Falcon (Own the Skies Book 3) Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Emma Nichole

  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 embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Editing: Karen Hrdlicka

  Cover Design: Mary Ruth at Passion Creations

  Cover Image: Adobe Stock

  Table of Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  More By Emma

  Acknowledgements

  Stalk Emma

  To those that believed in me even on my worst days.

  Warning:

  This book contains themes of violence and sexual assault.

  Prologue

  Five Years Ago

  Faith

  There’s an eerie calmness on the sidewalks of campus at four in the morning. The bars have closed, the parties have ended, and for the most part, everyone is tucked away in their beds, sleeping off whatever poison they put into their bodies.

  It’s silent.

  Dark.

  My heels click on the concrete in a haze, creating a sickening rhythm that almost taunts me as I walk.

  Whore. Click. Slut. Click. You asked for it. Click. It’s your fault. Click.

  I can feel the makeup caked onto my face, mixed with sweat and tears. It’s tight and uncomfortable. I want it off. I want to wash this away.

  I want to forget.

  When I finally reach the door to my apartment, I pause on the outside and rest my forehead against it, releasing an exhausted breath. I slide my key into the lock and turn, the click echoes in my ears.

  Everything is different now. Everything feels different. Heightened and numb all the same.

  I step into my apartment and trudge toward the bathroom, but not before locking and relocking my door three more times. I need to make sure.

  I begin to strip away my layers with each step toward the bathroom.

  Through the small foyer, my heels come off.

  Across the living room, my jacket lands on the floor.

  Into my bedroom, my dress slips down, leaving me in my black bra and shredded panties that are barely attached to my body.

  I move into the bathroom, bending over the tub to turn on the shower, leaving the temperature as hot as it can go, allowing the steam to shield me from the world.

  I lift one foot, then the other, climbing into the porcelain tub usually brings me so much comfort, and now all it will do is serve as a reminder of the place I washed away this memory.

  I stand under the scalding water, still in my bra and panties, and finally begin to cry. Full, painful sobs rack my body and scratch my throat. I cry out all of my fear, all of my anger, all of my shame.

  I can feel every touch. The bruising pain of fingers on my hips. The claw marks on my back and thighs. I can still feel him everywhere.

  With a loofah in hand and all the soap in my shower, I scrub the blood his nails drew from my thighs. I scrub the memory away. I scrub away what he did.

  He ruined me.

  Just like he said he would.

  Chapter 1

  Present Day

  Falcon

  There’s only one building that exists on the first turn off Exit 357. It’s a small, warehouse-style bar with neon signs dotting the windows, and when I open the door, smoke billows out in a thick cloud.

  It’s busy for a Thursday night, though I’d venture to guess this is all there is to do in this town. Some country tune is blaring from a jukebox in the corner and men and women of all shapes and sizes chatter, dance, and laugh. I size up the crowd, people watching, if you will. There’s a small group of college-aged girls in the far corner, taking shots and being overly loud. Over by the pool tables, there is an older man playing a game with another man, and judging by their heated stares, it’s getting intense.

  I slide onto a barstool and an older man with a dark tan, clearly from working outside, and graying hair comes to take my order.

  “What can I get you to drink, friend?”

  “Whiskey. Straight up. Fuck it, make it a double,” I say, pulling out my credit card. “Start a tab. It’s been a long day.”

  “You got it.” He takes the card from me, glancing down at the name. “Hey…wait a second.”

  Christ’s sake. Here it comes.

  “Problem?” I ask.

  “You’re not that Marco Masen, are you? Falcon? The fighter.”

  “Nah, but I get that a lot,” I lie. Some days, the recognition is fun, ego stroking, but today, it’s not something I want to deal with. “Funny coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is.”

  His accent is thick and Southern, which can be expected for a Podunk bar in the middle of who the fuck knows where I am right now.

  Texas? Arkansas?

  I look around and see college football memorabilia plastering the walls. High school state champion plaques, college national championship banners, autographed jerseys, and flags. Texas. Definitely Texas.

