Love You to Death

  Love You to Death

  by Melissa March

  Published by

  Fire and Ice

  A Young Adult Imprint of Melange Books, LLC

  White Bear Lake, MN 55110

  www.fireandiceya.com

  Love You to Death, Copyright 2014 Melissa March

  ISBN: 978-1-61235-842-0

  Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Cover Design by Caroline Andrus

  For my Mom, Joanne Hayward, because you always believed in me.

  Table of Contents

  "Love You to Death"

  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

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Previews

  LOVE YOU TO DEATH

  by Melissa March

  Seventeen year-old Arden Elliot is alone, barely surviving life on the streets. All she wants is a place to call home, somewhere she can be safe.

  After meeting Det. Cass Bateman, surviving is exactly what she will need to do. He dominates her world, steals her spirit and breaks her body. All in the name of love. She knows if she stays, one day he will love her to death.

  On the run she meets Gideon, a Kentucky cowboy. She tries to resist the power of her heart, knowing she doesn't have the luxury of falling in love, but just when she thinks her life is finally secure, her past comes calling. Now she will have to decide whether to confess everything to her new family or leave them safely behind to run again.

  To my family—real, writing, and publishing. I love you all.

  Prologue

  Present day...

  I covered my mouth with both hands to silence the sound of my breathing. My lungs were burning. I cowered behind a mountain of stacked hay bales. Where was Gideon?

  God, I prayed, please let him be all right.

  I shifted to the left—carefully, so I wouldn’t make any noise—and peeked around the side. The barn door was still closed. My labored breaths had calmed a little, enough that they weren’t echoing in my ears. The rusty hinges on the barn door squeaked. I froze. Instant tears of pure terror ran down my cheeks. The door slapped shut, a muted clap of wood on wood.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are...” he sang.

  Chills raced up and down my spine. He sounded as sick as he really was. I curled into myself, trying to become small enough to disappear. His shoes made a scraping noise on the concrete floor. I could hear him checking the stalls as he walked. One of the horses snorted their disapproval, probably Lola.

  I calculated his position: still closer to the door than to me.

  “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he called out. His raspy smoker’s voice carried across the barn.

  I knew he was lying. I knew he didn’t mean it. As soon as I surrendered I was a goner. Not dead, but I’d wish I was.

  There was a twelve gauge hidden in the feed barn, if I could get to it.

  “I always hated hide and seek,” he said. “I’m too good at seeking. It’s too easy for me.” He wasn’t lying. His detecting skills were as good as a bloodhound.

  I could tell he was much closer than before. I almost whimpered, mashing my lips together to keep silent. I thought of Gideon, my sweet Gideon and his beautiful smile and those big brown eyes that were always filled with such love and tenderness. If I concentrated hard enough I could feel his strong arms around me. I could almost smell the peppermint of his breath as I thought of him whispering in my ear, “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m losing my patience,” he snapped then added sweetly, “come on sweetheart, come out where I can see you. I just wanna talk.”

  Yeah, right. Talking was usually punctuated with slaps and punches.

  He was to my right. If he kept coming around that way, I might have a shot at making it to the door. I inched my way around the piles of hay—slowly, so I wouldn’t make any noise.

  “What do I spy with my little eye?”

  He was behind me. The hay still separated us, so I knew he couldn’t see me. Who did he see?

  “Ah!” He cried out. I heard hissing and then his cursing. “Stupid cat! Get it off!”

  Good girl, Esmerelda! Finally, the cat was good for something. I hoped she scratched his eyes out.

  I took the opportunity and ran full out for the door.

  Chapter One

  Two years earlier...

  I think the worst part of eating out of a dumpster isn’t the food you find, but the smell that accompanies everything else around it. I plucked the half-eaten cheeseburger from a discarded take out bag while holding my breath. I’d followed the girl wearing a consignment shop Badgley Mischka pantsuit and scuffed Jimmy Choo’s for two blocks. I knew the minute her anorexic butt went into the Five Guys she wouldn’t finish whatever she bought. My guess was she’d eat half of it and puke it up later. Some people are so predictable.

  The burger was still warm, an added treat for me. I hoovered it in in less than thirty seconds. It hit my stomach like a brick. I was so empty my tummy barely registered the intake. Too bad she hadn’t bought fries with it.

  I was so tired of living like this. I missed my mom’s cooking. She made the best meatloaf and garlic mashed potatoes. Every Sunday we tried a new recipe from one of the magazines she’d bring home from the dentist’s office she worked at.

  “Take that, Martha.” We’d laugh, proud of ourselves for mastering the recipe.

  My belly rumbled, signaling it was ready for more.

  “Sorry pal, Cherry’s fresh out of everything.” I rubbed a hand over its concave shape. Cherry was my street name. My real name is Arden. But that name belonged to another girl, in another life.

