Broken Dreams (Fatal Series Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  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

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  ALL BY THE AUTHOR

  KEEP READING

  Broken Dreams

  Callie Anderson

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  ALL BY THE AUTHOR

  KEEP READING

  Copyright © 2017 Callie Anderson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may 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 the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  http://www.okaycreations.com

  Photographer: Franggy Yanez

  http://www.franyanezphoto.com

  Content Editor:

  Argie Sokol

  Jennifer Roberts-Hall, Indie After Hours

  www.indieafterhours.com

  Line Editor: Brenda Letendre, Write Girl Editing Services

  Proofreader: Shawna Gavas, Behind the Writer

  To my brother and sister.

  Thank you for always picking on me!

  Be Fearless & Be Extraordinary

  1

  PAST

  The thunder in the distance startled me out of my slumber, bellowing its loud rumble through my room. I wiped the sleep off my face and dragged myself out of bed. Padding my feet across the worn carpet, I made my way toward the window my mother had left cracked open. The afternoon had been muggy but the night skies held a crisp breeze.

  I glanced up at the cloudless, star-scattered sky. It was beautiful, but it left the noise that woke me a mystery. It never thundered in Prescott. Well, not this time of year, at least.

  My small hands pressed against the glass pane, pushing the window completely open. I stared up at the sky, mesmerized by the full moon and blinking stars. We didn’t get many nights like these, so I soaked it in for a moment only to be startled by the sound of a door slamming. The offending racket pulled my gaze away from the night’s beauty and to the back of the house next door.

  I poked my head out the window to get a better look. Our neighbors had moved in three days ago but I had yet to meet anyone. My eyes followed a shadow from the back door to the edge of the deck. The moonlight illuminated a young man as he sat with his back against the railing, hugging his knees with his head rested on them. It looked as though his shoulders were shaking.

  “That’s it!” a deep voice roared from inside the house. “How many times do I have to fucking remind you!”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and startled when the echo of a slap followed the man’s bellow of rage. Inching over the windowsill, I spotted the man who was yelling in the hallway—a gentleman not much older than my father—berating a woman I assumed was his wife. My heart ached for her as she sobbed.

  When the air went silent, I leaned even further out the window. I should have gone back to bed. I should have closed my windows. But instead, I found myself calling out to the boy on the porch.

  “Psst,” I whispered. The boy stopped shaking and looked back at his house. “Hey,” I said a little louder. “Up here!” He looked up toward my window. “Are you okay?”

  He wiped his hands across his face, and I knew he had been crying. “It's almost over,” he said.

  It took me a few seconds to understand what he meant. His sadness called to me, and I knew I needed to help him.

  “Do you want to come up?” The words slipped out of my mouth. Never had I snuck a boy into my room. My mother would have punished me for the rest of my life. I didn’t have friends; not for lack of trying, but my mother's constant need for perfection drove any kind of social life to the ground.

  He was a potential friend.

  A friend in need at that.

  He rose to his feet and ran over to my house. He jumped up on the deck railing, climbed on the extending roof of the first floor and crawled over to my window. Startled by his climbing skills, I stepped back as he made his way into my room.

  “Hi,” he whispered.

  Unable to form a sentence, I just stood there and stared at him. It was dark but I could make out his dark hair and lanky body. He was taller than me by a few inches but he looked to be around my age.

  “I'm Ethan,” he continued.

  “Leslie,” I whispered as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Ethan scanned my room and I immediately felt self-conscious over all the girly things I had. The pink walls, the long mirrors my mother hung so I could scrutinize my every move as I rehearsed my routine. There were pictures of ballerinas scattered around the room and I had hung butterflies on the wall. I loved my overly girly room, but as he walked around examining everything, it all felt too childish. Too pink.

  “Are you okay?” I asked again, looking back toward his house.

  He sighed and bowed his head. “It's usually not this bad.”

  Crap. Was this something his father did most nights?

  “I'm sorry.” I didn't know what else to say. “Does he do it often?”

  Ethan looked down to the floor and nodded. “Sometimes he drinks even more than usual and passes out before his anger kicks in.” He shrugged and looked up at me. His eyes locked with mine and a shiver ran up my spine. Never had I seen my father intoxicated let alone abuse my mother.

  I didn't know if it was the sadness I saw in his eyes or the fact I was desperate for a real friend, but I felt a need to protect Ethan. I walked over to my bed, grabbed my extra pillow and my throw blanket, and dropped them on the rug. “You can always stay here if you want.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and for
a split second, I saw a glimpse of gratitude in his light eyes. Ethan curled up on the rug and pulled the blanket over him.