  I take a deep breath and sigh in complete exasperation. It’s not the bar’s fault I’m too pissed off to enjoy anything today. It is dark in here, which is number one in the pro column, but it smells like cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. There are neon signs decorating the walls advertising multiple types of liquor and beer, and I spot the occasional signed celebrity photo. It’s your average, run-of-the-mill, family-owned bar.

  “Your whiskey, boss.” The middle-aged, tattooed bartender places the glass in front of me. “Just holler for Jesse, that’s me, if you need anything.”

  I raise my glass in understanding before downing a large gulp. He leaves me be and I stare at the amber liquid in my glass, giving it a swirl every now and then.

  “Awfully cute to be looking so damn lonely over here.”

  A saccharine, sickly sweet Southern twang sounds from behind me before a petite redheaded thing slips onto the barstool to my right.

  Ah, yes. The source of the cheap perfume.

  “I’m not alone. Jack is keeping me company.” I motion to my glass.

  “I don’t think Jack there can compare to the company of someone with warm flesh and blood, do you?”

  She lays a pink-manicured hand on my arm and gives me a bit of a squeeze.

  She’s easy, but in that hot way. Too much makeup, too little clothing.

  Falcon from three days ago would have had her bent over my bike six minutes ago, without even blinking.

  But today, it’s not something I’m interested in.

  “Tell me…” I leave the sentence hanging, so she’ll tell me here name.

  “Candy.” She uses her fingernail to trace an outline around the tattoo on my arm.

  Of course, her name is Candy. />
  “Tell me, Candy, can your warm flesh and blood fix the fact I have to retire from the only career I’ve ever known because my body simply won’t cooperate anymore? Or will your warm flesh and blood change the fact I have no fucking idea what I’m going to do with my life when I’m told I absolutely cannot fight anymore? Or how about the fact I’m driving cross-country as we speak to go see my baby sister who has agreed to marry a cop I haven’t even met yet? Haven’t even sized him up or put the fear of God in him yet, and he thinks he’s going to marry Nora?” I tip my glass back against my lips and take a large gulp. “Nah. I need to scare him first. See if he’s man enough for her,” I mutter, almost to myself.

  “Well, I…” She bites her plump lower lip, clearly unsure how to proceed since she is coming to terms with the fact I won’t be fucking her later.

  “That’s what I thought. Now, I appreciate the fact you took it upon yourself to come to me, and make the first move, and while, yes, I wish taking you back to my room and fucking you six ways from Sunday would make me forget all of the bullshit circling in my head right now, it won’t. So, I’m not in the goddamn mood.”

  “Jesus, forgive a girl for trying to make a man happy for the night.” She rolls her eyes and goes back to the other side of the bar with the other coeds.

  I finish my drink and tap the glass on the bar twice. “Jesse…another round.”

  I guess Who the Fuck Knows, Texas is my home for the night.

  ***

  Whoever decided to put blackout curtains in this hotel room deserves a fucking award. My brain feels as if it’s trying to pound its way out of my skull so painfully that I’m seeing spots before my eyes.

  I push myself to sit up, trying in vain to ignore the high-pitched ringing in my ears. I tilt my head back and forth to stretch out my neck. I didn’t have that much to drink last night, so I know this isn’t alcohol induced. At least that is what I tell myself, because I’m not ready to acknowledge what else could be causing this, but if nearly a year of this tells me anything, it’s nothing a hot shower and some ibuprofen can’t fix.

  Two hours later, the haze of the migraine weighs heavily on my head when I straddle my bike to get back on the road. It’s lessening, but it’s still present.

  Just another two days, and I’ll be gracing Savannah, Georgia with my presence.

  I haven’t seen my sister since she left and went back to Savannah last year to be with her best friend and her new boyfriend…well…fiancé now, I guess.

  To say I miss her is an understatement. I’m not used to her being gone when I come home from a fight on the road. This is the longest we’ve ever gone without seeing one another.

  By placing my foot on the kick-starter and thrusting downward, the motorcycle roars to life and I peel out of the parking lot of the hotel and keep making my trek east.

