Fractured Fear (The Devils of New York #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

SPENCER - THREE YEARS LATER

F ootsteps echo down the hall and I force myself to think fast. I open the closet, the bathroom door, and curtains. Hopefully it’ll make them think I searched the room and moved on.

Praying I fit, I lay flat on my stomach and squeeze under the wood bed frame. My ass barely makes the cut, but now I’m tucked away with my head at the foot of the bed. Laying my cheek to the carpet so I can see in the two inches of space between the bed skirt and the floor, I cover my mouth with my hand and attempt to slow my rapid breathing. It seems impossible, but I have to try or they’ll hear me. If they find me, who knows what will happen next.

I don’t want to find out.

A pair of brown leather Oxfords come into view and stroll into the bedroom. The shoes pace about the room and stop right in front of my eyes. “Spencer, dear. Come out, come out wherever you are.”

My phone alarm goes off and I jolt upright in bed. I’m covered in sweat. Again.

Shaking off my nightmare, I glare at my alarm.

What idiot thought waking up at five a.m. to go to the gym was a good idea?

Yeah, that was me.

I knew I would fall back asleep if I left my phone next to me on my nightstand, like usual, so I set it on my dresser on the other side of my room. Even though it feels like I just fell in bed five minutes ago, I realize I need to start crawling to my phone across the room to turn my alarm off and get my ass in gear.

Damn Yesterday Spencer. She outsmarted Today Spencer.

After I make my way across my room, I stumble into the attached bathroom and catch my morning glow in the mirror. More like morning disaster. Rat’s nest for hair and dark circles under my eyes. Definitely looks like I got five minutes of sleep. Constantly waking up from nightmares throughout the night will do that to a person.

I wash my face, brush my teeth, and throw on a pair of leggings and a sports bra. Yesterday Spencer set out Today Spencer’s clothes, so I’ll let her slide with the phone on the dresser stunt.

Shoes on and hair up, I’m ready to go and I can’t think of any more excuses to delay the start to my day.

I put my headphones in, press play on my running playlist, and head out the door. I lock up behind me because this is New York, not the Houston suburb where I’m from. You don’t leave your front door unlocked here like Mom always did growing up.

I head down the stairs, out the shared door that’s wedged between my studio, Clay Creations, and the coffee shop, The Mudhouse. Warm, humid air blankets me with a comforting familiarity.

Bringing my ankle to my ass with my opposite hand, I allow myself only a few minutes to stretch. If I go any longer, I’ll fall back asleep right here on the sidewalk. There’s an unknown substance a few feet away that made an appearance last week and has yet to wash away even with the two rainy days we have had since then, but I would still curl up on my side and catch some Z’s on the pavement.

After stretching, I start off with a jog.

I used to run when I was younger. I was pulled aside in gym class in seventh grade and the cross-country coach tried to convince me to join the team. But I was never a competitive person; I’m still not. Competing would have taken the joy out of running and it did. Mom made me join the cross-country team the next day.

Now I run for myself again. I run because I want to, but also because I have to. I never want to feel stuck and helpless like I did that night.

As Lion by Saint Mesa blasts through my headphones, I turn left a few blocks down onto Ninth Ave. I don’t like to take the same route every morning in order to keep things interesting.

More like I don’t want to make it easy for some psycho to snatch me up. I’m cautious like that.

My first week in New York, three years ago, there was a woman kidnapped and killed just three streets over from where I live. Her name was Natalie Cabrera. She was just living her life carefree and happy, but it was stolen from her. She was only twenty-four years old.

So here I am, like a crazy person, running at five thirty in the morning on my way to the gym. Just like I have done almost every day for the last two and a half years. I used to go at night, but my trainer told me that wasn’t the best idea and that women are more likely to be abducted at night. Thus, the masochistic ritual of early morning workouts began.

Adjusting to my new life was…well, an adjustment. Busy sidewalks, jam-packed streets, pushy street peddlers, the smell of urine and decay, an alternating chorus of “get out of my way” and cat calls being hurled my direction every few minutes.

My mind wanders back to my first moments in New York, like the first time I was using the subway and someone asked me if I wanted to see snow. My social anxiety shoved me out of the seat and responded, “no, thank you” to the man with greasy hair who reeked of cigarette smoke. I stared across to the other window the rest of the ride. I convinced myself that if I didn’t make eye contact, he wouldn’t ask me again. He didn’t. Then I went home and searched on the internet what “snow” could mean. Cocaine. It means cocaine.