  I was tired of walking. I turned the corner and headed for a little café with outdoor dining. It was late afternoon so the lunch crowd had come and gone, but there were a few stragglers seated on the wrought iron chairs. I spotted an empty table in the corner, under the protection of an awning. Perfect.

  A couple, sharing an order of some sort of vegetable platter, eyed me suspiciously. I was used to it. I’d been living on the streets for almost six months now, and I looked like it. Shelters were dangerous places for seventeen year-old girls. My favorite shelter was The Holy Spirit Mission on South Charles Street. It was the cleanest Baltimore City, Maryland had to offer. I mostly went in during the day, so I could sleep while the worst of the pervs were out mingling with society. Miss Vinnie, one of the counselors, let me take a shower and get a fresh change of clothe
s whenever she was there. That was usually every Tuesday and Thursday. But she hadn’t been there this past Thursday, so I was pretty ripe.

  An August heat wave had taken over the city. It was physically exhausting just breathing. I knew I couldn’t sit here forever, but I was so hot and practically dead on my feet that I figured I’d wait until someone kicked me out instead of being polite and moving on.

  Please, thank you, excuse me, ma’am, sir... I knew the right words and how to behave. I had good manners, my mom made sure of that. I just didn’t feel like using them at the moment.

  I saw a man pop his head out the entrance of the café. He looked my way. I knew this was my queue to get steppin,’ but I stayed. Being hungry, dirty, and tired was a combo no one should try. And I was feeling a little blue, missing my mom. I decided to be difficult. The café man strode over to me, his bald head shiny with fresh beads of sweat.

  “How ya doin’?” he said, trying for casual. “I’m going to need to ask you to order something or move along.”

  I gave him a look of pure adolescent condescension, flipping my long, greasy black hair over my shoulder for extra measure. I could practically smell the fear rolling off of him. They never wanted a scene. Well, I never wanted to be living as a homeless orphan in the land of good and plenty. Deal with it.

  “Look,” he said, fidgeting with his apron, “I don’t wanna be a jerk. If it were up to me I’d let ya stay all day. But I got a boss who’s really uptight. He says you have’ta go.” His bug eyes pleaded with me to go quietly.

  I’m a big softy, what can I say? But I made a production out of leaving. I stood up, moving slowly with great exaggeration. He sighed, relieved I was cooperating.

  “Look, if ya go around into the alley I can give ya something to eat,” he glanced furtively from side to side. “Just keep quiet, ‘kay?”

  Suddenly this guy was my best friend. Provided he didn’t want something in return for his generosity. I looked at him, sizing him up. He looked like the decent sort, but these days you never could tell. I nodded. He smiled. I moseyed my way into the alley. I waited ten minutes before the door opened, and a hand holding a white paper bag was thrust at me.

  “I got a sister just about your age, kid,” Baldy said. “Do yourself a favor, go home. Get off the streets before you get hurt... or worse.”

  This man’s random act of kindness almost made me break my vow of no crying, ever. I grabbed the bag and took off out of the alley before he could bring me to actual tears. “Go home,” he’d told me. If you only knew, mister, just how much I wish I could.

  * * * *

  Day-old cannoli never tasted so good. I devoured two of them and licked the remnants of cream from my fingers. Baldy packed a sandwich too, egg salad, not my first choice, but beggars can’t be choosy.

  I was walking while I ate. People like me didn’t do well when we tried to be stationary. I walked day and night, anywhere and everywhere. Most teenage girls spent countless minutes, hours, and days calculating calories, agonizing over the size of their hips. I didn’t have that problem. I was lucky if I ate three squares a week, and with all the walking I did, I never gained weight. I needed to. The jeans I’d left home in were now two sizes too big. I cinched them with a belt I found behind a Walmart.

  Baltimore was like any other city in the world. It had its clean sections and its slum sections. I walked a couple of blocks looking for a decent place to hide out while my food digested. I ducked into an alley that looked promising, meaning it didn’t smell. I preferred the business districts because there was less gang activity there during the day. I found a wide stoop, curled myself into a ball, and using my backpack for a pillow, I dozed. I never, ever allowed myself the luxury of a deep, senseless sleep. I could wake up dead, or worse.

  When I first heard the moaning, I thought it was just a stray cat. It didn’t sound human. But then I heard the muted thump of something hitting a soft surface. Like a boot in the stomach. It was followed by a louder Oomph and more moaning. Someone was getting a beat down. I’d heard it happening before. Time to scram.

  I eased out of my huddle, slung my pack over my shoulder, and made my way toward the street. That’s when I spotted another frayed backpack leaning against the dirty wall. A street kid never left their pack. It contained their whole life. A child’s plastic Batman mask, complete with the pointy ears, was sticking out of the unzipped top. That was Stewie’s bag. I cursed under my breath.

