Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2) Read online

  Out of Focus

  Copyright © 2016 by L. B. Simmons

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Cover Design By

  Hang Le

  Edited By

  Marion Archer ~ Making Manuscripts

  Proofreading by

  Karen Lawson ~ The Proof is in the Reading

  Interior Design and Formatting By

  Christine Borgford ~ Perfectly Publishable

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are purely fictitious. Any resemblances to any persons, living or dead, are completely coincidental.

  Out of Focus

  Dedication

  Prologue

  CHAPTER 1—Bonded

  CHAPTER 2—Inevitable

  CHAPTER 3—Krav Maga

  CHAPTER 4—The Beacon

  CHAPTER 5—Protection

  CHAPTER 6—Big Reveal

  CHAPTER 7—Comfort Zone

  CHAPTER 8—Unconditional

  CHAPTER 9—Comfortable

  CHAPTER 10—Better Acquainted

  CHAPTER 11—Falling

  CHAPTER 12—Tit for Tat

  CHAPTER 13—Apologies

  CHAPTER 14—Kindred Spirits

  CHAPTER 15—Fuck or Fight

  CHAPTER 16—Weightless

  CHAPTER 17—Paths

  CHAPTER 18—Redo

  CHAPTER 19—The Landing

  CHAPTER 20—Binding

  CHAPTER 21—Ever After

  CHAPTER 22—Blindsided

  CHAPTER 23—Fairies

  CHAPTER 24—Numb

  CHAPTER 25—Cold

  CHAPTER 26—Open Wounds

  CHAPTER 27—Lies

  CHAPTER 28—Free-Fall

  CHAPTER 29—Dr. Miller

  CHAPTER 30—Reconnection

  CHAPTER 31—The First Letter

  CHAPTER 32—The Second Letter

  CHAPTER 33—The Third Letter

  CHAPTER 34—The Last Letter

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Resurrection of Aubrey Miller

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by L.B. Simmons

  Thank you for loving Cassie as much as I do. You knew she had a story to tell and you were right. Because of your love for her character, your belief in her journey, this book is just as much yours as it is mine. Love you dearly, my friend. Times two.

  ONLY TWENTY-THREE YEARS OLD, and I’m so goddamn tired.

  I used to be so much stronger. I somehow kept the voices at bay, the memories locked away safely, contained within the confines of my mind. But with each passing day, I feel the glow of my once-luminous strength fading. Darkness encases me now, bowing the walls of protection I put into place years ago. My past is an ever-present nightmare, repeatedly tapping, slowly fracturing the window of my sanity.

  I have no doubt that it’s only a matter of time before the glass finally breaks. Blackness will eventually seep through its cracks and deliver me from the safety of my façade into a reality that will destroy me.

  My reality.

  I’ve done my part. I’ve kept the secrets thrust upon me with dedicated believability. My portrayal of who I am has become a blurred, hazy version of the once very distinct Cassie Cooper.

  I read an ungodly amount of trashy romance novels.

  I’m the overtly sexual and foul-mouthed friend who will say anything to get a laugh.

  And I have exactly zero fucks to give to what anyone else thinks about my actions.

  But the reality, the actuality, is this:

  I read obsessively to escape my own world. To live the dreams of others when, for so long, the reoccurrence of my nightmares has been my reality. I read to fall in love and find a happily ever after, even if it is purely imagined. With each story I read, I’m able to live and love vicariously through the characters in my books. It’s the only plausible way for me to survive.

  I threw away my virginity at the age of thirteen just to prove something. And when I found that proof, that vindication I was looking for, I sought it every chance I could. Sex is about control for me. Nothing more. The act will never be about making love, like it is for the heroines in my books. I will never be granted the beauty of that gift.

  I use humor as a form of avoidance. I draw upon laughter to block the pain. And I smile to mask the agony of the eight-year-old soul who weeps within me.

  And the fucks . . . well, that’s not entirely accurate either.

  I have given two to be exact: One to my best friend of seventeen years. She knows nothing of my past, and although she so willingly disclosed the horrors of hers, mine remains hidden for no other reason than to avoid the pity she would undoubtedly cast my way if I were to ever tell her. I don’t want her pity. I would sooner die than have her look at me in any other way than with pride.

  The other died with the person to whom it was given. Anthony “Rat” Marchione. He was my one allowance of naïveté. The one person I actually wanted to touch me, to hold me, to love me. He was going to rescue me from my brokenness as though I were a character in one of my books. Young and senseless, I thought he was to be my eventual happily ever after, but tragically, he was murdered five years ago.

  Black coldness waits in vain to leech the void where his once beautiful existence filled the pieces of my irrevocably shattered heart. Where he temporarily healed the hurt of the innocent child and quieted the voices that tormented her.

  He’s gone now. I’ve accepted that. And in turn, I have relinquished all dreams associated with finding the light at the end of this miserable tunnel.

  I will keep trudging through this life . . . this sentence handed to me for someone else’s crime, my payment shackled by secrets and weighted with lies. I will continue to do so with the same fraudulent smile on my lips and play the part of the strong heroine so convincingly, that even I believe it.