There was another time when I decided to brave Times Square to go to the M he asked thoughtful questions and seemed genuinely interested in my work.

Just the thought of that night has me steaming with anger. Anger towards him for lying. Anger towards myself for falling for his act.

He knew exactly how to build me up only to tear me down himself a few hours later. He was an expert at it.

He broke me down lie by lie with each strategic word. Then he rebuilt me so many times that eventually there was nothing of me left. I was the doll he wanted, the perfect image of an obedient little servant, and I stayed through all of it. I never once tried to leave, I didn’t even threaten it.

I shake my head to give myself a reset. I can’t remain a passenger on this thought train, it’ll send me into a panic. That’s not something I want to do today. Instead, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other and lengthening my stride. I embrace the burn in my legs and the sting in my lungs. The pain brings me back to the present rather than letting me journey through my upsetting past.

As I arrive at Joey’s Gym I try and fail to take deep breaths, relieved I don’t have to battle my own brain anymore. This place has been a sanctuary since the first time I walked through the doors. As I walk inside, my mind is cleared of the fog that is always present after a nightmare.

Here, no one looks down their nose at me. Here, I am powerful. Here, I am in control.

“You look like shit,” a gravelly voice says to my right.

I look and see sweet old Joey standing behind the front desk. The white haired man always says that. It’s like his way of saying “Good morning, beautiful. Aren’t you just a glorious ray of sunshine on this otherwise dreary morning?”

Ha. Yeah, the charming lightweight champion from 1979 would never let those words leave his mouth.

The first time I met him he came off as harsh, but he quickly changed his tune.

“What do you want?” he asks gruffly when I approach the front desk. There’s that New York charisma.

“Umm. I saw in the window that you offer self-defense classes,” I say without looking him in the eye, keeping my gaze cemented on the floor.

“Hey.” His voice grows soft.

I glance up and see that look in his eyes. Pity. I hate pity. I don’t need to be pitied. “I just need classes,” I say in an attempt to sound firm. “If you don’t have any open spots, just let me know and I’ll be on my way.” My tone gets stronger as I speak each word.

He returns to his brash self but still not as rough as when I walked in. “I got a spot for you. No need to get your panties in a twist.”

And that was that. I signed up for classes and now he trains me one-on-one. Every morning he tells me I look like shit and I respond with…

“And you look like a shriveled up dick.”

It’s our way to check in with each other. If he ever greeted me differently, I’d be worried he finally lost his mind and succumbed to old age.

“Get some water and go stretch. You’ll be no good if your muscles lock up ten seconds in.”

I walk over to the dinged-up fountain attached to the wall, take a sip, then stretch on the mats. As much as I love to hit inanimate objects, stretching also calms my mind. There’s no room for anything else in my brain when I feel the pull of my muscles as I fold forward and reach for my toes.

Once I’m all stretched out and ready to go again, Joey sets a grueling pace. Burpees, jump rope, back squats, and leg lifts. He says we’re not getting in the ring today because I went too hard yesterday, but we both know it’s because he can see the shadows under my eyes, so today is just strength training. Weights mixed with cardio. Basically death.

He’s never asked why I’m here and I’ve never told, but he knows. Joey knows when to push and when to back off. On occasion, I’ve cried during workouts. Usually after a terrible nightmare while I’m at the punching bag.

One day in particular was especially difficult. In my dreams, I had relived the worst part of my last night in Texas, and I couldn’t shake my body’s natural responses. Joey made me stop sparring when my tears blurred my vision and involuntary bursts of noise started to escape my throat. He pulled me into his office, sat me on the couch, and didn’t say a word. I wailed from the agony I felt. Not only did my ex break my body that night, but he also broke my heart.

Joey sat next to me and pulled me into his arms as my tears puddled onto his shirt.

“It’ll be okay. It’s just for now. This pain isn’t forever.”

“But it hurts so bad,” I expressed through the haze of relived trauma.

“I know, kid. I know.” He didn’t let go until the sobs had subsided. Then he called a cab and took me to The Mudhouse. We sat for hours, conversing over cups of lukewarm coffee.

Not once did Joey ask what had happened or what I had been through, that’s not him.

Now when those memories haunt me from sleep and into the light of day, I go straight to the punching bag. As I pound the leather with my wrapped fists, I imagine what I should have or could have done differently that night. I imagine punching him in the face. I imagine running sooner than I did.

I can’t change it now, but I can prepare. I can train. I can continue to be stronger than the fear I’m fracturing one punch at a time.