Finding Fate: An Intense, Fast-Paced Romantic Suspense Novel Read online

  Finding Fate

  Kennedy L. Mitchell

  Published by Kennedy L. Mitchell, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  FINDING FATE

  First edition. September 25, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Kennedy L. Mitchell.

  Written by Kennedy L. Mitchell.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Finding Fate

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  My Playlist

  Sign up for Kennedy L. Mitchell's Mailing List

  Also By Kennedy L. Mitchell

  About the Author

  Thick leaves and roots from the jungle underbrush slow my pursuit. I duck and shove at low-hanging branches in an effort to follow her screams for help. Another pain-laced shriek echoes through the darkness, but this time it’s my name she calls. It turns to begging as I grow closer to the source.

  I can’t see her, can’t find her. Frantic, I shove harder against the thick plants, pushing my body to the breaking point. I’m so close. I can feel her, smell her.

  Something sharp slices through my leg, sending pulses of pain up my thigh. My knees slam into the moist dirt. Now the screams cutting through the thick, humid air are my own.

  I scream out her name and beg into the dark for someone to save her. To save me.

  But no one answers.

  No one comes.

  Chapter 1

  Nash

  Today

  Wide-eyed I jolt up, making my hungover-as-hell head throb, and visibly scour every inch of the room, searching for the source of what woke me. The cool morning air brushes against my sweat-damp skin, goose bumps flare down my arms and up the back of my neck.

  Fuck. What time is it?

  I shield my burning eyes with my right hand from the few bright rays of morning sun pouring through the east-facing window.

  Coming up empty on any visible threats, I whisper a quick prayer that it wasn't my own scream that pulled me from the reoccurring nightmare. Wouldn't be the first time.

  Or the last, I suppose, if recent history is any indication.

  The mattress molds against my back and shoulders as I collapse back and hold my head between my hands.

  Shit, how much did I drink last night?

  My cell phone, which I must have discarded sometime in my drunken stupor, vibrates insistently against the dark hardwood floor. Peeling a hand from my eyes, I squint into the brightness, testing to see how debilitating this hangover really is. When the light doesn't singe my eyeballs, I lean across the bed and stretch for the still vibrating phone. But I’m stopped when a big, black, wet nose presses against my cheek and a soft tongue licks up my neck.

  "Good morning to you too. Fair warning, you might get drunk just by licking me," I say to the dog with as much of a smile as I can muster these days while scratching behind both floppy ears.

  The pang of jealousy at the happy and content look on his face reminds me of how utterly pathetic I am nowadays. Pushing him aside, I lean against the edge of the bed to reach the still- vibrating phone when my stomach rolls, readying to extract all last night’s cheap beer. Aborting the cell phone mission, I slowly maneuver back into a prone position and drag a blanket over my head.

  But the darkness, confined space, and warm humid air from my stale breath send me right back to the place I’m trying to forget. Three seconds, maybe five, under the damn blanket and I rip it off, allowing it to fall to the floor. Damn. This new, not improved version of Nash Bartley is fucking pathetic.

  Not that it matters.

  These days nothing matters, because I survived and she didn’t.

  The dog's nails click against the floor as he paces the room, stopping every once in a while to stare in my direction, almost looking worried. That ridiculous thought makes me laugh. Not a real laugh, but a harsh, incredulous huff. I haven't had a real laugh since Africa, which has to be ass-backward considering the conditions we were in.

  Soft, curly fur brushes against my bare chest, and big chocolate brown eyes stare up with unconditional love swirling within. Maybe he does understand what’s going on; animals do have a sixth sense about stuff like this. And the way he’s staring up with worry in his eyes, I have to believe he knows I need help.

  So it's come to this. Even a dog knows I need help.

  Great.

  The vibrating resumes from the floor, pulling my attention from the soul-searching eyes of the gray goldendoodle who's now attempting to inch his eighty-pound body onto the bed. With a loving pat, I push him off and grunt as I lean over, trying not to bend at the waist too much in case the hangover nausea makes a comeback, and snatch the phone off the floor. After a quick glance at the screen, I flop back on the bed and use a spare pillow to cover my face, leaving the rest of my naked body to feel the gentle breeze from the overhead fan.

  "Hello," I mumble under the pillow.

  "You sound like shit," Drake says on the other end of the line. "Get your ass out of bed. You have work to do."

  Work?

  Fuck him. He damn well knows I'm still out on medical leave. The fucker does own the company, after all.

  "Can't. Still recovering, boss." Letting the pillow fall to the side, I toss my legs over the side of the bed and grip my pounding head with my free hand. "Hell, it feels like I took a bullet to the brain yesterday. That counts for something, right?"

  "You have fifteen minutes. Raider and Tex are on their way. They’ll fill you in on the details." Silence from his end stretches, creating uncertain tension. "Nash." Shit. If he's using my name, this can't be good. Then he says it. The three words I've dreaded and hoped for since failing her that final day. Our last day together.

