Redemption rising from t.., p.1
Redemption (Rising From the Ashes Book 1), page 1
T Bell
Redemption
Copyright © 2007 by T Bell
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Parts of this book were originally published on Kindle Vella.
Cover: Ya’ll That Graphic
First edition
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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To the ones who are lost and the love that helps light our way.
Life doesn’t always have to make sense in the moment. Spread your wings and find all the versions of yourself.
Contents
ALSO BY T. Bell
Author’s Note
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
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Epilogue
About the Author
ALSO BY T. Bell
Montgomery Brothers
Letters of Grace
Letters of Faith
Rising From the Ashes
Redemption
Coming Soon: Penance
Author’s Note
Please note this book has triggers regarding mental health, anxiety, suicide, and self-worth that are handled with as much care, sensitivity, and validation as possible.
Chapter 1
Mallorie Jade
The blistering heat beams down, causing my shirt to stick to me like a second skin. This is why I’m not a summer girl. I despise the heat—always have. I don’t understand wanting to bake like a cookie under the sun. Give me a crisp fall day any day of the week, but this heat—well, it feels like every wrong decision I’ve ever made.
I’m counting down the seconds until I can get back in my car and crank up the air conditioner, but that can’t happen until I take care of my tire that’s flatter than my cousin Tilly’s hair—and that’s only if I can stop thinking about the way my ponytail clings to the back of my neck.
Ripping the offending hair off my skin, I wrap it around the rubber band once, twice, three times until it’s tight in a bun. One problem solved, and a million more to go.
The Southern heat is suffocating as rivulets of sweat drip down my back. After six years, this is not how I imagined returning home. I mean—I didn’t imagine coming back at all, but here I am, starting off spectacularly.
It feels like God is having a good laugh at my expense because I made plans—detailed and specific—and I watched them all tumble to the ground like dominoes, one after another. Now I’m back home, in a town that lacks a stoplight but makes up for it in the number of nosy people because that’s the thing about small towns—they love their gossip. It’s part of why I left—I was sick of being at the center of it.
When I left, I did so in a blaze of glory, burning bridges with all the people who could never see past my last name. In hindsight, burning those bridges wasn’t my best idea, but in my defense, I was angry and heartbroken. Plus, I didn’t think I would ever step foot in this town again, so there’s that.
A breeze drifts across my heated skin, giving me a small reprieve. I’ll take what I can get.
My fingers scream in pain as I give another shove at the tire iron. I’ve worked on this one lug nut for the past twenty minutes without it moving an inch.
If it weren’t so hot, I would give up and walk the rest of the way to town, but I might have a heatstroke before I make it there today.
With one last shove, it breaks loose, and I throw my hands up in victory. To anyone passing by, I probably look like a lunatic, but I’ve learned not to care what people think about me—you have to when you’re the family disappointment.
My victory is short-lived because the voice in my ear chirps through my headphones, reviewing the next steps for replacing a tire, and I’m reminded that I still have four more lug nuts to go.
I’m an idiot for having headphones on while on the shoulder of the road. As a nurse, I’ve seen too many cases where cyclists were clipped by a car because they couldn’t hear them coming, but no one ever bothered to teach me the one-two-threes of being stranded. Instead, they taught me proper fork placement, and, as much as I would like it to, Southern Belle training isn’t helping me now.
If I do get run over, I’m adding it to my list of things I blame my mom for.
Always expected perfection—check.
Party planning over life skills because there are people for that—check.
Changing a tire—well, someone else can do that.
Rewinding the video to the exact spot I need it, I put the tire iron back into place.
“Please just give me a hand, God—just a little one, okay?” I say, placing my foot on the iron and shoving my weight against it. The prayer is futile. God and I haven’t been on speaking terms for a while—my fault, but still.
The iron doesn’t budge.
I let go of it, heat rising to my ears as, for a millisecond, I lose my temper, but, in two breaths, I’m reining it back in—gaining control of the situation. I am twenty-seven years old. I can’t afford to lose my head. If I’m going to survive being back home, I have to maintain control.
Swiping my forearm against my head, I wipe sweat from my brows, and as I start to lean back down, something heavy lands on my shoulder.
My heart jumps into my throat—the beats thrumming in my ears.
In two seconds flat, I have the tire iron back in hand, swinging it around with my eyes closed. My survival skills may be minimal, but I refuse to be the victim of a serial killer.
