Worth Fighting For (Fighting to Be Free 2)

my stomach, but I was unsure why.

“Nana?”

“Oh, Ellie. I’m so sorry to tell you this...Your dad, he didn’t make it.” As she said the words, her voice cracked, and so did my heart, splintering off, shattering like glass into a thousand pieces. “He’s gone.”

Gone.

When I’d heard the news about my mom, I’d thought that was the worst that could happen. I wasn’t even close.

Gone.

The word was like physical pain, like a knife to the gut, twisting, tightening, slowly killing me. My lungs constricted, making it difficult to draw breath. My father, the first love of my life, the man I looked up to, the man who was my role model for all men—he’d died. Everything in me ached, my insides clenched, my heart thundered in my ears.

Dad. Gone.

An involuntary, guttural grunt left my lips. I blinked, my vision becoming a little blurry as tears slid silently down my cheeks. My bottom lip trembled as I struggled to find something to say. But what was there to say? My mom was fighting for her life, and the man who’d raised me, given me everything, encouraged me to be the woman I was, the one I ran to for help, my rock...gone. There were simply no words to cover that.

I pictured my dad’s smile, the cheeky glint in his brown eyes, the conspiratorial wink he would throw me when we were ganging up on my mother. I remembered the hugs, how his large arms would wrap around me, dwarfing me and making me feel so small. Memories, all of them good, hit me at once: Christmases, birthdays, pancakes, his terrible jokes, his love for white chocolate, his laugh...

It was too much. I couldn’t bear it.

“Ellie?” Toby said, scooting closer to me, his hand rubbing gently at my leg. “Sweetheart, what is it?” To my ears, he sounded a million miles away, his voice slightly muffled.

I shook my head, unsuccessfully trying to clear the fog that was settling over me.

Gone.

I was losing it. I could feel things slipping away, fading out. The grief was consuming me, dragging me under, drowning me.

The phone slipped from my sweaty hand, thudding to the floor. My eyes followed it, not making sense of it, not comprehending anything that was going on around me. Memories, grief, guilt, horror, sadness—all swirled dizzyingly inside my head, tangling together, not making any sense. My vision swam as tears continued their torrential flow, running down my cheeks and neck, wetting the collar of Toby’s T-shirt I was wearing.

And then Toby was kneeling in front of me, wrapping his arms around me, pulling me tightly against him as I sobbed, my heart broken.

“My dad, he’s...” I pressed my face into his neck, crying harder. “And my mom, she’s in surgery, and I’m not there. I’m not there!” I wailed, losing the final part of my control.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Toby whispered, pulling back, his eyes narrowed with sympathy, his face contorted in grief too, grieving right along with me for the people he’d never even met.

“I gotta go,” I whimpered, bringing my arms up between us, pushing him away from me. “I have to be there. There’s so much to do. I have to get a flight and pack, I have to...I have...” I stood, but my legs were so weak I stumbled and Toby’s arms wrapped around me again, holding me steady.

His eyes, alight with concern, met mine. “You ’ave to breathe, Ellie. Shh, just breathe and calm down, sweetheart.” He dipped his head, planting a kiss on my forehead. “Just breathe.”

My eyes dropped closed as I sagged against him weakly, letting him hold me until I gained control over myself again.

CHAPTER 4

JAMIE

THE GIRL’S RED hair fanned out around her face as she looked over her shoulder at me. When those distinctive grayish-blue eyes met mine, there was such an intensity there that it almost made me lose my breath. Her lips curled into a playful smile, and an unconscious smile tugged at my lips, too. The subtle freckles on her cheeks danced as she laughed quietly, stepping closer to me.

“Kid.” Her voice was like music to my ears, so beautiful it made my heart ache. “Kid?” she repeated, placing a slender hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently.

A slow frown replaced my smile as her choice of word sank in. She never called me that.

The pressure on my shoulder intensified, even shaking me a little, which cut through the fog, and it suddenly hit me that I was dreaming. She wasn’t here. Squeezing my eyes shut tightly, I tried to hold on to the dream, to hold on to her, but it was no use. The dream was slowly fading, slipping away, and disappearing in a fog of confusion. Sounds from around me were starting to register now: the chink of glass, paper being crumpled up, and a steady thrum of music somewhere off in the distance.

I groaned loudly, shrugging off the hand that roused me. My cheek rubbed against something hard and unforgiving. That was when I registered the ache in my head that intensified with each tiny movement.

“Oh, he lives,” a sarcastic voice stated from behind me. Without needing to look, I already knew it was Dodger, one of my closest friends and my lieutenant.

I frowned, slowly raising my head, lazily blinking my stinging eyes. I lifted a hand and swatted away a Post-it note that was stuck to my cheek, wincing as I moved because every single one of my muscles was stiff.

“Fuck off, Dodge,” I grunted.

The pungent smell of alcohol was unmistakable. My office slowly came into focus, and I groaned again at the sight before me. It looked like a frat house after a weekend-long party that had gotten out of hand.

Moving caused an unpleasant lump of vomit to rise in my throat. I choked it back down, turning to look at Dodger, squinting because that seemed to marginally dull my self-induced headache. He didn’t look amused as he bent and picked up a half-empty bottle of the good brandy I kept in stock for important clients. Frowning disapprovingly, he screwed the bottle top back on and headed toward the cabinet where I usually kept it.

“This place looks like it’s been ransacked,” he muttered. “And you look like death,” he added, scowling down at the cluttered sideboard before picking the trash can up from the floor and sweeping five or six empty beer bottles into it. The clink and clatter of the bottles caused a searing pain to lance through my head. I pressed the heels of my hands to my temples and closed my eyes, willing myself not to hurl.

I feel like death. “Thanks.”

“What the hell is that?” Dodger’s tone was clipped as he motioned with the neck of one of the bottles toward the desk that I’d made my impromptu bed for the night.

I glanced down, seeing a suspicious white powder dusted over my desk. My tongue felt too big for my mouth as I licked my furry-feeling teeth, wincing at the putrid taste of stale, morning-after alcohol. I shook my head to clear it. Was that a drug-induced fogginess that clung to my vision? Maybe. I couldn’t tell.

I frowned, thinking back to last night. Then it hit me. I’d been fighting. I’d gotten wasted here, then went to the fight club, and Ray’d had to come get me and take me home. But I hadn’t been able to sleep, so I’d taken a cab back here instead, hoping to find more booze. Judging by the bottles littered around, I’d definitely found it.

Dodger sighed deeply and shook his head, silently picking up another bottle, tossing it carelessly into the now-full trash can. Clumsily, I reached out toward the white granules, catching a few on the pad of my finger and popping them into my mouth. The taste caused another retch, but I managed, with extraordinary effort, to hold it back again.

“Salt,” I muttered. “I must have been drinking tequila.” I was more than a little relieved to learn that it wasn’t cocaine. I pushed my rolling chair back and stretched my legs in front of me. My whole body ached.

The tension seemed to leave Dodger’s shoulders at my words. “Good, because the police are coming here today. You know this, Kid.”