Broken But Breathing (Jinx Tattoos Book 2) Read online

  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.

  Broken but Breathing

  Copyright © 2016 by Shyla Colt

  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.

  Photo by Sara Eirew

  Cover and Formatting by Dreams2Media

  Editing by There For You Editing

  Edited by: EAL Editing Services for Hot Ink Press

  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.

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  AUTHOR NOTE

  PLAYLIST

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  DEDICATION

  For all the people in my life who believe in me, when I lost the ability to do it for myself. I love each of you more than I could ever express with mere words. A special thank you to my following Colt Betas: Crissy Sutcliffe, Sasha Ann, Tina, Michelle D., Jacqueline, Christie, Jennifer Love, and Erin St. Charles.

  AUTHOR NOTE

  Hate is a poison. It seeps into the water supplies and sickens everyone it comes into constant contact with. Racism comes in many forms, and touches many lives. I wanted to show that with this book. What you’ll read is going to be hard. It might turn your stomach, make you angry, and possibly have you asking why I wrote it. The reasons I listed are exactly why I penned it. We have a view of what we believe racism is in our minds, and it’s so much more than that. By remembering the past and being aware of the present, we can change the future.

  PLAYLIST

  Seether featuring Amy Lee: Broken

  Cold Play: In My Place

  Cold Play: Trouble

  BackStreet Boys: The Meaning of Being Lonely

  Pink: Who Knew

  Kelly Clarkson: Heartbeat Song

  Rihanna: Stay

  Rihanna: Russian Roulette

  Pink featuring Lily Allen: True Love

  Nas: Dance

  Fall Out Boy: American Beauty

  Hellyeah: Hush

  Shinedown: Cut the Cord

  Leona Lewis: Run

  Ed Sheeran: Kiss Me

  All American Rejects: Move Along

  PROLOGUE

  Estelle Noll never minded storms. The sound of the rain dancing on the rooftop made her smile. The fresh scent and the coolness it always brought were a welcome break from the sweltering summer heat. She sat on the plush grey window seat, viewing the world through the pane of glass. They cracked the screen earlier in anticipation of what was to come. The distinct aroma that came from wet concrete was nature’s perfume. She couldn’t wait to breathe in the crisp, clean scent.

  I’m an unrepentant pluviophile. A total lover of rain who found joy and peace in the precipitation. The corners of her lips curled up as her mind went to her mother, Jane Abbot, and her father, James. They gifted her with her appreciation of books, rain, and whimsical things. The English-born couple loved classic literature, and wove wondrous tales about their life in Kent, England.

  They’d returned to their hometown five years ago, and Estelle missed them more every day. Soon they’ll be back to prepare for your birth, little one. She rubbed her rounded belly.

  A tiny foot kicked in response, and garnered a smile. There’s a living, breathing being inside of me right now. Wonderment filled her. For five years she and Everett tried to have a baby. Therefore, with his low sperm count and her endometriosis this bun in her oven was a tiny miracle.

  “I can’t wait to meet you, Emma,” she whispered. Content, she glanced at the worn copy of her name inspiration, Great Expectations, in her lap.

  The wail of sirens brought her from Pip and Estelle’s childhood. Tornado warning. The warnings were common this time of year. Closing her book, she studied the sky rapidly changing color. The hairs on the back of her neck and arms stood on end; a sense of unease flooded her system. She closed the book and slid off the cushion, narrowing her eyes. Had the sky taken on a green hue? The wind had picked up. The branches on the trees shook violently in the wind.

  “Stell.” Everett strode into the room. The terse tone and clipped words made her hackles rise.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, standing to greet him.

  “We need to go downstairs. The bathroom is the safest place. They spotted a funnel nearby.”

  Goosebumps covered her flesh. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on her forehead. She toyed with the hem of her maternity top, worrying the material as she rubbed it between her forefinger and thumb.

  He moved to the window and struggled to close it. “I’ll close this. You go downstairs, now.”

  The bass in his voice put her in motion. Fear slithered its way through her body; worry sat in her stomach like a stone, cold and unyielding. A lump formed in her throat. She gripped the bannister, careful not to trip as she waddled her way down the stairs. Balls of ice hit the windows, walls, and roof with loud cracks.

  She jogged toward the bathroom. Fear drove her into the tiny room. She perched on the toilet seat, eager to have Everett in her line of sight. Taking deep breaths, she attempted to keep the panic forming at bay. Her stomach soured. She rocked back and forth to comfort herself and the squirming bundle in her belly. The attempt failed. His footsteps pounded on the steps.

  He appeared in the doorway a few moments later. His face was pale as a sheet, and the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes stood out. Lips drawn in a straight line, and dark eyes full of sadness, he presented a grim picture. He doesn’t think we’re going to make it. Tears blurred her vision, and her shoulders shook as she tried to hold in her sobs.