  I climbed back to my bed and slid under the covers.

  “Goodnight, Ethan.”

  “Goodnight, Leslie.”

  I didn't know it then, but Ethan would be the first boy I ever loved and the first one to break my heart.

  2

  PRESENT

  My hands grasp the white tray and place it back on the cart as I make my way out of the TSA line. The officer gives me a kind smile as he hands me back my boarding pass and ID.

  “Arizona. Beautiful state. Are you visiting for business or pleasure?”

  “Neither,” I reply as I collect my things.

  “Well, have a nice trip. Merry Christmas.” He waves me off and I’m more than happy to comply. I don't need his joyful holiday greeting. I'm too proud to accept it, really. There hasn’t been anything joyful in my life for a few years now.

  Shoving the papers back inside my purse, I slide my feet into my shoes and continue my walk through LAX. Oblivious to the world around me, I drag my feet toward my gate. Each step feels slower than the last but I know it's all in my head. It's the fear of going back home. The fear of seeing my mother again after so many years without contact. It's the uncertainty of the damage my father might have suffered from his heart attack.

  It was odd to see my mother’s name on the screen when she called. I thought she was calling to wish me a Merry Christmas, but the notion of a joyful greeting was washed away when realization set in. She would never call to wish me anything. Not when I was such a disappointment to her.

  The sea of people move past me, and I push the daunting thoughts out of my head. I promised my mother I would be on the first flight out. I figured no one would be traveling on Christmas Eve, but I was mistaken. The airport is flooded with bodies, everyone eager to reach their destination. Dragging my carry-on behind me, I reach my gate, doubting my decision to return home but knowing I really have no choice. With an hour to spare, I find an empty seat to wait and take out my headphones from my purse. It has been years since I’ve listened to anything classical. It’s funny how everything can change in a split second.

  I changed.

  My taste in music, the life I live. It was never what my parents envisioned for me.

  Most of my life, I was my mother’s daughter.

  A dancer.

  She set a goal for me: Juilliard. They only took the best, and I was to study there, so I was taught to love ballet.

  It didn’t matter what I wanted. I was to eat, sleep, and breathe it.

  It consumed my schedule. I spent twenty hours a week rehearsing, and by the age of twelve my toes were permanently taped together. I spent every season competing until my mother realized it was a waste of time to compete against people who weren’t up to my caliber. It wasn’t beneficial to drive around Arizona competing in local, regional, and national talent competitions.

  My mother’s dreams became my aspirations; I began to believe they were my dreams as well until Ethan moved in next door.

  My ankle throbs at the mere thought of him, and I wiggle my foot, flexing the tight muscle. It’s a dull pain that never goes away. Doctors tell me it’s chronic pain, but I know it’s a reminder of how falling in love destroyed me.

  It has been eight years since the last time I saw him; for all I know he has moved on with his life. I know I have. Or tried my hardest to. I’ve learned to let go of the past and focus on the future. Life is precious; my best friend Emilia taught me that. There is no point in dwelling on the small stuff.

  But Ethan wasn’t small. Oh, God, not at all. He was the “what if ” in my life.

  What if it had worked out between us?

  What if it he had followed me?

  What if I never broke my ankle?

  I told myself what we shared was a lie, a figment of my imagination.

  But what I felt for him was an all-consuming, pure and innocent first love. The kind you never forget. The kind of love you store in a locked box, making sure you throw away the key and then toss into the deepest end of the ocean. It’s a love that haunts you. It’s what you compare everything too.

  I inhale slowly and then let out a cool, calming breath, forcing myself once again to shut out thoughts of Ethan and the life that will never be. Nervously, I lace a tendril of hair around my fingers and twirl it. I sit for forty-three minutes completely lost in my thoughts as I listen to the playlist my mother made for me once upon a time. Her favorite Bach composition comes on and I’m transported to another time.

  My mother.

  I sigh and shake my head. She loves me, that much I know, but it never has been a traditional motherly love. It’s been in her own Darlene way. She didn’t kiss my boo-boos or make me soup when I was sick. No, not Darlene. She made me dance, rain or shine.

  “Be better,” she would say. “Be extraordinary. Prima ballerinas don’t have the luxury of taking days off. Toughen up.” If my toes weren’t bleeding, it meant I wasn’t pushing myself. “Juilliard won’t even consider you if your Allegro isn’t perfect. Again!”