There’s a crunch as the metal connects and reverberates through my hand, the vibration sending a painful shock through my arms. It hurts more than I thought it would.
How I managed to connect with anything solid is beyond me.
“Stay back,” I say, gripping the tire iron in my fist. “I have pepper spray in my car, and I’m not afraid to grab it.”
“Ma’am,” a nasally but deep and somewhat familiar voice starts, “put the weapon down.”
Peeking one eye open, I immediately wish I had kept it closed because in front of me stands one of the reasons I left town, and blood pours out of his nose, dripping onto his police uniform. My eyes drift from the blood soaking into his shirt, past the strong line of his jaw, to his eyes that warn me of the storm.
Looking up, I mutter, “Are you ever going to stop punishing me, God?”
I swear I hear a chuckle rumble in the sky, and when I look back down, electricity crackles through the air when I meet those dark eyes again.
“Hi, Hayes.”
______________________
The first day I met Hayes Miller wasn’t much different than how I’m meeting him now. He was wearing a police uniform and arresting me—except he was five and I was four.
Hayes was new to the town, and Benton Falls, Alabama, being the town it is, doesn’t welcome outsiders.
My brother, Langston, was different from the rest of the town. His heart couldn’t take it when things were broken. A dog with a limp, a cat with a gash, a boy with the saddest gray eyes I have ever seen—it didn’t matter what it was. He took them all under his wing. I think my brother recognized a kindred soul in the wounded things he brought home.
Langston brought Hayes home that day, and I remember noticing his eyes. Even then, there seemed to be a storm swirling in the gray of his irises. I always found that storm fascinating until I learned—too late—that it was heartbreak lying behind that stare.
The irony of that day is not lost on me now as I sit in the back of Hayes’s cop car with handcuffs around my wrists.
“Hayes,” I say, trying to keep the anger behind my words hidden. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar—or so I’ve heard.
He doesn’t bother looking up—too busy messing with his compu
Screw the honey.
“Hayes,” I snap. “This is ridiculous. I’m going to tell your mom about this.”
His shoulders tense, and he meticulously shuts the computer—still not giving me the time of day.
I’ve hit a nerve. I can tell by the way his jaw ticks as he grinds his molars together.
He should remember that ignoring me only makes me more determined.
“I’m in the back of a police car like a common criminal. It was self-defense. You can’t hold me here.”
I don’t add that I’m five minutes inside the city limits of Benton, a town with a population of 1,500 people, it’s broad daylight outside, and the possibility of him being a serial killer is slim to none. I don’t think any of that will help my case.
He takes his time turning around to face me, and I brace myself for looking into those eyes again. There’s only so much a girl can take in a day.
My breath hitches when his gaze clashes with mine, and from how his lips lift into a smirk, causing his dimple to pop, I’m positive he noticed.
“MJ,” he says, as my eyes stay glued to his lips. “You bloodied my nose with a tire iron, and there’s a real possibility it’s broken. That’s assault of an officer—maybe I should tell your mom.”
Letting out a huff, I shake my hair over my shoulders, trying to appear nonchalant, but I’m in handcuffs, for Pete’s sake, and the nickname sends a wave of pain radiating through my chest.
I hate that nickname. I haven’t heard it since I left, but hearing it now opens up wounds I thought were healed.
I narrow my eyes. “It was an accident.”
“More like revenge,” he mumbles, turning back around in his seat and putting the car in drive.
It hits me that I don’t know anything about this version of Hayes. I cut off everyone when I left. I was looking for a fresh start, away from the judgment of this town—away from him. It was my retribution and saving grace at the same time.
“Go ahead,” I say. “I dare you. Let’s see who gets in trouble faster—me or you. My money’s on you.”
Dark eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, unyielding and rigid. I stick my tongue out to punctuate the sentence—like the mature adult I am. His eyes tighten at the corners, but that’s the only reaction he will allow himself. I have never met someone so in control of their emotions. Growing up, pushing his buttons was my favorite thing to do. I lived to try to get a reaction out of him.
“While you’re at it,” I continue, “why don’t you tell her you’re still calling me MJ? I bet she reacts quicker to that than telling her I’ve been arrested. Unfairly—I might add.”
My mother is a true Southern Belle, and it almost killed her the first time she heard Hayes call me MJ. Her exact response was, “My goodness, honey, I know it’s not your fault, being how you were raised and all, but around here, we address a lady by her name. My daughter’s name is Mallorie Jade. I would appreciate it if you did not contribute to her tomboy tendencies by referring to her as anything other than her God-given name.”
