Gavin (Made From Stone Book 2) Read online

  Made From Stone

  Gavin

  T. Saint John

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

  Made From Stone Book 2 Gavin

  Copyright © 2018 Trina San Juan

  All rights reserved.

  Cover photos owned by Shutterstock. You may not copy these photos without written permission of its owners.

  Cover design by Monica Holloway.

  Cover model: Nathan Hainline

  All songs, song titles, and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or photos herein is prohibited without the express written consent of the author.

  First eBook edition 2018

  kindle edition

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Gavin

  The police sirens wailing just outside my window have me on alert. I’ve already worked an eight-hour shift today, and it has sucked the life out of me. I only have a little bit of down time before I’m back out again, working a double that I’ve agreed to. I’ve made myself a sandwich, trying to separate myself from the job for a while, but I find myself wondering what I could be doing to help if I was out there instead of here. Truth is- I have no down time. I have a bad habit of replaying the events of my day, critiquing my choices and figuring out what I could’ve done to help more than I did. For whatever reason, I can’t let it go. I know it’s impossible to save the world, but it’s my job to give it my best shot.

  I lean over my coffee table, about to start on my ham and cheese sandwich, when my phone goes off. It's a text from Lane asking if I know where his girlfriend, Mallory, is. I don’t have any clue, but for him to ask, I know she couldn’t be anywhere obvious.

  Without taking a moment to gather my thoughts, I pull on my jacket and slam the door behind me. I think I might know where she is. I hope I'm wrong, but my gut tells me I'm not.

  My mind is running a mile a minute as I call Lane to tell him to stay put; I’m looking into it. It’s a futile call, I know. The Stone men in my family have a history of being hotheads. The last thing I need is for him to try to be Billy Bad Ass and going off half cocked without any help.

  As a child, I excitedly watched as my father got ready every morning for work. I was enamored- seeing him with his gun and badge, and I was proud knowing he was out there taking down the bad guys and protecting the community. So many nights I would fight sleep just to be able to hear his adventures when he got home. My mom, of course, would snuggle me and my brother Eli, telling us make believe stories that always had a happily ever after. But even from a young age, both Eli and I knew she was only trying to shield us from the harsh reality of growing up in a city like Chicago. She still tries to shield us. I think that's why she worked so hard opening businesses that she thought we might be interested in taking over when we became adults. Disappointing our mother wasn't what any of us wanted, but it happened when Eli and I both became officers for the Chicago P.D.

  The fantasy of adventure is long gone now, and reality has set in that going to work is not a storybook. It's brutal. It’s mentally and physically demanding, but the hardest part for me is not being able to save every victim I come across. I realize now, that no matter how qualified I am, there will always be times when I receive that call, sometimes just seconds too late. It’s ironic, even a little funny in a sadistic kind of way, how one person can do everything right and in a split second it's just over.

  With that same type of fear growing, my stomach tightens as I pull up to the raggedy-ass motel that Mallory’s sister has been staying at. Immediately I notice Mallory’s car parked up front, and I pray softly to myself that I’m not too late. She's here, and I know the man who's been terrorizing her and her sister has to be in there also. I can't see him, but I know. I quickly send a text to my brother Eli, letting him know where I am and to come quickly.

  I run to the motel door, knowing I have no time to waste. Pounding on it, I call out for her.

  “Gavin! Run!” she screams desperately.

  Knowing she’s trapped with a lunatic, I do what my gut tells me to do and I burst through the door with my gun in hand, pointed firmly outwards. I’m filled with relief knowing that she’s still alive, but that’s only a small portion of the battle. The suspect loosens his grip on her neck and moves just far enough away to where I know I can fire and not hit Mallory.

  I fire one shot to his head and he hits the ground with a solid, heavy thud. I find myself struggling to locate Mallory as my eyes go in and out of focus, and I start to sweat.

  “Gavin no!” Mallory screams in despair and runs to my side, trying to help in some way as a hot pain builds inside my chest. I collapse on the floor next to Mallory’s dead attacker and oddly, I’m at peace. I wasn’t even a second too late this time. This is one call I wouldn’t toss and turn for hours over.

  I feel a scratch in the back of my throat and when I go to clear it, a hot liquid runs down the side of my mouth. Mallory starts to cry even harder than before. I want to offer her some sort of comfort, to tell her I’m alright, but I keep choking on the words I’m trying to get out, and I know it’s finally time to give up.

  Nicola

  “Come on baby, we need to go.” I say in a tone of panic, hoping my confused five year old can understand the urgency in my voice.

  “Where are we going mommy?” she questions, grabbing two of her favorite teddy bears by the arm.

  “Far away. Far, far away from here.”

  She jumps to her tiny feet and runs around, gathering as many dolls as her little arms can hold. “But Daddy is gonna be here really soon, mommy.” She says, as she drops the dolls on top of her two teddy bears in a pile by the doorway and wipes her hands together twice as if to let me know that she considers herself packed up and ready to go.