  I wasn’t allowed sick days because regardless of how I felt, I had to dance. I didn't have friends because I didn’t have time for friendships. The girls at my school asked me over for a play date, but I had a regimen. After a while they stopped asking.

  Ballet.

  It was all I was. It was what my mother made me.

  Until Ethan.

  He was the boy who crawled through my window and captured my heart.

  Anger and hatred boils through my veins as the hurt of his betrayal threatens to resurface. I ball my hands into fists and concentrate on the music blaring in my ears, inhaling and exhaling methodically until my heart rate is at a normal level. But I can’t drown out the noise. Ethan and my mother are the only two on my mind.

  I push off my chair and grasp the handle to my carry-on. “Screw it,” I mutter. There’s no way I can face her. Not when the sheer thought of her reminds me of my love for him. I maneuver around the aisle of connected chairs, apologizing as I hurry out of the sea of people waiting for their flight, when I hear the flight attendant make an announcement over the speaker.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We are now boarding Flight 437 to Phoenix, Arizona.”

  My feet stop short. I pull out my boarding pass.

  Your mother can’t control you anymore, and Ethan has moved on, so his father can’t hurt you anymore, either.

  The hour and twenty-minute plane ride from LAX to Phoenix consists of mild anxiety attacks and much-needed booze that costs me a small fortune. The intoxication I worked on vanishes the second our descent from the sky ends and our wheels touch the ground.

  Inhaling all the air my lungs can take, I walk out of the plane with my heart racing in my chest. My feet push against the granite airport floors as I follow behind the eager passengers who make their way to baggage claim. Most passengers are greeted by family and friends and hugs and warm wishes are exchanged, but I don’t bother to look for my mother. Picking someone up at the airport is beneath her.

  I stroll over to the carousel to retrieve my lone bag from the conveyer belt and walk toward the taxi line. Within a short period of time I’m seated in the back of the car service I hired to drive me to Prescott. My head rests on the leather seat when my phone rings inside my purse. Pulling it out, Chloe’s name appears on the display. Sliding my finger across the screen, I answer the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Merry Christmas, lover,” Chloe sings, and even though she tries to hide it I can still hear the East Coast accent. She hates when people ask her where in Long Island she grew up in.

  “Merry indeed,” I joke, my eyes glued to the snowcapped peaks just visible in the distance. Chloe was the first friend I made when I moved to Chicago. We shared a cubicle at work, and hit it off right away. She was my tour guide as I familiarized myself with the city I now call home. She also helped m
e prepare for my first Midwestern winter. Never had I experienced frigid temperatures like that before. I grew up in Arizona. Prescott, to be exact. When it did snow, it was light, and quickly melted when the sun rose on the horizon. I wasn’t prepared for the snow a blizzard could bring.

  “How’s LA? I can’t believe you’re making me go to Rae’s Christmas Eve dinner today without you,” she complains.

  “Actually . . . I’m not in LA anymore.” I shift my neck from side to side in an attempt to crack it. The non-stop traveling is catching up with my body not to mention I still have another hour on the road before I arrive at the hospital. “I’m in Arizona.”

  “Oh, fun! What for?”

  “My father had a heart attack. My mother called me earlier to let me know, and I hopped on the first plane I could get.”

  Chloe gasps. “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry, Les. Is he okay?”

  Closing my eyes, I pray for this to be some kind of a twisted life lesson in which I learn that I need to call my family more often and nothing more. “I don’t know. I’m headed to the hospital now.”

  “Oh, sweetie, keep me posted, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “And if you need anything, please let me know.”

  “Thanks, Chloe. Merry Christmas.”

  I hang up the phone and slide it back into my purse. Glancing over at the rearview mirror, I spot the driver looking at me. His dark brown almond shaped eyes seem apologetic and I find solace in them.

  Even if for a brief second.

  Wheeling my luggage and carry-on behind me, I walk inside Freeman Hospital Center. My heart rate is humming in my ears but I keep my shoulders straight. I stop when I approach the receptionist and smile at her.

  “Hi, I’m here to see my father, Lawrence Sutton.”

  She taps her manicured nails against the keyboard, humming to the Christmas music softly playing in the background. She pulls her gaze away from the screen and looks up at me. “He’s in room 415.” She hands me a visitor’s pass. “The elevators are around the corner. You can leave your luggage here with me if you don’t feel like carrying it around the hospital.”