Recovering, p.1
Recovering, page 1
part #3.50 of Girl With Broken Wings Series
Recovering
A Gabe Fox Novella
Girl with Broken Wings, 3.5
J Bennett
Copyright © 2014 by J Bennett
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-0-9910566-8-2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content
A Note To The Reader
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for your interest in Recovering, a novella written from the point of view of Gabe Fox. After I completed RISING, book three in the GIRL WITH BROKEN WINGS series, I realized something was missing.
Not enough Gabe (or cowbell).
Gabe’s personality was just too big, too important to be silenced for so long. As I wrote RISING, a second story started forming in the back of my mind. Gabe’s story. This story. RECOVERING takes place after LANDING, book two in the GIRL WITH BROKEN WINGS series, and the events in the novella run parallel to the first half of RISING.
While you can read this novella directly after LANDING, I strongly suggest that you read RISING first to get a greater sense of the events that motivated Gabe to act. If this is your first selection in the GIRL WITH BROKEN WINGS series, I encourage you to start from the beginning with FALLING (FREE on Amazon) before reading this. Gabe’s situation and mindset are directly related to events that have occurred in the previous books in the series.
One last little note. Gabe is a passionate person. He likes to cuss, and he likes to tell you exactly what he thinks about…pretty much everything. The previous books in this series have included strong language, but Gabe’s novella pushes the line a little further. I considered cleaning him up…but I couldn’t. Gabe is Gabe, and that’s exactly why I love him. I hope you do too!
Enjoy,
J Bennett
Chapter 1
One pushup. Just one fucking pushup.
I get down into position. Even this is hard. Everything is hard now. Every last thing. I plant my hands wide, center my body between my palms and toes and lower myself down.
Sweat beads across my brow. Keira Knightley gives me a broody stare. My muscles tremble, and I pant like a dog in heat.
There was a time not too long ago when I could do fifty pushups without stopping. Easy peasy. When I could deadlift 325 and spar with Tarren for an hour without breaking a sweat. Okay, maybe a little sweat, but I could duck and dodge like Quicksilver and even take Tarren’s hits when I had to.
And now? A gust of wind could blow me over.
My elbows bend to 90 degrees, and my stomach brushes the floor. Halfway there. Now I just have to push up. How hard can it be? I only just broke 100 pounds on the scale last week.
I try. I really fucking try. I push and use all the good curses I know. Then the not so good ones. I even cuss out farm animals though I gave that trick away to Maya. But I’m not going anywhere. My arms collapse, and I’m a puddle of pathetic, wheezing on the floor of the basement, trying to stop my vision from spinning. Aches wake up in just about every joint in my body.
And Kiera’s still watching. Judging.
Her sultry eyes bring me to my knees. I can’t stand that stare, the complete disaster she’s looking at. I turn the cardboard figure to the wall. The anger bubbles up, and I kick the big rubber ball we keep down here with the other exercise equipment, sending it skidding into the wall.
Strip clubs. Maya and Tarren are actually going undercover in skank-tastic strip clubs right now! How many times have I gotten on my knees and prayed to God for a mission that actually legit required us to visit dozens of strip clubs and perhaps rescue some extra jiggly damsels in distress? Okay, maybe not on my knees, but that prayer was always in my heart. And here it is, titties served up on a platter, and Tarren’s the one getting all the exposure. And the big dolt won’t enjoy a second of it. I guarantee you.
I drag my ass to the brown, patched couch we have down here and sink into its lumpy cushions. Tammy fell in love with this dumpster treasure the moment she saw it hanging on some curb in La Junta. When Mom refused to pick it up, Tammy dragged me out with her that night to load it in my truck and sneak it in the house. An hour’s drive each way for a couch so ugly the Pawn Star guys would probably pay me a $1,000 to keep it. That was Tammy, all heart and stubbornness and a dash of crazy.
I lean back on the couch and do that thing I really, really hate doing.
I think about what happened.
Drained. In a single word, that’s the gist of it. Touched by an angel in a very bad way.
My energy was literally pulled out of my body by a sicko fuck named Grand. Five years ago that bastard killed Tammy. Maya and Tarren won’t tell me shit about what happened when he drained me three months ago back in October, but I know it was close.
My memory of that month is Swiss cheese. Ghostly images flicker in my mind – a big circus tent, a breath mint tangled in my hair, mopping a floor – but they tell only pieces of a story that leads to a big, black empty hole. Somewhere in that hole Grand kidnapped Tarren. Maya and I went after him. He drained me. He died.
I wish I could remember. I wish I could have looked into Grand’s eyes and watched the light fade. Maybe it would help me be at peace with Tammy. Probably not, though.
Dr. Lee says this whole memory gap thing is normal with traumatic incidents. Something about how memories take time to settle and become permanent. If something interrupts that process, like, say, a skull fracture and then a five-day coma on top of it, the memories just evaporate.
Poof. Gone. Just me waking up with a feeding tube down my throat and a horrifying skeletal body tucked under the covers. Apparently my body tried to compensate for the energy drain by feeding on itself like it was Shark Week. It’s not like I was all muscular and brawny like Tarren in the first place. He can swing a 5-pound kettlebell once and come away with bulging biceps and a six pack. Me, I had to work for what little I had, and now…yeah, now even a cardboard cutout is laughing at me.