  It’s only a matter of time before my fictional strength wears out—when I’m no longer hidden safely inside my protective blur—and I have to face the very real and lucid image of my past.

  But until that time comes, I’ll do all I can do.

  All I have ever done.

  I will pretend.

  Past—Six years old

  THE SUN HITS THE tops of my new black dress shoes, making them shine with each step I take as I cross the street. I’m skipping with excitement, and my smile is as big as the poufy skirt of my dress. It’s my most favoritest Sunday dress. It’s yellow and happy and I love the sound it makes each time one of my feet leave the ground.

  Swish.

  Swish.

  Swish.

  Five swishes later, I finally step onto the sidewalk.

  I grin so wide, my cheeks ache. I knew I would finally wear Mommy down. As soon as I saw the yellow-haired, skinny little girl pull a huge My Little Pony stuffed animal out of the moving truck, I knew we were gonna be best friends. So I bugged Mommy all day long, asking her when I could go across the street to meet my new friend—at breakfast while munching on peanut butter toast, at lunch while eating a big bowl of ravioli, at dinner while chomping down on a burger my daddy made on the grill outside, and a couple hundred times in-between.

  Finally, she threw up her hands—really, she did—and told me I could run over after and introduce myself, but only if I finished my dinner first.

  I’ve never eaten so fast in my life.

&nb
sp; As soon as the burger was gone, I jumped out of my chair, put my plate in the sink, then ran upstairs to my room and threw on my prettiest dress. On my way out, Daddy yelled that I only had half an hour until bath time before the door slammed shut behind me.

  My long dark hair, in a ponytail that I did all by myself, swings as I walk down her driveway and skip around the back of the moving truck. As soon as I pass the bumper, I see her. She’s sitting on the top step of her porch, wearing the same pink glittery T-shirt and blue jean shorts I saw her in earlier today.

  I start to say something, but my mouth slams shut when I notice shiny tears as they roll down her cheeks. My smile falls straight to the ground, and my eyebrows pinch tightly together. I slow my steps, not sure if now would be the best time to introduce myself to my new best friend. My feet stop moving and I still, watching her for a second or two before deciding against it. I lift my shiny shoe and slowly begin to take a step backward, but a dumb twig cracks as soon as my foot hits the ground. I freeze, just like I do when Mommy catches me stealing cookies out of the pantry right before dinner.

  I’m pretty sure I’m even making the same Crap! face.

  Her teary blue eyes meet my dark brown ones, and I just stand there, still like a statue with my arms stuck mid-swing. I don’t know what else to do, so I begin to move like a robot, making the same er-er-er sounds my daddy does to make me laugh.

  She watches my moves and after a couple of seconds, she finally giggles.

  My body relaxes, a relieved grin tugging at my lips to match hers. I can’t help it.

  I straighten my body, then take a step in her direction, and another, and another. When I finally come to the porch, I reach forward to shake her hand, finally making the introduction I’ve been waiting to make all day long. “Hi, I’m Cassie Cooper. I live across the street.” My thumb points over my shoulder as I speak.

  She wipes the tears onto her jean shorts, then stands and links our hands, giving them a good shake before answering, “Hello, Cassie. I’m Spencer Locke.”

  Spencer looks down as the breeze blows, and another swish fills the air. “I like your dress.” Her voice is soft, and she tucks her hair behind her ear.

  I smile my thanks and curtsey, while her pretty blue eyes—thankfully now dry—grin back at me. “And you can do the robot almost as good as I can.”

  My smile becomes a laugh and she turns to take her spot on the porch, then pats the area beside her. I sit, happy to have a funny friend.

  After a few seconds, she looks at me and says, “I’m sorry I was crying. I, uh, well . . .”

  The screen door behind us creaks open and I turn my head. Behind me stands a beautiful lady around Mommy’s age with glasses on the edge of her nose and light brown hair in a pile on the top of her head. Her eyes are the color of her hair, and they crinkle at the sides when she smiles at us.

  They don’t look anything alike, so I’m not sure if this is Spencer’s mommy or not. I don’t know what to say to her, but she takes care of that for me.

  “Hello, I’m Deborah, Spencer’s . . .”

  She pauses to glance at Spencer, who says in a strong voice, “Mommy.”

  Her mommy’s mouth dips down at the sides and her chin trembles. Now tears are in her eyes.

  Why is everyone crying?

  “Yes,” Mrs. Locke continues, “I’m Spencer’s mommy.” She says it almost to herself, then looks to me.

  “I’m Cassie,” I point across the street, “I live over there.”

  Her mommy smiles back at me. She has a really pretty smile.

  She glances back to Spencer. “Well, it’s good that you’ll have a friend so close, isn’t that right?”

  Spencer nods her head and Mrs. Locke adds, “Spencer, can I talk to you for a second?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Her voice is soft when she answers. Mrs. Locke steps onto the porch when Spencer stands, and the screen door bounces a couple times before it finally shuts behind her. She’s wearing a fluffy, pink robe and ties it around her waist as Spencer walks toward her. That makes me smile. As soon as Spencer stands in front of her, she places her arm gently around Spencer’s shoulder and leans to whisper in her ear. Spencer nods and whispers back. This continues until they finally stop and smile at each other, as though they’ve decided on something.

