adams

  http://www.amazon.com/Kira-Adams/e/B00KQZ5838

  Cover designed by Cover Me Designs

  Editing by Joanne LaRe Thompson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

  This is for all the women and men out there in the world that can relate. Never let anyone treat you with less respect than you deserve. You control your destiny.

  Table of Contents

  One – A Point of No Return

  Two – Overcoming Hesitation

  Three – Paralyzed by Fear

  Four – An Innocent Game of Truth and Dare

  Five – Breaking Down the Boundaries

  Six – Returning to the Scene of the Crime

  Seven – That Time My Best Friend Confessed His Feelings for Me

  Eight – Making Good on My Assignment

  Nine – The Pressure is on

  Ten – Reverting Back to Past Behaviors

  Eleven – Hidden Feelings Surface

  Twelve – Caught

  Thirteen – Praying for a Miracle

  Fourteen – Justice is Served

  Fifteen – Progress Report

  Sixteen – Experiencing Life for What it’s Worth

  Sneak Peek of Just Caspian by Briana Gaitan

  Acknowledgments

  Books by Kira Adams

  About the Author

  One: A Point of No Return

  I knew deep down inside there was a possibility he would take it to that dark place, I just never admitted it aloud. I knew if I did, it would become real and I had been living in my own lie for so long; I didn’t want to believe it.

  It isn’t until I smell the gasoline that I know we are at a point of no return.

  "What are you doing?" I sputter out, gasping for breath. My ribs ache, and I have a splitting headache. I am blinking rapidly in an attempt to gain my bearings. I can feel the cold, hard concrete beneath me and I realize I am lying on the ground outside. The wind stings my face, sending goose bumps throughout my entire body.

  Why can't I move?

  Fear begins to accelerate through my bones at a rapid rate. I can feel my heart beating ferociously against my chest.

  Why can't I move?

  I'm still blinking continuously, hoping this is all just a bad dream.

  "You should have listened, Bryce. You never listen."

  I rack my brain quickly trying to remember what, if anything I did wrong this time. That's when Tyson's face pops into my head. Tyson was going to be my accomplice tonight. He didn’t know it, but he was going to help me escape this hell I’ve been confined in for the past couple of years.

  I swallow loudly.

  He warned you, my inner voice scolds me. The same voice that has held me frozen in fear in our relationship for the past two years.

  I'm looking up at Robbie, and I don't even recognize him. His eyes are cold and dark, his expression blank.

  That's when I see the match. He flicks it across the back of the holder and a flame ignites.

  "No! No! Please!" I'm squirming around, but excruciating pain is shooting throughout my entire body.

  "Just remember Bryce, you did this to yourself."

  And then he drops the match.

  * * *

  A year later…

  “Bryce!” I hear my mother call up to me. “Dinner’s ready.”

  I instantly drop the book I’ve been engrossed in for the past few hours, slip a sweatshirt over my head, and make my way downstairs.

  I follow my nose to the dining room to find the table already set and my parents standing together in the kitchen in front of the stove.

  “Come on, dish up,” my mother tells me, her brown eyes on me as I walk toward the plates and retrieve the four which are set at the table.

  “Mikey!” my mother yells, attempting to get my brother’s attention.

  “Coming!” my younger brother’s voice carries from upstairs.

  Stroganoff is a family favorite, and my rumbling stomach tells me I’m going to enjoy this meal more than I normally would.

  After dishing up my food, I make my way to the dining room table and take a seat just as I see my brother walk in.

  He’s bouncing happily toward the plate my father holds out to him. “Good of you to join us.”

  Mikey shrugs, his long curls obstructing his view.

  “Did you finish your homework?” my mother asks as she hands him his plate back, now piled on with food.

  He nods then joins me at the table. After my parents are seated, we go around the table sharing the events of our day. It’s my least favorite part of dinner.

  “Bryce?” My father looks up from his plate expectantly at me.

  I push around the food on my plate with my fork. “I looked for jobs today.”

  My mother’s chocolate eyes widen as she keeps them trained on me. “And?”

  “And nothing…I was just looking.” It’s the same conversation we have been having for the past two months. Somehow, my mother never seems to lose hope that they can be rid of me soon. They already raised me once; it isn’t the most ideal situation with me being back at home.