  Living on the street you had to learn fast to divest yourself of a conscience. It was always best to mind your own business. Never get involved. Stay away to stay alive. But Stewie was different. He was special. Not the special as in child prodigy, but special as in he was a twenty-two- year-old beefy boy of six feet, with the mind of a nine year old.

  His parents had abandoned him when he was little, leaving his grandpa to raise him. Gramps kicked the bucket last year, and the landlord gave Stewie the boot. Now he was just another statistic.

  I cursed my bad luck again and turned around. I couldn’t let Stewie get mugged. I had no idea what the heck my scrawny butt was going to be able to do, but I had to try something. Looking around the trash-filled alley, there wasn’t much to choose from. I found a broken down skid and grabbed a splintered piece of wood.

  I sprinted down to the end where the alley branched off to the right. I paused at the corner and listened.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to come back here, retard?” a man’s voice asked.

  Stewie was crying. I could hear his plaintive little whimpers. He made these weird, high-pitched whiny sounds when he was scared.

  “When I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it,” the man continued, “stupid tard... Get up.” There was a scuffing noise and a groan from Stewie.

  “Now listen to me very carefully. I want you to get your mentally incompetent butt back up over to Greene Street, and do what I told you to do. If I see you around here again I’m gonna stick my foot so far up your butt you’ll be able to taste the shoe leather. Got it?”

  Stewie must’ve nodded because I heard the voice say, “Good boy.”

  Against my better judgment, I peeked around the corner. The man behind the voice was an inch or two shorter than Stewie, and about thirty pounds lighter.

  I really didn’t like bullies. I didn’t care if they were big or small, fat or thin. I didn’t discriminate. I hated them all.

  This bully, however, had the face of an angel. Chiseled features with the prettiest powder blue eyes I’d ever seen. His collar length blond hair was styled in a sexy bed head way that was currently popular. He was a regular Brad Pitt.

  Since it looked like everything was okay and Stewie wasn’t hurt too bad, I decided to leave it alone and meet up with Stewie later to get to the bottom of this.

  But it was at this particular moment that Stewie nervously looked up, and caught my eye, before I was able to retract my head back into the shadows.

  “Cherry!” he called. His excitement over seeing me spurred him into motion. He scampered, dragging his feet, in my direction. “Cherry, how come you’re hidin’?”

  Great, that’s what I get for stickin’ my nose where it didn’t belong. I stepped away from the wall, but not any closer into the mouth of the dead end. Stewie towered over me, a fresh cut above his left brow. Anger boiled in my chest.

  “Stewie, go get your bag,” I smiled at him.

  “Cherry, don’t be mad, okay?” He rocked back and forth on his heels.

  “I’m not mad at you. Just go get your bag. I’ll meet you up the street, okay?”

  He gave me a toothy grin and hurried to do as he was told. I never took my eyes off the bully. I knew the exact minute he decided to charm me. He was like all the other men. They only saw what was on the outside. They never bothered to open the package to see what was inside.

  We stood there, sizing each other up. Finally he spoke.

  “Hello,” he said, giving me what I assumed was his brightest smile.

 
“Stay away from him,” I said. The steady tone of my voice was ice cold, but my insides were vibrating like a tuning fork over the ocean.

  He leaned back on his right leg, shoved his hands in his pants pockets, and pursed his pouty lips. His cool blue eyes inspected me slowly head to toe before settling on my face.

  “Cherry, is it?” He smiled confidently. I didn’t answer him. I tightened my grip on the piece of wood, and waited. The thought of running bounced around in my head. I considered my weakened state, comparing it to this man’s athletic body. He watched me, chuckling softly.

  “Yeah, you could make a run for it,” he said, reading my mind. “But you’ve pricked my curiosity, and I’m a little quicker than you think.” He cocked his head, telling me this as if he was letting me in on a secret.

  I licked my lips, a nervous tic of mine. I watched his eyes flare, and for a split second I saw the familiar burn of desire.

  “Is Cherry your real name or your street name?” he asked, taking a step closer. I stepped back, raising the hunk of wood in front of me. He stopped, eyed the wood, and withdrew his hands from his pockets, holding them up in front of him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “I’m leaving, and I’m taking Stewie with me. Got that, you mentally incompetent jerk?” His eyes flickered with something altogether different. I knew I shouldn’t stir the pot, but I was still pretty pissed about Stewie.

  “You’re kinda spunky. I like that.” He nodded for emphasis. “I’m going to give you a free piece of advice,” he paused, letting me wait for the warning. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I murmured acidly. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly at the dig. I thought he was going to tear into me, but he surprised me by shaking his head and chuckling.