Heaven and Hell
Kristen Ashley
Published by Kristen Ashley at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Kristen Ashley
Discover other titles by Kristen Ashley:
Rock Chick Series:
Rock Chick
Rock Chick Rescue
Rock Chick Redemption
Rock Chick Renegade
Rock Chick Revenge
Rock Chick Reckoning
Rock Chick Regret
The ‘Burg Series:
For You
At Peace
Golden Trail
The Colorado Mountain Series:
The Gamble
Sweet Dreams
Lady Luck
Dream Man Series:
Mystery Man
Wild Man
The Fantasyland Series:
Wildest Dreams
The Golden Dynasty
Fantastical
Other Titles by Kristen Ashley:
Fairytale Come Alive
Lacybourne Manor
Mathilda, SuperWitch
Penmort Castle
Sommersgate House
Three Wishes
www.kristenashley.net
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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*****
Dedication
Once upon a time, I was a girl from a small town in Indiana who had big dreams of everything. Then, at university at Purdue, I met Kelly Brown who by that time had lived on four continents.
Then she introduced me to her parents, Pam and Neil.
They were chic, they were cosmopolitan, they were cultured, they were well-traveled, they were unbelievably bright and they were extraordinarily generous.
And they opened my world.
So I dedicate this book to Pam, Neil and their daughter, my darling Kelly.
Thank you for sharing the world with me.
A Note to My Loyal Readers
In previous works, I appreciate that you’ve put up with a variety of editing errors, whether you’ve done it patiently or impatiently. I hope I’ve settled my “past” issues (to my girl Kate Dobson, thank you for pointing that out).
With Heaven and Hell, settling this was done with the help of Chastity Jenkins, who proofread this book for me. In the middle, she got pneumonia. I hope you can’t get that electronically. Thanks, Chas, for having my back.
And again, many thanks to my Facebook members who keep stepping in to help when I get stuck. This time, I have Gitte Doherty to thank simply for having a kickass name I could steal. And Jeanice Monson gave Kia her Cherokee but I had so many ideas for vehicles thrown my way from members, it was a tough call. Sam chose the Cherokee.
Sam gives you a big, ole kiss, Jeanice.
*****
Prologue
Hell
The television was on and I heard him. Like his voice was a magnet, even though I wanted to avoid that room, would do anything to avoid it unless ordered otherwise, my body floated from the kitchen to the living room.
Cooter was in his easy chair watching it and, automatically, my body stopped nowhere near his chair.
And my eyes were riveted to the television screen, watching the gorgeous man with his white smile and intelligent eyes talking to the sports commentators.
They were probably talking about football, something I had absolutely no interest in whatsoever. But I knew a lot about it. This was because Cooter lived and breathed football during football season. He was quarterback at our high school, popular, hot, God, I’d wanted him. So young, so fit, so talented, so cool, so beautiful.
And, dream of dreams, when I was a junior and he was a senior, he’d picked me.
I was in heaven.
Three years later, that heaven turned to hell.
I heard a yapping but ignored it. This was Cooter’s dog, Memphis saying hello to me.
When Cooter got Memphis everyone in town was shocked. Cooter was definitely a pit bull or Rottweiler type of guy and not because both those types of dogs were really cute but for other reasons. So when he came home with a brown and white King Charles spaniel; I was stunned. When he proceeded to dote on that dog like it was his child, I was freaked. I didn’t think Cooter had an ounce of affection in him available to give to anyone, no human and certainly no dog.
But there you go. He did. He adored Memphis. Completely.
He’d named her Memphis with the declaration, “Fuck the redcoats,” like the English were still our enemies and him naming a spaniel after an American city would offend them in some way that would cause nationwide distress.
Then again, Cooter had a full supply of animosity for a lot of people, places and things and he kept it stocked up.
Not to mention, Cooter was the quarterback of a winning team in a small town that lived football and therefore he hadn’t had to worry too much about books and, not knowing this then, but definitely knowing it now, he was scary lazy so if he didn’t have to do it, he didn’t.
So he didn’t. I wasn’t certain he cracked open a book throughout high school. But I was certain he didn’t do it in his very short tenure in college.
Therefore, Cooter was not the brightest bulb in the box.
“And there he is, folks, Sampson Cooper, thanks for stoppin’ in, Coop,” the commentator said and I watched Sampson Cooper smile.
My heart fluttered.
Sampson Cooper. Very tall. Very dark. Very beautiful.
I adored him. When Cooter was out of the house, I internet stalked him. I knew everything about him.
Everything.
Well, everything you could learn on the internet.