  Mrs. Locke hugs Spencer then lets her go, looks at me, and winks. “Nice to meet you, Cassie. I think you and Spencer will be very good friends.”

  A man’s voice calls her name from within the house, and she smiles again at both of us before she leaves. I glance shyly at Spencer, who’s taken her seat next to me. She lets out a long breath, then she looks back at me. She tucks her hair behind her ears again, brings her knees to her chest, and lays her cheek on them before finally speaking.

  “She just wanted to tell me it was okay for me to talk about why I was crying. I wasn’t really sure if I was allowed to tell people, but she told me if I wanted to tell you, that it was okay with her. And I want to tell you, because if we’re going to be friends, we shouldn’t keep secrets from each other. If you still even want to be my friend when I’m through.”

  I place my cheek on my knees just like she’s doing and give her a happy smile to let her know I will still be her friend. “Well, I live across the street, so I’m not going anywhere.”

  At that, her face splits into a wide grin, before she clears her throat. I watch her smile as it falls and slowly disappears. “It’s not easy to talk about, so it might be hard for me to say.”

  My happy face turns into a sad one, but I stay still and wait for her to start.

  And then she does.

  I always thought when grownups whispered about someone’s heart being broken, it was just something they said. Like, when Mr. Keyes kicked the bucket or when Grandpa tells me he’s fit as a fiddle. I had no idea that a heart could actually break. I didn’t know by just listening to Spencer share her secret, that I would feel real pain in my chest.

  But I do.

  My heart hurts for her as she tells me how her mommy isn’t really her mommy, that Mr. and Mrs. Locke adopted her because her real parents didn’t want her. It crumbles into tiny pieces when she shares how her new mother found her. Her own parents had locked her in a pantry for weeks with very little food and water. And when I realize that’s why she’s so skinny, my heart breaks a little more. She tells me of how scared she was in the darkness, and how she cried for days, but they never let her out. She doesn’t understand what she did to deserve her punishment, but she says that Mr. and Mrs. Locke always hug her and tell her she didn’t do anything wrong.

  By the time I know everything there is to know about Spencer’s secret, Daddy is calling me to come home and both of us are crying. I reach over and pull her into the tightest hug I’ve ever given, promising in my mind that I will be strong and protect her. I will never let anyone hurt her again.

  We both let go and smile as we wipe away our tears. The wood beneath me creaks as I stand, signaling to Daddy with my finger that I’ll be home in just a minute, then look at my new friend and smile. “Wanna come over and play tomorrow?”

  I think she’s surprised by my offer to still be her friend because she answers me by widening her eyes. The pain I felt earlier is gone, replaced by a warm feeling as I watch happiness fill those wide eyes.

  And I’m proud I did that. I did something to make her happy.

  “I would like that very much. Thank you, Cassie.”

  I nod excitedly and turn away from her, looking both ways before I cross the street and walk toward Daddy, who’s still on the porch. I fight to not roll my eyes—that’ll get you into heaps of trouble at my house—and as my steps carry me farther away, a new feeling begins to spread throughout my chest. One I’ve never felt before.

  Pulling is the best way to describe it, I guess.

  Like two invisible ropes, hers and mine, tying a knot to keep us together.

  I let out a heavy breath and keep walking.

  I’m
relieved when the feeling is still there once I make it to my house. Daddy holds the door open for me and I turn to give her one last wave goodbye before entering in front of him.

  The last thoughts I have before climbing into bed are wondering how far this rope-thing actually stretches, and being thankful I live across the street.

  Because as I still feel the strong pull in my heart when I shut my eyes, I know it’s in no danger of breaking anytime soon.

  And that makes me very happy.

  FRIENDSHIP.

  It’s a truly fascinating wonder to experience. I’m not speaking of those meaningless relationships built out of convenience, due to proximity or the need to just have someone to talk to in order to pass the time.

  I’m referring to true friendship. A true friend. Someone who, within seconds of meeting for the first time, provides you the gift of security, granting an indescribable awareness that they will stand by you for the rest of your life. An unbreakable bond is built in that moment, and you just know, through the good times and bad, they will remain by your side, fiercely loyal with absolutely no hesitation or judgment.

  And as your relationship blossoms, as you laugh until tears fill your eyes and cry within each other’s arms until there are no tears left, that bond is strengthened until it becomes so intricately woven between the two of you, you quite literally become inseparable.

  That’s exactly what started seventeen years ago, the day I met Spencer Locke. Our initial bond has only strengthened over the years. So much so, that regardless of our recent time apart, while she went to college and I stayed in Fuller drinking myself into oblivion, the minute she moved back and into my apartment it was as though no time had passed between us at all. We just picked up right where we left off as best friends.

  Yet, right now, as she bounds into my room screaming at the top of her lungs, I kind of want to take that rope-thingy—as I used to call it—and strangle her with it.

  “Wakey, wakey. Eggs and bakey.”

  I shake my head and groan out loud. My entire body practically seizes in protest at the mention of food, and I force the current contents of my stomach back where they belong with a deep swallow.