  He sat on the edge of the tub and gripped her chin. “Hey. I need you to calm down for Emma, okay? I won’t let anything happen to you or the baby. We’re going to get into the tub, stay down, and pray our asses off. We’ll be interviewed on the news when all this is over. Okay?”

  She swallowed the hysteria threatening to rise in her throat like carbonated bubbles full of crazy and nodded. Their lips met in a kiss that smacked of desperation. She poured every ounce of love she held for this man into their mouth mating. Surfacing for air, breathing heavily, they stared into each other’s eyes. She saw everything in his hazel orbs—the fear, the joy, and the determination. Everett Noll had never let her down when it counted. He wouldn’t start now if he could help it.

  “I love you, Estelle.”

  “I love you, too, Everett.” She had to yell to be heard over the roar that sounded like a massive waterfall.

  “Let’s get in. It’s go time.”
He stood, holding her hand as she slipped into the porcelain basin and rested on her side. She held her belly, wishing she could cradle the babe moving around inside of her in her arms.

  The house vibrated, shaking them violently. Her body protested and her teeth rattled. Joints creaked and moaned. He covered her body with his own. The heat from his body, the cold, smooth surface of the tub, and the terror placed her in a crazed limbo. The noise grew loud. It really does sound like a locomotive. Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. The rest of the prayer was lost to her screams as the roof ripped off, and all hell broke loose.

  §

  Beep. Beep. Beep. The noise pulled her from the blackness. She moaned, and awareness exploded inside of her mind like a bomb. She opened her mouth to cry out. I can’t talk. When she went to move her hand, and only her fingers twitched, panic set in. Her throat attempted to expel the foreign object, and she began to choke.

  A gentle hand rested on her arm. She jerked her head to see who touched her.

  A jolt of pain ran up her neck.

  “Hey, hey, none of that. We had to place a tube in your mouth. Please calm down. You’ll put out the tube, and that would set your progress back.”

  She stilled.

  A blurry shape with blonde hair appeared at her bedside.

  “Hi, I’m Nurse Amy, and I’ll be helping you. I’m sorry about the pain. They had to lower the dosage to bring you back around. You’ve been in a medically induced coma.”

  Her brain was fuzzy. Baby. What about my baby? Suddenly her head was too heavy. Her neck failed her, and her head fell back down on the pillow. Her brain hurt, and she couldn’t focus. The thought she’d had slipped away.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll drift in and out for a while,” the kind voice said.

  The next time she came to her throat was blessedly clear.

  “Oh, thank the Lord you’re awake,” a familiar voice said.

  “Mum?” she croaked. Her throat protested her attempt to talk, and she coughed.

  “Don’t try to talk, baby. You’ve been in a medically induced coma for over two weeks, and they took the tube out two days ago. I’ll call the doctor.”

  Turning her head, she struggled to focus on her mother. Where is Ev? She ran her shaky hands down her body and discovered the bump she loved was gone. Emma? Her retinas ached. She closed her eyes against the invasive brightness. Something’s wrong.

  “Bae …” she coughed the word out, ignoring the gut-churning pain and intense nausea.

  “I don’t think she knows—”

  “Ba— ba—” She coughed and choked.

  “I’m so, so sorry, my love. Emma didn’t make it.”

  No. She can’t be gone. I can’t be here without my little girl. Time froze. The world burned away around her, leaving her in hell on Earth. She thrashed as she shook from side to side. Tears burned her eyes and ran down her face onto her cracked lips. I died in the tornado and this is purgatory. My punishment for all the sins I committed. She pulled out the wires running from her to machines. A heavy weight rested on her chest. She needed to get out of here.

  “Stop, you’ll hurt yourself,” her mother cried, throwing herself over the bed. She pinned Estelle’s arms down.

  “Ev— Ev—” she called desperately for her husband. He’d lost something precious, too.

  “He-he’s gone, too.”

  She opened her mouth and let out a barking, broken, bleeding cry. Unable to stop, she continued until the nurse shot something into her IV and sleep stole her.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Estelle

  Two Years Later

  Survivor’s guilt was a bitch. While she hadn’t been suicidal, she’d certainly lost the will to live. Broken, bleeding, and lost, she crawled from the darkness into the light. Now she wasn’t sure how to behave in the blinding illumination. Doctor Nimoy said she was ready to step out of the cocoon she’d created for safety. For two years, she’d slugged it out with inner demons and a mind which had turned against her.

  Life had been measured one day at a time with no vision of the future. Friends were shut out, and the weight of being the sole survivor had pressed in on her from all sides. She’d been lost in the inky black until she began counseling. Then slowly, like a vampire adjusting to the sunlight, she’d crept out of her cave a bit more each day. Now, what remained was an empty shell she needed to mold into some semblance of a person.