I knew his stats when he played college ball. I knew his stats when he played pro ball. I knew the exact day he requested to be released from his contract playing for the Indianapolis Colts so he could join the Army. I knew he did this in memory of his brother, who had died in Iraq and he’d died a hero. I knew this upset Sampson Cooper greatly. I knew, not long after he joined the Army, he’d disappeared “off the grid” for four years. I also knew when he came back. And lastly I, and everyone probably in the world, knew what he did when he was “off the grid” considering a tell-all (but anonymous) book was written about it and a big investigation was launched when it was. Therefore, I knew what he did was dangerous in a way people like me couldn’t comprehend the level of danger. I knew it was also heroic. And lastly I knew that he tried to keep a low profile but when he found this impossible, he’d come out into the limelight and stayed there but I guessed he did this because, at least, if it was his choice, he had some slim chance of controlling it.
“Anytime, Frank,” Sampson Cooper replied, his voice deep and weirdly rough, not rough like sandpaper, rough like velvet.
My stomach melted.
“Babe!” Cooter snapped, I jumped and my eyes shot to him.
Oh no.
He was getting out of his chair and now, ten years later, he was no longer fit (in fact, he had a serious beer belly which was only partly due to his copious consumption of beer, the other part was food and the last part was being seriously lazy). I’d discovered he was not talented at all. He was definitely not cool. And he was anything but beautiful.
At the look on his face, my mind became consumed with what my next move would be. I knew one thing; I had a fifty-fifty shot at success. I could take a step back and piss
him off more (for whatever reason he was pissed off) which would make it worse but conversely it could serve as a deterrent, snapping him out of whatever mood had hold of him, or I could stand my ground which also led to both options.
Like often happened, I chose wrongly and my choice was to take a step back.
He advanced quickly and no matter how much of a beer belly he had, my husband could move.
I didn’t have a prayer to avoid it, I’d learned that but, still, I tried.
As usual, I wasn’t fast enough.
He got close and backhanded me hard. With some experience, it was at the upper end of the scale of how hard he could hit me. I knew this because it hurt like a bitch and also because I flew to the side and landed hard on a hand and hip, I lost focus on the pain in my cheek when the pain radiating up my arm from my wrist took precedence.
Then he kicked me in the back. I bit back my cry at this new pain focus and thanked God he was only wearing a sock. When he kicked me, he did it no matter what footwear he was wearing and since his job meant he had to wear steel-toed boots, I’d learned a sock was far, far better.
“I said,” he snarled and I sucked in breath and stared at the carpet, “get me a fuckin’ beer.”
A beer.
I’d been watching Sampson Cooper, mesmerized by a beautiful man, a good man, a strong man, a loyal man, a loving man and I’d missed my husband, who was none of those things, asking for a beer.
And he hit and kicked me because I hadn’t jumped at his command.
God, God, I hated my fucking husband.
I stayed prone and kept my eyes from him. Again, it was a crapshoot how he would react to this.
Luckily, his presence retreated.
When it did, the beautiful Sampson Cooper was the last thing on my mind.
Getting my husband a beer was the only thing on it.
So I carefully but swiftly pulled myself to my feet and got Cooter a beer.
* * * * *
Two months, three days, four hours and thirteen minutes later…
The doorbell rang.
Memphis yapped at it.
I moved toward it.
Then Memphis yapped at my heels.
I sighed.
I loved dogs. I loved all animals, actually. Save snakes, they freaked me out. And lizards, they freaked me out too. And I wasn’t really big on rodents of any kind. No, that wasn’t true, hamsters were kind of cute.
But I could not pull up any affection for a dog Cooter loved. It wasn’t that she wasn’t cute, cuddly and sweet, even to me.
It was just that, anytime Memphis showed me any affection, it pissed Cooter off.
So I guessed that was it.
I did what I could not to piss Cooter off, including holding myself distant from our dog, even when he was not around.
Memphis, of course, had no idea what her being sweet to me meant. Memphis only knew Cooter’s devotion and did not get why she didn’t get the same from me. I had to give it to the dog, she never gave up. No matter how much I ignored her, she just got cuter, cuddlier and sweeter.
I admired her for that.
I’d given up years ago.
I looked through the peephole and blinked.
Then my heart started racing.
Then, in the expanse of about three seconds, my mind flew in a million different directions finally settling on one.
It was after six o’clock.
Cooter was usually home by five fifteen.
That said, if he wanted to have a beer with the guys or whatever he did, when he didn’t come home, he did it and didn’t bother to phone, text or pop home to let me know. Lately, this happened more often than not. And the lately that included most recently, Cooter didn’t come home until almost nine o’clock.
I wanted to enjoy these moments of reprieve but I couldn’t. Mostly because the time he was away and I was home I spent worrying about what mood he’d be in when he got home. He could be drunk and pissed, which did not bode well or he could be sober and pissed, which also did not bode well, or he could be either and horny, which was worst of all. Lately, he came back smelling of beer but not drunk and always horny but in a way that made my skin crawl even more than it normally did at the thought of him touching me and that was saying something. Nothing had really changed with our sex life except he got more into it (which also was not fun for me) and he lasted longer (again with the no fun part) and it seemed he was getting off on it more, was more excited and I did nothing (not one thing) differently to cause that.
