Unveiling Hope

  Unveiling Hope

  Copyright © 2018 Jeannine Allison

  Edited By: Stephanie Parent

  Cover Design © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  Interior design/formatting: Champagne Book Design

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations for a book review.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  October 19, 2016

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  November 25, 2016

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  January 1, 2017

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  April 13, 2017

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  September 6, 2017

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  March 7, 2021

  Epilogue

  Unveiling Hope Playlist

  Other Books

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Dum spiro spero

  For anyone who feels lost,

  The future is always starting now…

  ONE OF THE FIRST memories I had was of me holding a guitar.

  I remembered sitting in my father’s lap, his Gibson too large for my tiny five-year-old body to fully support, as he taught me to strum for the first time.

  Ironically, it was also one of the last happy memories I had of my father. For the next five years he made our house a miserable place to live. So when he left around my tenth birthday, never saying goodbye, never looking back, it was almost a blessing.

  He simply picked up and disappeared with the girlfriend he’d had on the side, pursuing a career in music that he felt we were holding him back from.

  It had hurt. I could never pretend it didn’t. But what I hadn’t realized was I allowed that hurt to rob me of one of the things I loved most in this world: music.

  Looking back, I could see the moment I stopped trying, worried that my love of music would cause me to run off and abandon my family like he did.

  But music kept calling me back. That was what happened when something was in your blood and bones. It called to you. It begged you.

  My fingers unconsciously tapped out a beat against my leg as I stood in line at the grocery store. My head bobbed to the rhythm of street performers, and my feet carried me into music stores where I’d linger for hours.

  Melodies would float unbidden through my heart—not my mind where they could get lost, but in my heart where they remained, pleading to be free. No matter how I tried, no matter how often music taunted me, I could never put them to paper.

  My fear blocked it all out. I had resisted for too long.

  By the time I was ready to try again, nothing came. The feelings wouldn’t convert to words; the beats of my heart wouldn’t translate to notes.

  It wasn’t until Samantha Moynaha walked into my life that everything changed.

  Music had been my salvation. And Sam was the one who led me back to it.

  A couple months after I met her, I picked up my guitar for the first time in years. She brought it all back. The notes. The lyrics. The music. Sam and my music quickly became intertwined, until it felt like one couldn’t exist without the other.

  We played in secret. The heartaches of our pasts were linked to the one thing we’d always loved: music. And we’d never found another person who understood, not until each other.

  I met her a year ago when her older brother moved into my apartment, and I’d been falling for her ever since.

  Everything was stacked against us.

  She was my best friend’s little sister.

  She was seven years younger than me.

  She was pure class, whereas I’d been called trash more than a few times in my life.

  But she was also my best friend, and just like music kept calling to me, so had she.

  So as I stood on her front porch, finally ready to tell her I wanted more, that I wanted her, a feeling of complete dread washed over me as I listened to her own confession.

  “You’re leaving?” I repeated. The words sounded ripped from my throat. They felt like it too. They burned like acid, like neither had a place in my body.

  “Yeah.” Sam frowned and looked down at her shoes. “I… I’m sorry.”

  Shaking my head, I took a step back, away from her scent, her pull. It didn’t work. “When?”

  “In two days.”

  “What?” This time I fell back a few steps, the force of her words physically knocking into me.

  She grimaced. “I’m sorry I waited so long to tell you. I didn’t want everyone making a fuss.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Could I still admit my feelings? Would that be fair to either one of us? A long-distance relationship wasn’t what I wanted, but a part of me knew I’d take whatever Sam would give. I would do anything—

  “I’ll miss you,” she whispered.

  “You will?” My feet carried me forward, like they did into those music stores, like they did every time I was around her, like they knew there was nowhere else I belonged. It wasn’t my nervous system controlling them, it was my heart, my soul.

  “Of course. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  She smiled, expectant, as if the words should make me happy. When I said nothing, her smile slipped a degree, making everything around me feel colder despite the scorching heat of the Arizona sun in early September.

  Friend.

  Sam sealed her departure with the kiss of death, putting me in my place. It was where I belonged. She was destined to do great things, and I would only bring her down.

  Friend.

  It stung, but maybe it was for the best. Someone like me didn’t deserve her. I didn’t deserve much of anything.

  “What about your dog?” I asked. She looked stunned for a moment. It wasn’t the best sequitur, but I couldn’t exactly tell her my feelings now, could I?

  Sam frowned. “I’m still trying to figure that out. I—I didn’t think it through when I got her. I heard she was going to be put down and I had to adopt her. I figured my dad wouldn’t mind, but…” She shrugged.