Even though Maya and Tarren won’t tell me what happened the night I got drained, I have a pretty good idea of what went down. I see the way Maya looks at me. The guilt. I must have screwed up. Big time. Grand took Tarren, and I probably went bat shit all over the place. I can see myself storming in, guns blazing, and got drained on the spot. Maya saved me. Saved Tarren. Still won’t tell me how she went all Wonder Woman and killed the most powerful, most evil, biggest boss villain in the world. If I flamed out the way I suspect, she probably thinks she’s doing me the mother of all favors by not pulling the curtain up on my epic fail.
Okay, this pity party is officially over. I’m taking the stairs by storm.
By storm, I mean one at a time. Each foot comes down with purpose and up I go. I don’t stop until I reach the top and then I pause for a couple of seconds to breathe.
“Tomorrow,” I say to myself. “Tomorrow I will do a pushup.”
Tomorrow Keira will be proud of me. Until then, I need to chill.
The house is too big, too empty without Tarren and Maya. Filled with too many ghosts. Every slow second is a reminder that I’ve been left behind. Too much of a burden to go on the mission, though I was the one who discovered the trail of dead strippers, like hot, murdered breadcrumbs scattered across the country. Lot of thanks I got for it too. Just Maya’s constant harping over calories and hydration. She means well. I know this, but it would almost be better if she completely ignored me like Tarren does. I’d rather be treated like a leper than like a 5-year-old with a high temperature.
I hear a knock on the front door, and for a full two seconds I fritz out like a 1990’s PC trying to load the latest WOW expansion pack. No one comes to our house. Ever. Not even the mail guy. I have everything routed to a P.O. box.
Angels.
After that epic pause I scramble for a gun. Mom taught us to stay armed at all times, even in the house, especially in the house. If they ever found us the attack would come quickly, and we’d need to react immediately. When Tarren is here, I’m usually good about Mom’s rules, which are now his rules.
But Tarren hasn’t been around, and the only thing I’m currently packing is crumbs from the Doritos I had for breakfast. Or was that lunch? I know I had one of my Beretta PX4s in the waistband of my jeans at one point, but that was, how long ago? Hell, I don’t even know what day it is. They all run together like someone put on a record called “Gabe does nothing while Maya and Tarren go to strip clubs” and left it on constant repeat.
I spin around in a little circle in the kitchen hoping to spot a gun on the counter or the table. Whew, I think every single plate and cup we own is fermenting in the sink. Should probably clean those if the angels don’t bust through the windows and pop my head off like a Ken doll.
Then it hits me. Angels wouldn’t knock.
Unless they were really, really stupid angels…or it was some kind of diversion. One guy knocks at the front, and the rest swarm the back. Now I’m kind of curious. I still don’t have a gun, but I make my way to the front door anyway. I bet they take one look at me and think they have the wrong house. If they expect a mean, lean, angel-killing vigilante, they are in for a big helping of disappointment.
I have my hand on the knob when the knock repeats.
Soft knock. Small hands.
On the other end stands an angel, but not the genetically mutated freaks that I kill. Francesca is the real kind of angel, the kind that God spent a little extra time on. That face. Those big brown eyes and sensual mouth. A river of black hair runs down her back. I’d drown in that river if she’d let me. Oh God, I’ve lavished hours imaging those eyes full of lust and love, those lips pursed waiting to lock onto mine.
I could make you laugh, Francesca, I think stupidly. You’d never stop.
Her eyes are filled with kindness and warmth…and pity. I imagine her giving that same gentle look to a kid with brain cancer or a poodle with one of those cones around its head that keeps it from licking its stiches.
I almost say, “Bongiorno,” but catch my tongue. Instead, I lean against the door and stare at her. Beautiful. In the back of my head, I try to remember the last time I took a shower.
“Bongiorno,” Francesca says. Her mouth turns up into a hesitant smile.
My heart actually hurts. When I got drained, Maya and Tarren took my mostly-dead carcass to Dr. Lee’s cabin, two miles away from our house. It was an understandable decision. My dad saved Dr. Lee from the angels way back, so he knows the whole story and was probably the only person on the planet capable of saving my life. Fact is, he’d been preparing for this sort of thing for a long time and was prepped and ready to drag my ass from the gates of Hell.
That would have been fine. Dr. Lee is like my second father. He’s set my bones, brought down my fevers, and stitched up that one minor gunshot wound. But Francesca is Dr. Lee’s housekeeper, and she’s going to nursing school on top of that. When they brought me in, Dr. Lee wasn’t the only who treated me…the only one who…God, it still makes me want to throw up.
I realize I haven’t said anything.
“Yeah?”
The hesitant smile disappears. “I just wanted to see how…”
“I’m fine.”
I want this to be over. I want to stop thinking about Francesca sponge bathing my sunken chest and limp dick while I was in the coma the way she would any other drooling vegetable. More than anything, I want those warm, platonically caring eyes to just go away.