But right then, Ozzie was standing outside my door.
Barney “Ozzie” Oswald had been Sheriff for as long as I could remember. He had to be older than dirt but he still looked fit, spritely and alert. He always looked fit, spritely and alert.
And now, with him on my doorstep, he looked all those things but something else too.
I opened the door, smiled and whispered, “Hey, Ozzie.”
At my whisper, which was pretty much my normal tone, I was cautious with everything including the volume of my voice, Ozzie did a mini-flinch.
I had known Ozzie as Sheriff for years and Ozzie knew everyone in that town for years too, including me and he knew me pretty well considering he was a hunting buddy of my Dad’s. He’d known me since I was a little girl. He knew, ten years ago, I didn’t whisper. And I suspected he knew why I did it now.
“Kia, darlin’, can I come in?” he asked, his tone was also quiet, though not a whisper. And it was gentle. Then again, it was always a form of gentle. That was Ozzie. He was Sheriff but he was a gentle man.
I loved Ozzie. The whole town did.
“Sure,” I replied, pushing out the screen door and Memphis moved instantly, yapping and jumping around Ozzie’s ankles in a tizzy of excitement but, unless she was sleeping or snuggling, she was usually always in a tizzy of excitement.
This was because Memphis’s world was golden. She loved her Daddy. Her Daddy got her the best food money could buy. Her Daddy gave her table scraps. Her Daddy showered her with affection. Her Daddy bought her new toys and chews all the time. Her Daddy liberally gave her treats. Her Daddy let her sleep in our bed, right in the middle, stretched sideways so I was nearly falling off my side. Her Daddy let her poo anywhere in the yard, knowing I’d clean it up. Her Daddy often had his buds over and let them shower her with affection.
Memphis loved company as much as she generally loved life. So now Memphis was in throes of delight.
I thought this as my heart kept racing, faster and faster. Soon, my body would need to move, sprint through town to keep up or it’d fly out of my chest.
“Is everything okay?” I asked Ozzie and he studied me.
“Maybe we should go sit down in your living room,” he suggested and it was my turn to study him but my heart only raced faster.
Then I nodded and moved, leading the way to the living room. I threw out an arm to the furniture there and Memphis did a little twirl, waiting for one of us to be seated so she could jump on one of our laps and be adorable.
“Please, Kia, sit,” Ozzie muttered, I studied him again, took in a deep breath and sat on the edge of the couch.
Ozzie sat in an armchair facing me, also on the edge.
Memphis jumped into his lap.
Ozzie started petting the dog but he did this distractedly, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Ozzie,” I whispered, my heart beating so fast I could feel it in my throat.
“You know Milo Cloverfield, darlin’?” he asked.
Oh God.
Oh God.
I knew where this was headed because I not only knew Milo Cloverfield (because everyone knew Milo), I knew who he was married to.
“Yes,” I answered and it was less than a whisper. It was a breath.
Ozzie held my eyes. Then he closed his tight. Then he turned his head away and my eyes dropped at a movement I caught. I saw that he was petting Memphis with one hand; the other one had formed a fist.
My gaze shot back
to his when I sensed his head turning again and I held my breath.
“Honey, I hate to tell you all this but I’ll go fast, get it done, all right?”
I nodded, let out my breath then sucked it in again.
Memphis yapped, finally feeling the vibe slice into her cotton candy world.
Ozzie ignored the dog and got down to it.
“I’m sorry to say, darlin’, that Coot was seein’ Vanessa Cloverfield on the sly.”
I knew it.
I knew it.
My husband was a sick bastard but now I knew just how sick. No wonder he got off on sex these days like he did. He was screwing Vanessa then coming home and screwing me.
The big man.
The head cheese.
He hadn’t been that in years and he was loving it.
God, what a dick!
I let my breath out, clenched my teeth and wondered when I would be able to walk out of high school.
Jeez, Cooter was an asshole, he was washed up, he was out-of-shape and still, stupid, silly, jealous, grasping Vanessa Lockhart Cloverfield clearly stopped at nothing to get him.
Well, she could have him.
I just needed to figure out how to give him to her. I’d tried leaving six times. I’d failed. And the way I failed, Cooter finally taught me not to try again.
But fuck this shit.
“Kia,” Ozzie called and I focused on him.
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Honey, Milo found out.”
Uh-oh.
Milo was a hothead, everyone knew that.
“And?” I whispered.
“And, he went to the Heartmeadow Motel with his shotgun and, Kia, honey,” he paused, pulled in breath and finished, “he used it.”