  I already knew this. Her brother, Gabe, had recently moved out and I was about to offer her the empty room. Her new Pomeranian, Rory, had been a convenient excuse. But now…

  “What about your music?” I was grasping at straws, anything to make her stay. “You love it. You’re too good to do anything else.”

  She smiled sadly. “Sometimes what you want isn’t what you need—just like what you love isn’t always what’s good for you.”

  I swallowed roughly. For some reason it felt like she was talking about me. And while I knew I wasn’t good enough for her, it killed me to hear her confirm it. To know I’d never stood a chance and never would.

  A year ago, I hadn’t been ready for her. Who’s ever ready for their soul mate, though?


  And now she was being snatched away, and again, I wasn’t ready.

  But that wasn’t quite right. She wasn’t being snatched; there was no one forcing her to go. She was choosing to leave. Just like my father. They both wanted to pursue a different path, a better future for themselves. One that didn’t include me.

  “We’ll stay in touch, right?” she asked hopefully. Nodding, I weakly accepted the hug she offered. But I knew we wouldn’t. She’d get busy, and I’d fade away.

  At least I got a goodbye this time.

  She left.

  And I could already feel the words slipping through my fingers, and hear the melodies floating away from me.

  Just like that, my world became completely and painfully silent.

  Nine months later…

  A HARD FIST CONNECTED with my jaw, quick and unforgiving. I smiled through the pain as Nevada moved in on me once more. His next punch missed and the momentum caused him to pitch forward. Sidestepping his body, I slammed my elbow into his back, forcing him to his knees before I grabbed both of his arms and locked them behind him.

  Nevada squirmed, trying to free himself, as the noise in the warehouse grew louder. Then his head jerked back and knocked into my chin, forcing me to free him.

  I stumbled back, my bloody grin widening, as he jumped up and we circled each other once more. Nevada’s brows dipped in concentration as he assessed my weak spots. Nearly a decade of fighting ensured I didn’t have many. But he was determined. And even though he’d only been fighting here for a couple of months, he was damn near undefeated.

  This was my first time up against him, and within the first minute I could tell Lauren was right. His reason for fighting was about more than blowing off steam. It wasn’t pride or reckless abandon that brought him to this abandoned building at two in the morning. It was family.

  According to Lauren, he was the oldest child of six. No father to speak of and a mother who was more of a roommate than a parent. If his siblings relied on him like I suspected they did, this was an easy way to make a few bucks.

  He came at me, faking one punch only to land the other in my side. With a grunt I spun away from him. Nevada advanced quickly. One fast jab to my stomach. One narrow miss passed my jaw.

  I came at him just as hard, landing one hit only to miss the next.

  Back and forth we went.

  Hit.

  Miss.

  Hit.

  Miss.

  Until we were both exhausted. The crowd was roaring; there hadn’t been a fight this evenly matched in a while.

  My eyes caught on a blonde behind him. Slight in build and anxiously biting her thumb. She couldn’t have been much older than sixteen. And somehow I knew she was Nevada’s sister. There weren’t any shared features that gave it away, but a cursory glance at her too-big shirt and loose jeans told me everything I needed to know.

  So when Nevada moved in once more, I let his fist connect with my jaw. It wasn’t obvious. I moved just enough to show intent but not enough to dodge him.

  He pounced, putting me in a headlock and holding on while the ref started counting. I didn’t have to pretend to struggle; the fight was real. I was exhausted.

  Dougie finally called the fight, declaring Nevada the winner. Half the room cheered and the other half groaned. Nevada immediately let go, but instead of smiling or high-fiving like other victors, he quickly sought out his sister and wrapped her in a hug.

  As usual, everything that happened after the fight was a blur. I went for the adrenaline, the rush. Whether I won was irrelevant. The natural high always left too soon, and the further away I got, the harder I came back down to Earth.

  Lauren, who had been hanging around the periphery, came running up and jumped on me, forcing me to grab her under her thighs so she didn’t fall.

  “Hey!” she screamed over the noise right before she moved in to kiss me. I turned my head and her lips met my cheek. Trying to ignore the hurt in her eyes, I set her down and gave her arms a squeeze.

  “Sorry you lost the fight.”

  I shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. But thanks.”

  “Sure.” She gave me a fake smile before bounding away and sidling up to someone else.

  It had been seven years since Lauren and I first met, and just as long since we’d dated. We only saw each other for a couple of months, and then hooked up on and off for a few years after, but she was always convinced we had something more.

  And when I slipped up a couple months ago and slept with her, her insistence only got stronger. I felt awful about it because while she may have been clingy, she wasn’t crazy. Lauren only wanted to be loved.

  It was a weak moment for me. I’d just found out that Sam had started dating, and it extinguished the last bit of hope I’d had that there was a future for us. It seemed stupid in hindsight considering she’d already been gone six months, but a small part of me had still thought she’d come back. Now it didn’t matter. She had him.