  It was daunting; it was a monster to battle. The denial and rage had been easier. That alone kept her engaged and consistent. Anger held less pain than regret, loneliness, and displacement. She had no purpose or place. Going back to teaching kids was out. The very thought left her gutted, shaking, and sweating. It was something she and the doc were still working on. Old friends peered at her like she had a scarlet A on her chest. They could never see past the tragedy, so she’d cut them out of her life. It was the only way to have a chance for normalcy. The one person who stuck like glue was Everett’s older sister, Jolene.

  Jolene dropped by occasionally and kept in touch via phone calls, but she’d learned just how fickle people could be. In the end, she stood alone, sans her family who thought the answer was her returning to England with them. Survival had meant placing an impenetrable shell around her heart. Dr. Nimoy insisted Estelle have support, a person to help her be accountable as she made the next step in their therapy plan. What that meant, she wasn’t sure. It was the purpose of this visit. She shifted her weight on the cushion of the soft white chair. Black and white photos mounted on thick white frames offset the dark grey walls.

  She focused on the picture-perfect family represented—mother, father, and children; a boy and a girl, no older than five or six. That had once been her dream. Now at thirty-seven, getting out of the house and resisting falling back into the pit of depression she’d crawled out of over the last year was her primary goal. Without Dr. Nimoy, she’d still be living like a hermit in her show box one-bedroom apartment. Part of her felt she didn’t deserve anything good when her family was buried six feet under.

  The door opened, and Dr. Nimoy appeared. His face was wizened by time, but kind, and his brown eyes held a deep compassion. He honestly believed in what he did. She’d been through enough shrinks at this point to spot the ones who’d grown disenchanted with their lively hood.

  “How are you today, Estelle?” Nimoy asked.

  “I’m surviving,” she replied, moving into the office and taking a seat on the brown leather couch. Seated, she admired the comforting aesthetics. The dark cherry wood desk and matching bookshelf created a homey vibe she appreciated. She sank onto the cushion, and Jolene sat in a matching chair with silver studs. Dr. Nimoy sat across from her.

  “Why only surviving?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I have my good days and bad days, but mostly they’re just blah.”

  “Do you want to know what I think?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “You’re waking up. The blah is you becoming dissatisfied with your current situation. We spent a lot of time last year working toward healing and looking toward the future. I think we’re ready to take more proactive steps.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “What do you mean by proactive?”

  “You need to get out of your home and become more active. This is what we’ve been working toward. I believe in talking to people who’ve experienced the same things. There’s a grief support group I think would be good for you. It’s once a week, and I think you’d benefit from it greatly.”

  “I don’t know about going and spilling my guts, Doc. It’s not my style.”

  “You don’t have to go until you’re ready. It’s about being around others who’ve experienced great loss. You need a community.”

  The word made her scowl. People let you down. They abandoned the ship when it started to sink and never looked back. B
efore the tornado, she’d been the type of friend who’d bend over backward to help someone in need. She couldn’t keep track of the times she’d taken phone calls in the middle of the night, driven a friend home who had too much to drink, or babysat a pet or a child. Seeing each one of them turn away had broken something inside of her.

  “I have Jolene,” she said.

  “Yes, but I think it’s time you make new connections and flex your social muscles. I also want you to make up a list of four to five things you’d like to do. They can be small goals. Perhaps you’ve always wanted to take a painting class or learn how to decorate a cake.”

  “Why?” she asked, uncomfortable with the direction the good doctor was pushing her in.

  “This is the next step, rebuilding a life. You’ve been on pause for the past two years. We’ve worked through the bigger issues. It’s time to tackle the smaller ones that continue to hold you back.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from balking. Engaging with the outside world made her skittish. Caring led to pain.

  “Remember what we said about keeping an open mind?” Dr. Nimoy asked.

  “I remember,” she answered, taking a deep breath.

  “Here, I’ll start. What are some of the things you liked to do before?”

  “Read, craft, cook.”

  “Some things that were more social.”

  “I used to host cocktail parties,” she said, remembering the themed events she once took pride in.

  “And what did you like about them?”

  “I liked playing bartender, and coming up with themes to get everyone dressed up for.”

  “What about a bartending school?” he suggested.

  “That could be fun.” She had enough money to live off indefinitely if she remained frugal, but they’d discussed getting her back into the work field in twenty sixteen.

  “So let’s put that on the list,” he said, scribbling on a piece of paper. “What else?”

  She opened the door to the past and peered back at the woman she once was. There was a lengthy list of things she wanted to do, but never managed to get around to—pottery, painting, traveling, and a dozen other activities she hadn’t thought about in far too long. Looking at her life at present was painful. What had once been a lush forest had become a barren wasteland. Loneliness flooded into the opening she’d made, and she slammed her barriers back into place.