  They’ve been beyond understanding and supportive. They knew I needed a safe place to heal and adjust, but they never expected me to stay as long as I have. They haven’t come outright and said it yet, but I feel it.

  The fact that I haven’t left the house since I moved back home over ten months ago is also a deterrent for them, I’m sure. My parents already had their hands full with Mikey—they weren’t anticipating me.

  Mikey was an honest mistake. They had me when they were in their early twenties and were convinced I was going to be an only child. Not for lack of trying. Mikey was their miracle child, conceived fourteen years after me.

  After I flew the coop at eighteen, I never imagined returning home for anything other than the normal holiday stays. You can say it’s been a difficult transition. Living with your parents at age twenty four? Not something I care to brag about…

  It’s hard to live with people I don’t have much in common with. The age difference between Mikey and me plays a big role in why we aren’t closer. He’s at the stage where all girls have cooties. There are times when I wish we connected more. My parents both work full-time jobs and are gone ten hours or more a day.

  “How’s Tyson enjoying ASU?” my father asks.

  “He likes it. He joined an intramural softball team.”

  “Oh cool.” My mother’s eyes light up.

  “What’s intramural?” Mikey asks, his dark brown eyes questioning.

  “It means girls and boys play for fun,” my father answers.

  “Will Tyson be stopping by tonight?” my mother asks. She has told me multiple times how good she thinks it is for me to be around people, namely Tyson. I’m sure she hopes he’ll eventually rub off on me. I wouldn’t hold my breath.

  “No, he’s got a game tonight.”

  “Maybe we could all go cheer him on?” she offers up, but I can tell she is treading lightly.

  I nod slightly. “I’ll tell him you guys want to stop
by.”

  My mother’s expression falls. “Bryce, you can’t hide forever…”

  I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. “May I be excused?”

  My brother has been unusually quiet during the entire dinner but suddenly, he seems to have found his voice. “May I be excused too?”

  I can hear my mother sigh, dejected.

  I don’t wait for permission, just clean off my plate and make my way back to my room.

  The first thing I do is check my cell phone for text messages. Sure enough, I have one waiting for me from Tyson. How’s your day?

  I reply with Meh. It’s the same answer I’ve been using for months.

  It’s a beautiful day, you sure you can’t make it to the game?

  Even though he knows my answer already, he attempts to get me out of the house at least once a day. I really can’t fault him for it. What sane person stays indoors for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?

  Only people named Bryce Turner…

  In my defense, I went through a very traumatic event and I am dealing with it as best I can. My therapist says I’m making progress, so that’s all that counts. My mother had to search high and low for a therapist who would make home visits. Luckily, she eventually found one in Linda Xavier.

  I’ve been seeing Linda for nearly six months, and I feel fortunate that I really like her. Believe me, I’ve heard horror stories about therapists, but Linda is far from scary. In fact, her demeanor is so warm and inviting, I instantly felt like I could trust her. She comes every Wednesday at four.

  I wish she came more often because she really is the only human interaction I get besides Tyson and my family.

  She never pressures me to talk about my past. Some days we just sit in silence, but I always leave feeling better because I am with someone. We’ve spoken about Robbie and that day, but she knows to tread lightly because it is such a sensitive topic for me. It doesn’t help knowing that he is out there somewhere…probably waiting to finish the job. If it wasn’t for Tyson, I wouldn’t be here today. He saved my life…although, some days I wish he hadn’t. I can’t tell you how many anxiety attacks I’ve had during her sessions, but she never faults me for it. She never makes me feel guilty. That’s why I really like her.

  I stand in front of my mirror, lifting up my sweatshirt to expose my damaged body. I ended up with third degree burns on forty percent of my body. The scars that remain are leathery and discolored. Besides my family, no one has seen the extent to which I’ve been injured…and I’d like to keep it that way. I would hate to see the pity in their eyes, if anyone else got a look.

  Two years ago, I loved my body. Yes, I had flaws like anyone else, but I could wear a bikini any day of the week and pull it off. My cellulite wasn’t highly noticeable and I liked my small frame. My mother used to tell me that she gave birth to me, so she was to thank for my cute figure.