  I didn’t feel like sticking around so I said a few goodbyes, grabbed my bag, and ducked out into the night. Reaching into the side pocket of my duffle, I pulled out a pack of smokes and my lighter.

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “Shit!” I shouted, nearly dropping my freshly lit cigarette. Turning around, I found Nevada standing with his arms crossed. His sister stood close beside him, thumb still nervously tucked between her teeth.

  “Do what?”

  “Let me win.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You’ve won almost every fight. We fought well into the night… what makes you think I let you win?”

  He didn’t know what to say, but I knew he didn’t believe me.

  “I’m Derek.” I blew the smoke out away from them and held out my hand.

  “I know.” Nevada stared, arms crossed and expression hard.

  I shifted my attention to his sister, still extending my arm. “And you are?”

  “None of your concern,” Nevada answered.

  Holding up my hands, I backed away. “I was just trying to be friendly. We may fight each other, but it never hurts to be on good terms with a few of the guys in there. Especially if you plan on bringing her.” I nodded toward his sister.

  With that, I walked away, hoping he’d heed my advice. The scene hadn’t always been this way; I’d never feared for my safety. But I could tell things were shifting. The bets were increasing and the pressure was high for some.

  “Hey!” he shouted at my back. I said nothing as I turned to face him. “Thanks. This is Ellen. My baby sister.”

  “I’m not a baby,” she grumbled, bringing out Nevada’s first smile.

  I grinned, thinking about how Naomi probably said a similar thing at sixteen. Younger sisters never seemed to understand that their older brothers—if they were fucking decent brothers—would always consider their sisters babies. Our job was to protect them. To make sure they stayed innocent in a world hell-bent on destroying them.

  I’d tried to do that for Naomi. Our mother hadn’t made it easy, but I’d done what I could.

  “… So I’ll catch you around?” Nevada continued, making me realize I’d completely missed whatever was said before.

  “Yeah.”

  Nevada gave me a quick nod and Ellen waved before they turned to leave. They’d only gone a few feet when she looked back and blurted out, “Youknowyoushouldn’tsmokethat.”

  Something akin to pain and fear ran across her brother’s face—something I’d yet to see in the ring—before he gently grabbed her arm and led her away.

  My gaze moved between their backs and my cigarette.

  I stomped it out and walked home.

  Leaning toward the mirror, I carefully inspected my wing eyeliner. The left side was slightly thicker than the right, but when I pulled back it was hardly noticeable. Any attempt to “fix” it would do more harm than good.

  Not all imperfections should be fixed.

  I heard my mother’s voice in my head. And she was right. Perfe
ction was overrated.

  My hand hovered over the bright orange lipstick my roommate, Essie, had bought me months ago for Christmas. She’d worn it once and apparently I hadn’t stopped staring at her mouth. Her card said “Either you loved this lipstick or you wanted to kiss me. But since you haven’t stared as much since, I’m assuming it was the lipstick (pity).”

  I typically wore a classic red. Nothing too bright, nothing too dark. The “right” red as my boyfriend, John, once said. But I didn’t always want to be “right” or “perfect.” I didn’t like the idea that any deviation was somehow “wrong.”

  And the orange would be perfect for summer…

  With a sigh, I grabbed the red.

  After finishing the rest of my makeup, I slid off the headband that kept the hair out of my face and tied my hair up in a sleek ponytail.

  I slipped on the only piece of jewelry I owned; a round, silver pendant necklace with the phrase “I still believe in 398.2” etched on it. My mother had given it to me on my thirteenth birthday. When I was younger she would curl up in bed with me and stroke my hair as she read a fairy tale.

  It was our thing.

  Until it wasn’t.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I got up from my vanity and walked out of my bedroom, leaving the horrible memories behind.

  I popped a piece of bread in the toaster and a K-cup in the Keurig. As I waited, tapping my manicured nails against the counter, I heard Essie’s door slam against the wall.

  The girl was incapable of being quiet. She slammed everything. Doors, cabinets, her laptop… you name it. If it could be slammed, she slammed it. And ironically it wasn’t because she was angry—it was just something she did.

  “Hey, babe,” she said around a yawn as she padded into the kitchen. Her chin-length platinum blonde hair was sticking up in all different directions. She opened the fridge and rooted around until she found the orange juice. Forgoing a glass, she tipped the carton back and took a drink. After a couple gulps, she pulled it back and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.

  Essie was wearing her typical sleep attire: a loose white tank top and boy shorts. When we first moved in together, I was a bit jarred by how comfortable she was with people seeing her body. Now it would be strange if I went a day without being able to see her pierced nipples through her shirt and the bottom of her ass cheeks.