“Your hair is shorter,” she says, her Italian accent turning even common words into something special, sexy. Those lips.
“I cut it.” My hand does a quick tour of my bristled scalp. Dr. Lee shaved me quite the bald spot when he put in the staples for the skull fracture. I figured I would look at least marginally less pathetic if I buzzed the rest of my hair off to keep it even. It hasn’t really grown back much.
“Have you been…,” Francesca starts.
“I’m fine,” I say again. I sound angry. I am angry. Not at her, but it comes off that way, and I don’t take it back. Let me be the asshole if she will just take that hesitant smile back home with her.
I love you. Go away. Please go away
“Tarren and Maya are…gone?”
I almost say, “Strip club,” but manage to cough out, “Business.”
I’m still leaning in the doorway, blocking it actually. God, I have all these stupid visions of us married. Not even the wedding or the honeymoon. Just the two of us in our own little cabin in the woods sitting on a porch swing together. She’ll be lying on her back, her head in my lap, and I’ll lean down knowing those lips are mine. My heart feels like it’s going to explode right here. Not so nice after all the work Francesca did to keep me alive.
Francesca’s talking. Reminding me about protein shakes and resting whenever I’m tired, and all the crap that Maya won’t let up about on the few occasions she’s been around. My face must tell Francesca how much I am absolutely hating this, because her words sputter to a stop.
“Thanks, I’ll remember that,” I say in a flat tone.
“Gabe,” she says, “I just want…
“To help. I know. We’ll you’ve helped. I’m still breathing.”
Francesca is uncertain. I could close the door right now and make it epically clear, but I won’t do that. Not even now when I’d probably saw off my own foot if it would get her to stop looking at me with so much pity.
“Okay,” Francesca sighs.
Something stirs below, and honestly it’s a relief. Not a lot of activity down there recently. I’d begun to wonder if not all of me woke up from the coma.
“Bye,” I choke out and close the door.
Francesca doesn’t say anything, just bows her head a little as the door swings. When it closes, I just go down, sliding to the floor. She’s out there, mere inches of wooden door away. And yet I couldn’t find the love I want in her eyes if I hijacked the Starship Enterprise and went through a thousand wormholes.
It’s better this way. She’s safer. That’s what matters.
Damn, I need to get high. Like right now. And I need to shoot at something.
Chapter 2
“You think you can take me?” I squint at the soup cans that hang from the branches in the woods behind our house. Each wears a little hat of snow. Today I picture them as seedy western outlaws sporting crusty cowboy hats and grinning at me with mouths full of rotting teeth.
I grip my Beretta, which I found buried in the couch cushions in the living room. The outlaw leader guffaws, underestimating me. A lethal mistake as many other soup cans have discovered.
“You ain’t got the guts!” he sneers. “I thinks yer yellah.” His posse laughs with him.
“That the best insult you got?” I reply and take a long drag of the blunt in my left hand. I hold in the smoke, hoping it will soak in and help douse the ache in my ribs. Dr. Lee says I fractured two and cracked one, all on the right side. Nothing to be done about them except keep them taped up and let time do its work. After three months I’m thinking time called into the office with a big sayonara and went to live on a commune in Minnesota.
When my lungs begin to burn, I exhale and shoot. Each recoil slams up my arm, throwing the shots wild and echoing in my tender ribs. I empty the clip. The last bullet nicks the can, and it swings drunkenly on its string.
Only a flesh wound. The outlaw shakes his head is disappointment.
“Fuck me,” I mutter. Give me a pink dress and call me Sally. Time was, I could put a bullet through every can out here. From the deepest fiber of my soul, I knew how to shoot, how to absorb the recoil, how to get that bullet where it needed to go.
The ache in my arms and shoulders is like a heartbeat. More ammo. I need more ammo, more practice, and I should probably dredge up some earplugs. I turn around and see Maya leaning against the back door.
Of bloody course she came home just in time to see my little display of complete ineptitude. And she’s looking at me with that face again, her big blue-gray eyes all sad and feely.
“Hey,” I mutter as I exhale another lungful.
“Hey,” she says back.
I don’t know why, but it always surprises me how small my sister is. As she stands up proper, she can’t be taller than 5’3 or weigh a drop over 120. But that Munchkinitis doesn’t mean she’s not an ass kicker of epic proportions. Girl could probably put her fist through a car door and then pick it up and throw it at you.
Just a few of the bennies of getting infected and turned into a hybrid angel.
Fate gave Maya a pretty shit deal on that front. Up until six months ago she was a normal human college student, posting weird Facebook updates that were part philosophy, part sarcasm, going to class, and not partying nearly enough. She had a boyfriend. She had a life. And because I was too slow, she lost it all, even her humanity. I think if I did a good deed every single hour of every single day for the rest of my pathetic life, I still wouldn’t be able to make up for that epic fail. For letting down the only sister I have left.
Maya’s abilities are damn cool, but they didn’t exactly come free of charge. I can’t help but glance at her gloved hands. The hunger is something she has to constantly control, and the energy sucking thing…I hate thinking about that. Thank the Lord that she’s not a full angel. Otherwise I’m not sure if we would be able to help her keep the hunger under control.
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