  "We found her."

  I squeeze my eyes shut to focus solely on those words. ‘We found her.’ My chest heaves with each deep breath in an attempt to keep the room from spinning around me.

  The phone slips from my tight grip as I grate out, "It's been months. What does that even mean?" A gut-wrenching pain that makes you cry out to any deity to make it stop mixes with deep relief, ebbing and flowing until I can’t decipher which is which.

  "You'll get the details from Raider. Now get your sorry, lazy ass out of bed, Snowflake. Take a shower. Drink a fucking cup of coffee. Do whatever you need to do, but be ready in fourteen minutes."

&nb
sp; The deafening silence from the other end has me pulling the phone from my ear only to stare at the blank screen.

  Shower?

  Coffee?

  Fuck no.

  I need to get hammered all over again. Maybe then whatever story Raider is on his way to tell will be easier to hear.

  Still staring unfocused at the phone, an unwelcome thought jumps in. If Drake sent someone, in person, it must be so terrible—horrific, even—that they're nervous about what I'll do, to the house or maybe to myself. I can't blame them. I'd be cautious too. I'm a fucking ticking time bomb.

  How could I not be at this point? I can't sleep. When I do, dreams like earlier yank me awake. Every night the sheets are wet with cold sweat. Every night I jolt awake, terrified. Then when reality sets in, so does the hate, revulsion, and depression. Because when I wake up safe in this nice bed, fancy-ass house, I'm smacked in the face with the reminder that I got out. I'm alive.

  And she isn't.

  At least every night I pray she's not. It's the merciful thing to pray for in the fucked-up situation we found ourselves in several months ago. Believing she’s dead, out of pain and away from the bastards she gave herself over to, is the only thing which keeps me from putting a damn gun in my mouth.

  Not that I haven't thought about it. But every time I get too far away, too deep in my own misery, the memory of her laugh or her soft whispers in the night pull me toward... hope.

  Drake’s words run on a loop, chasing me around the room as I stagger to the bathroom in search of Tylenol. It's only when I'm staring at my own reflection, at the hollow brown eyes, shaggy beard, long greasy hair, and greenish-tinted skin, that I realize even though I’m physically here, I’m not mentally. No, mentally I'm still stuck in that damn shack in Africa, lying on the ground, bleeding out and unable to help save her.

  Failing her. Because that’s what it amounts to. I failed her in every way possible, and I’m left here to deal with the aftermath of my failure. My self-imposed purgatory.

  But today. Today I'll get the answers that will, hopefully, help me move on.

  Answers.

  After four damn months.

  Finally, I'll have some answers.

  FOURTEEN MINUTES LATER, an echoing beep sounds through the first floor of the house, signaling a perimeter breach. Of course they’re here right on time. Drake times everything to the nanosecond, and so do his men. Well, everyone except me. I tried in the Army, but the whole idea of life being dictated by the clock was never a way I wanted to live.

  I glance out the bedroom window and watch two black Suburbans make their way up the gravel drive. Drake never laid concrete, the gravel ensuring if the perimeter alarm had failed, or been disarmed, an approaching car could still be detected. Paranoid bastard. He has his reasons; you don't build a successful company like his without making a few—hundred—powerful enemies.

  Striding across the bedroom, I finish buttoning the fly on my dirty dark-wash jeans. Before heading out to meet my unwanted company, I snatch an old concert T-shirt off the floor and give it a sniff. I sneer in disgust. But hey, maybe if the smell is too stank, they'll dish out the news and then leave. It's worth a try.

  I pull my dark hair up in a tight bun and toss a new rawhide to the bouncing dog. Hopefully it’ll keep him from chewing on another tennis shoe.

  Damn dog. More trouble than he's worth.

  Instantly regretting the thought, I give him a good scratch behind the ears and shut the door behind me.

  By the time Raider and Tex step out of the first black SUV, I'm leaning against a wooden porch post, waiting.

  My gaze bounces between the two as they continue their approach.

  "Raider, Tex," I say, then look to the other SUV to see who’s inside, but no one steps out. "You two look good. Really good. Are those new sunglasses?" Human contact outside family has been scarce lately, making my small talk sound forced. I swipe my sweaty palms down my jeans in case they want to shake.

  They shoot an unreadable look to the other, then stare back to me.

  Raider’s the first to take a step closer, removing his new sunglasses so I can see his disapproving glare. "You look like hell. When was the last time you showered? Or shaved?"

  "Beards are in," I say with a shrug, feeling anything but casual.

  "Not in our line of work. Shave it off."

  "I'm not working, remember? Still on leave. Speaking of, do you think I should write a formal thank-you note to Drake for letting me hang here until I'm fully recovered? Maybe some pretty pink stationery. He'd like that. For something as secure as Fort Knox, it's pretty homey. I've made a few of my own—"

  Tex moves a step closer. My teeth grind back and forth at the pity-laced stare he levels my way. "No one blames you, Snowflake."