  I can’t imagine wearing a bikini or shorts ever again. My legs, arms, torso, and back are littered with scars. I have no idea how my face made it out unscathed, but I thank God everyday he spared it. It’s the only thing I have going for me these days.

  I’ve been through more surgeries than I can count, but I will never be able to get back to the girl I used to be. She died when that match was lit.

  Tyson, my one and only friend, was my next door neighbor at the time. He moved in next door to Robbie and me before it happened. We had only conversed a few times, but Robbie had convinced himself that there was more going on. Besides borrowing the usual eggs and flour, we kept our distance—until the day he heard my screams. By the time he made it outside, Robbie had fled the scene. Tyson had a hell of a time trying to put out the fire before the paramedics showed up.

  We’ve been practically inseparable ever since. It’s funny how you can live your life next door to someone and never know that you need them until that fateful moment. I don’t know what I would have done without him throughout this past year. He’s one of the only bright things in my dark life. Although he is two years younger than me, I never notice the age difference. He’s honestly my favorite person in the world.

  Before

  * * *

  “Are we really going to do this tonight?” I ask, closing the door and locking it behind me. Robbie won’t even look at me. He hasn’t said a word since we left his friend’s barbecue.

  He continues ignoring me, walking further into the house. I hate when he shuts me out like this. It drives me nuts. “Hey! I’m talking to you!” I call out to his back.

  Robbie spins around, his eyes narrowed and his jaw tight. If he opens his mouth, I fear he’ll bite my head off with one quick movement.

  He’s so outta line, and he doesn’t even know. He has convinced himself that his friend Jason was flirting with me back at the barbecue and he is pissed. He’s been pushing me to admit it since he saw Jason touch me on the shoulder. I never felt uncomfortable, and Jason always treats me respectfully, so Robbie is not getting the outcome he so desperately wants.

  “Look, babe, I forgive you,” I say proudly, reaching out for him.

  Robbie pulls away, a disgusted look playing across his face. “You forgive me?” he asks angrily. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  The world will literally have to end for Robbie to admit his mistake. He is as stubborn as they come. I’ve learned over the past year to simply agree with him and drop it. You have to take the good with the bad, right?

  “You’re right. So, I’m sorry, let’s move past this.” I say gently, pulling him into me. He smells like the cologne I bought him, Kenneth Cole, Reaction. It’s one of my most favorite smells in the entire world.

  He pushes me away from him roughly. “I don’t want you wearing this kind of stuff anymore.” He points to my basic tank top and jean shorts. My eyes glance down at my outfit and back at him. I can’t help the chuckle that escapes my lips. Robbie’s eyes darken. He doesn’t say a word, just locks his jaw.

  I have no clue what’s wrong with the outfit I have on, but if Robbie thinks he is going to tell me what I can and can’t wear, he is going to have a rude awakening. I push his hand away. “I am going to wear whatever the hell I want,” I say, emphasizing my freedom.

  Before I even know what is going on, Robbie has backed me up against the cold, hard wall. He is in my face and he doesn’t look happy. His fingers are wrapped around my throat and I’m so shocked, I’m having trouble moving. “You’re a grown woman now, time to start acting like it,” he hisses at me through clenched teeth.

  I am trembling beneath his tight grasp. My heart is pounding in my ears, drowning out all other noises. I close my eyes, breathing deeply, attempting to gain control of my fleeting heart.

  I begin coughing, gasping for air. I feel his fingers slowly release. “You know how I get,” Robbie says, a distressed look plastered across his face. “But you still push my buttons.”

  I’m rubbing the soreness his fingers left around my neck. I can’t believe he put his hands on me. I can’t stop shaking. I push past him without another word, headed upstairs. He grabs my wrist stopping me.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” He is groveling, on his knees, pressing the base of his head against the back of my hand.

  His shoulders are heaving up and down, and I can tell his breathing is uneven. I can feel your fingers around my neck…and you’re the one that’s crying? I’m flabbergasted. I want to scream, yell, punch, and cry. A thousand emotions are rising from the depths inside me.

  I’m not supposed to be this person…a girl who is too weak and allows someone to put their hands on her. I’m better than this. I deserve more than this.

 
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