Hayes’s eyes flick back to the road, and I take the momentary reprieve as a chance to look at the man he has become. His jaw-line has sharpened over the years, making the transition from teenage boy to rugged man. It’s made more apparent by the scruff along his face. When I left, his beard was patchy at best. Now, the dark stubble accentuates the sharp line of his jaw. The ball cap on his head hides most of his hair, but the close shave at the back of his neck is a lot neater than he used to wear it. Broad shoulders fill out his uniform, which leaves no question as to whether he can take down a criminal on the run.
Not that I had been thinking of running. Well, not that I’ve seriously considered it.
I bring my eyes back to the mirror, but he’s already looking at me again. The smirk is back, and this time it’s dark—dangerous.
A shiver runs down my spine. If I were smart, I would look away—refuse to play the game, but that would give him all the power.
The smirk stays as he stares at me, and his eyes darken. Then he blinks, and a cold mask shutters over his face—replacing the fire with cool indifference.
“Fine, I’ll make you a deal,” he growls. The timbre of his voice leaves pebbles along my arm. It promises something dark and exciting—an adventure that will be hard to turn down, but I’ve had my adventures with him—they left me broken.
“No.”
I wait for him to argue, to get me to play the game like we used to, but he shrugs one of his broad shoulders and remains quiet.
The sound of the tires against the pavement fills the silence, but just like every time in the past, I’m pulled to him.
“But—tell me anyway.”
A gruff laugh shakes his shoulders, and he says, “I’ll call your mom when I get to the station, and when I tell her what’s going on, I’ll use the nickname—whoever she yells at first is the loser.”
“What’s the prize?” I ask grudgingly.
He turns his head so I have a view of his side profile. The dimple is back, and it does funny things to my heart.
“If I win,” he says, “you have to visit your brother, and if I lose, well—I won’t.”
The air sucked out of the car at the mention of Langston—the backseat doors closing in on me.
“Pick a new prize, and I’ll play the game.”
His smirk turns into a full smile as I study his side profile.
“Take it or leave it.”
My eyes shoot daggers at him as I glare—hoping he can feel all the contempt burning in my veins. It’s not just this challenge that he’s proposed, either. It’s everything—being arrested, returning home, having to leave home in the first place.
I want him to feel all of it because there’s a bitterness that’s rotted in my soul since the day I left. I need him to pay for the mistakes we both made. But, most of all, I want to forget the sharp pain, full of regret, that has remained lodged in my chest, never going away, so that’s why I find myself saying, “You have a deal.”
A slow grin spreads across his face, giving me chills. Whether those chills are from the consequences of making a deal with the devil or the way that smile only increases his good looks, I can’t say, but I do know those chills aren’t good for either of us.
Chapter 2
Hayes
Someone is pranking me—laughing at my expense. That’s my only explanation for the ache in my nose and the little she-devil in the back of my car.
There’s one thing this town is good at—gossip. I’ve learned if you keep your ear to the ground and sit back and listen, people reveal more than they want you to know, but I knew nothing of this. Not one person let it slip that MJ was coming back home. Which begs the question—why? Why didn’t I hear about this?
Whatever the answer, I’m blaming my broken nose—and the predicament I’m in now—solely on the shoulders of this town. They let me down.
The problem is that the pain in my nose tickles compared to the shock of looking into those ice-blue eyes again and remembering every ounce of pain in them six years ago. Those eyes have been the star of my nightmares since the day she left.
We were broken then—still are, seeing as she’s sitting in the back of my cruiser after breaking my nose.
Chancing a glance in my rearview mirror, I find her staring out the window. Her brows are pulled together, and there’s a pout on her lips. There’s a pinch under my ribs, and I pull my eyes back to the road.
She hasn’t changed—still the same spitfire with brilliant red hair and a spark in her eyes that threatens to melt the iciness of their color.
I shouldn’t have made the bet. I should have uncuffed her, finished changing the tire, and sent her on her way, but that would have been contrary to who we’ve always been to one another.
We are jagged pieces of broken glass, digging deeper into the wounds we’ve created. My reaction was not something I could control—not with her.
It’s been six years since we’ve talked. We are strangers now. She made sure of that, but even now, sparks ignite in the air when I look up again and find her staring back at me.
She glares at me—declaring war with just one look. Gray eyes against blue—fighting for the victory of dominance. My heartbeat picks up—maybe I’m having a heart attack.