  “I know baby, that's why we need to hurry.”

  I got a phone call from my husband Jason just a few minutes ago, and I know that tone all too well. He simply let me know he was on his way home and said he hopes his slacks had been pressed just the way he likes them. I hadn't gotten to them because I was working on the other impossible list he gave me. He hasn't done one of these calls since our daughter was an infant. But his last phone call like that ended with a black eye, a bald patch on my head, two broken ribs and a game of Russian Roulette. I didn't know at the time the gun was empty and that it was just a tac
tic to keep me quiet.

  I had hoped to save more money before I left, but there’s no time to waste. He's been escalating recently, and even though Allison has been asleep during most of it, she knows. She’s seen my black eyes, and she’s heard me struggle to breath because of the excruciating pain. I know she hears my cries; I try holding them in, but at times, I can’t.

  Chapter 1

  Gavin

  I once lived a full and happy life. These days though, life is a dark place. My therapist tells me I'm a textbook case of PTSD, but I disagree. I don't relive the moment I was shot over and over. I don't wake up all hours of the night covered in cold sweat. Death isn't something I fear.

  What I fear is living everyday the way I’ve been living these last few months. I swear to God, if anyone else asks me if I need help, if I’m doing ok, or if they can do something for me, I’m going to flip the fuck out. It’s like they think me being shot turned me into a pussy who can’t take care of himself. I’m still here; I’m still the man I was before. I just need to recover on my time, in my own way.

  After suffering a major stroke during my third recovery operation, I spent several months in a rehab center my parents insisted I go to. While I was there, I saw people with every type of injury come through. Some were there recovering after a “fun” night of drinking ended with them wrapping their car around a telephone pole. Others were there because they were drug addicts who suffered some sort of brain damage after an overdose. The ones that pissed me off the most, that really struck a nerve, were the women who were there. The women who stay in abusive situations making excuses for a man who continually beats her, but who she refuses to press charges against. I don't know how many times I had to hold my tongue when what I really wanted to say to these women was, “Wake the fuck up! You're endangering not only your life, but the life of the cop who has to come rescue you.” Every year cops are killed in the line of duty answering that sort of call. Someone told me once that you can't fix stupid, and I’m inclined to agree.

  Everyone tells me I need to ‘get back out there and start living again.’ I know they mean well, but I was naive before I was shot. I was stupid to believe I could save the world and even more stupid to believe the world was worth saving. I just can’t be that person anymore. The person that believes in, well, anything really.

  To be honest, I don’t want to be a police officer anymore. I've been thinking about it constantly lately, and have come to one conclusion. No matter what I do to serve and protect my community, I can't protect myself or anyone else from plain stupidity. That’s why I’ve decided to take a little time off. I'm going to drive to Kentucky to stay with my grandpa.

  Before I left I tried turning in my badge, but my father wouldn't hear of it. He put me on a leave of absence instead, and told me to take at least six months before I make any life changing decisions. I agreed, but my mind is made up.

  Leaving won’t be easy, I know. But I can’t stand seeing that look in my mother’s eyes anymore. That poor, pitiful Gavin look. My entire family went to Hanson's the other night, and for the first time after I was shot, I felt like we were finally moving forward and that the incident would be put behind us. When we sat down, I decided to buy the first round of beer for my family, but when I went to stand, my mom told me to sit back down and said she would get it. I know she was just being my mom but even then, I could see it in her eyes. I was her little baby who was sick and needed his mommy to get his drink. I never said a word; I just let her get them because I was afraid that if I started to spout off I’d say things I didn’t mean.

  Instead of that night becoming the night we would move on it became the night it reconfirmed my decision to leave.

  Nicola

  Sitting on the ramshackle porch of this tiny trailer, I’m on top of the world. Finally, I’m free after what feels like a lifetime in chains.

  A little over fifteen years ago, I stood before God and my family and I made a promise to love and obey my husband. At the time, I didn’t know how seriously he would take the ‘obey him’ part.

  Though technically I'm still married, well, I think I am. I had divorce papers drafted and before I left, I signed and placed them in the center of the kitchen table. As much as I want to hope he’ll do the right thing, I know there is no way a man like Jason would set me free if he has a choice. But legally divorced or not, I no longer consider myself his wife. I still had a twinge of fear in my gut; I figure I will always have that. I’ll always be looking over my shoulder just to make sure he’s not there.

  The only benefit to marrying an abusive, controlling man is that he never listened to the details that make the difference now. Because of that, there’s no way he would remember me talking to him about this tiny town in Kentucky that my mother was raised in. I only spoke of it once when I suggested we go camping at the caves my parents took me to, when I was little.

  Just thinking about my parents has me realizing the only sadness I’ll ever feel for leaving Jason. My parents don't know where I am and there’s no way they can tell him. I don't worry about the two of them ever returning here. They're both in their seventies and traveling has become increasingly hard on the both of them; especially my dad.