  I grit my teeth so hard they might shatter under the pressure. "Blames me for what, Tex?"

  "For holing up here. For tapping out. Fuck, the condition we found you in—"

  Nope. Not going down that road.

  Not sober, at least.

  "Just tell me what you came to say and leave. I have a case of beer waiting for me."

  After a quick exchanged glance, they both stomp up the wooden stairs and walk past me into the house.

  As I follow them in, I take a deep breath to control my rising fury. "Seriously, guys, you—"

  "This place is a pigsty, you damn idiot. Fuck, what is that smell." Both men sniff in varying directions before scowling at me. "Did something die under the house, or is that just you?" Raider continues. "I'll call someone to get this place cleaned up. Today." He runs a finger along the dust-layered stone mantel and cringes. "No wonder the Army kicked your ass out."

  Enough stalling.

  I cross the room and grip his shoulder to turn him so he’s facing me straight on. "Just. Tell. Me. I need to know. After this long, I deserve to know."

  Raider’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, then clears his throat. "We found her. We think. Based on the fingerprints—"

  "How long?" I rasp. My grip on his shoulder is near bone-crushing but he doesn't flinch, doesn't say a word. "How long has she been dead?"

  In my periphery, I notice Tex casually move to the front door and turn, almost like he's standing guard.

  Fuck. Fuck.

  The world swirls, the room blurs in my vision. All the cheap beer from last night fights its way up my throat.

  "Snowflake. She ain't dead."

  And just like that, everything stills. Every hope I had of her being safe shatters, and what little light I had left in my soul snuffs out, making everything inside me go dark and quiet.

  I failed her. In every possible way, I failed her. My prayers of mercy have gone unanswered, and she's been living hell on earth while I've been here. Fucking recovering in this fancy house. Safe.

  My blood boils. Disgust at myself builds, shutting off air supply to my lungs. In the distance, car doors slam shut and gravel crunches under several sets of feet.

  "Snowflake," Raider shouts, giving me a good jostle to pull me out of my downward spiral. "Look at me, damnit. Don't you pass out on me."

  It's only when my eyes lock back with his that he finishes what he came to say.

  "She ain't dead. She's here."

  Chapter 2

  Fate

  Before

  “Hey, Mom,” I say into my two-in-one earbuds as I run Dobby up the stairs after his potty break.

  Shit, I’m late.

  “Am I a good mom?”

  I lean against the closed door of my apartment and shut my eyes. These anxiety attacks seem to be closer and closer together recently.

  “Of course you are, Mom. You fed us, always made sure we were safe and had a good place to live. We were happy, you know. We know you did your best.”

  Silence on the other end tells me this won’t be a quick convo. There’s no hope to getting to work on time. “Come on, Mom, what’s up?”

  Her shaky sigh hurts my heart. She really did everything she
could as a single mom for Destiny and me.

  “I just feel like I’m losing you both. After you moved out—”

  “I’m twenty-seven, Mom. I needed to move out.”

  “I just don’t see you enough, and I know Destiny misses you too. You should come by more, or maybe move back—”

  “Listen, Mom, I gotta—”

  “Right, sorry. I’m keeping you. I need to go back in too, just wanted to call on my break. They have me pulling a double here at the hospital. Lots of laundry today apparently, so I won’t be home for a while. Will you check on your sister?”

  Damn. Another double. At her age the labor-intensive jobs she takes on can’t be good, and no doubt she’ll allow them to work her through the rest of her breaks just to stay in their good graces.

  “Did you bring anything to eat? Snacks or anything?” No way she’ll fork over the kind of money required for the shitty hospital food if she didn’t.

  “I’ll be fine, Fate.”

  “Mom. Answer me.”

  “No, but I’ll—”

  “I’ll be there in twenty and leave something for you with Janice at the front desk. You need to eat, Mom. You work too hard as it is. No need to do it all on an empty stomach.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart. I don’t know what Destiny or I would do without you watching out for us.”

  Good thing they’ll never have to find out.

  Ending the call, I flip to my texts.

  Me: Hey, hey, hey. Mom wanted me to check in. Everything copasetic in your realm?

  Baby Sis: OMG she has to stop.

  Baby Sis: I think it’s getting worse.

  Baby Sis: I wonder if I’m part of the problem. Knowing she still has one mouth to feed.

  Me: Shut your mouth. She’s just... IDK. I think she needs to go to the doc or talk to someone. Not that any of my persuading has done any good recently.

  Me: How’s school?

  Baby Sis: Good. Slow. Senior year, people blow off most of their classes.

  Me: But you’re not, right? I will whoop your ass all the way to Dallas.

  Baby Sis: Wow. Slow down there, ghetto superstar. I’m going to class.