  My daughter Allison walks up to me and squeezes my hand, almost like she knows how much I need it in this moment, “Mommy, you're pretty when you smile.”

  “You think so?” I question playfully, tickling her little tummy until she’s smiling from ear to ear. “I think you're so pretty when you smile.”

  Chapter 2

  Gavin

  Jesus Christ! Aunt Molly warned me about how boring this town is, but I thought she was exaggerating at least a little bit. My memories of this place are of camping, swimming, and warm summer nights on my grandpa’s porch telling ghost stories with my brother and cousins. But I’m honestly dying from boredom being here now.

  I’ve been doing the one thing I never thought I would do and I’m getting a few tattoos. Well, maybe more than a few. My Uncle Evan is covered in them, and I remember as a child my dad teasing him that he looked like a criminal. I didn’t want to be labeled in the same way so I always held off. We all know there’s some sort of darkness that surrounds my Uncle Evan, and for the first time in my life, I can understand it.

  It’s therapeutic sitting on the chair at the tattoo parlor, being able to focus on the continuous buzz of the tattoo machine and nothing else. The tattoo artist is known for being one of the best. He grew up in this town and travels back sometimes giving good deals to the locals. He’s somewhat of a celebrity since he’s done tattoos all over the world, and he’s usually booked solid. Since Grandpa is known by everyone simply for living here his entire life, I got an appointment right away. Every time I go I never feel like small talk, so I always just explain what I want, sit back, and try not to think. The pain as the needle works my skin serves as a much needed reminder that I actually am alive.

  Since it’s noon, I decide it might be about time to get out of bed and see if my grandpa needs any help. As I walk into the bathroom, I can’t help but stare at my own reflection in disdain. I laugh a little and think ‘You look like shit, Stone!’ My hair has grown in a little bit; it’s a far cry from my normal clean, crew cut hair. But that’s not the real shocker; my chest is sporting seven new tattoos and my ears showing half-inch gauges. I need to get a job or something soon. If this keeps up, I’ll become a circus freak.

  After a quick shower, I walk into the kitchen and find my grandpa eating a sandwich.

  “Hey gramps,” I say as I grab a coffee mug out of the cabinet.

  “Good morning, or afternoon I should say,” he replies, eying the newest additions to my chest.

  To distract him from the inevitable lecture, I question, “Do you need anything from the hardware store?”

  “No,” he huffs as he straightens out his newspaper.

  Since I can tell something is bothering him, I ask, “You alright?”

  “Gavin, what are you do
ing? I mean I love having you here of course, but what are your plans? Besides adding more of the devil’s work to your body,” he questions me but only in a harmless, joking manner. He’s a preacher, but I know he isn’t judging me.

  “Well actually, I was just thinking about getting a job. Do you have any leads?”

  I watch as his eyes brighten and he says, “I heard old man Jackson say they’re hoping to hire a security guard or bouncer down at the V.F.W.”

  “The old folks bar down the road? Why would they need security?”

  “Well dementia and alcohol are never a good combination. And it’s not just for old folks, young men who served can join anytime they’d like. But he said there have been a few fights down there lately.”

  I didn’t really want to do anything that required policing people, but this is a small town. If breaking up two eighty-year olds from getting into a fight gets me out of the house for a few hours a night, I’m game.

  Nicola

  “Ok baby, time to get into bed. Mommy is running late for work,” I tell Allison, but it’s no use. She's a barrel of energy tonight.

  “I'm not tired Mommy,” she whines with her big blue eyes looking up at me. It's hard not to give in, but I've got bills to pay.

  “I'll talk to Mrs. Mercer and see if you can watch just a little TV before bed.” This must be enough to satisfy her because she jumps into bed without any further negotiation.

  Once she's lying down, I wrap her tightly, just the way she likes it and kiss the top of her forehead. This simple act, one I do every night still chokes me up every time since we’ve left. Knowing my daughter is safe and away from the boogeyman (in this case, her father) brings me so much comfort.

  As I'm about to turn the lights off, I hear her tiny voice call from the bed, “I love you mommy.”

  “I know, I love you too baby. I'll see you in the morning.”

  Walking out of the house is hard to do. But it's my responsibility to put food on the table, clothes on our backs and to keep a roof over our head now. I don't make a ton of money, but I am so grateful to Mrs. Mercer. She's my landlord and she happens to live just a few hundred feet away from me. At first, I was worried she would want to do a background check or something that may alert Jason in some way as to where we are, but she didn't. Maybe she didn't need to ask questions because she could probably figure out that we were running from something. After all, my car is a beat up Chevy and half the time it doesn't start. We came with one suitcase between the two of us and I paid for six months of rent with cash. It was money I had been able to save over the years without him noticing. I had a budget of two hundred and fifty dollars a week to buy our groceries and essentials. Jason's lack of observation really paid off in the fact that he didn't notice I had started couponing. Saving ten to fifteen dollars every week helped more than you would think. It took three years, but I finally did it.