  I’m not even on the road for half an hour when I feel my cell phone vibrating in my pocket. I don’t even have to look to know who, it’s Joe, my manager.

  He’s called nonstop, every single day since I left his office a few days ago, after he told me the trainers and doctors are saying I’ve taken one too many shots to the body and head, and it’s time to start prepping for retirement.

  Fuck that. I’m not stopping. Not yet.

  I walked out of his office, packed a single bag, and hit the road.

  To escape. To think. To process.

  I’ll answer his call eventually. Just not yet. I’m not ready. When my insides stop churning and my mind is clear; then I’ll answer.

  Mississippi passes in a blur. Alabama just the same.

  Before I even realize it, I’m passing by the “Welcome to Georgia” sign.

  I’ve only stopped to take a leak, to grab food, and to sleep. I’ve kept focused on the goal. Getting to the coast.

  The farther I get from California, the better I feel.

  Almost as if there is a weight on my chest and with every mile I move east, the weight drops a pound.

  Faith

  “I’m fine, Mom. I promise.” I cradle my cell between my shoulder and my ear as I stir the pasta I’m making.

  “You say that all the time, but I’m your mother. I worry. It’s my job to worry.”

  I switch my phone to the other ear and hold it with my hand, blowing a piece of hair from my face. “Mom, it’s okay to worry. I know you always will.”

  “I just know what this time of year is like for you…”

  “It’s fine,” I interrupt her sentence. “It’s easier every year, and I keep myself busy.”

  It’s been five years nearly to the day since that night, and I haven’t always handled this anniversary very well. It usually ends up with me being very wine drunk and crying myself to sleep. It’s the one night a year I allow myself to feel the pain, to feel the anger. As much as I want to believe I’ve moved past it entirely, I can’t. The memory always finds its way back to the forefront of my mind sometimes, especially when this time of year rolls around again.

  “Promise me you’ll call me if you need? I could always drive down. Hell, I could even get a flight. I could be there tomorrow.”

  “You don’t need to leave, Mom, you shouldn’t miss any work, and of course, I promise.” I set out to stir my pasta again before scooping a serving into my bowl.

  “All right, well, I’m going to head out to dinner with your dad now. It’s date night in the Morgan household,” she singsongs and I can’t help but laugh.

  “Eat a big slice of cheesecake for me.”

  “Oh, you know I will. I love you, sweetie.”

  “I love you too. Bye.”

  I end the call and scoop up my bowl before walking into the living room and settling down in front of the TV to eat my dinner.

  This has become my ritual in a sense. My way to wind down after a long day at work.

  I’m not a hermit, by any means. I have friends, and I go out and have fun. I date here and there, but I really enjoy being at home.

  It’s a space I can control. A space I’m comfortable in.

  Savannah became my safe haven after I left Tennessee. I visited this city one time with my family when I was a teenager, and I knew instantly this was where I wanted to be. It’s where I needed to be, and when I made that hard choice to drop out of school and leave everything I knew behind to start my life over, there was never a second choice.

  I was going to Savannah and that was that.

  I talked to my parents, took out loans I am still paying back to this day, packed my car, and left.

  I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t know what I was going to do when I got here. All I knew at the time was, I just needed to go.

  I made the best of a shitty situation and I have to say I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I have a beautiful home, a job I love, friends I adore, and I’m growing happier and less anxious every day.

  I made it my goal to live my life in spite of what happened to me.

  I finish my dinner and a couple rounds of my latest Netflix binge before calling it a night.

  That’s me. Faith Morgan. Living my best life.

  I think.

  Chapter 2

  Falcon

  So this is the famous Savannah, Georgia I've heard my sister and Amelia drone on and on about?

  It's pretty, there's no doubt about that. It's hard to deny when I make a left onto the main street off of the highway, and am presented with a tree-lined roadway complete with Spanish moss covered limbs stretching over like a blanket blocking out the sun.

  Victorian era homes run parallel along most streets I venture down, on my way to the address Nora told me was hers. They are multicolored and well kept. It's impressive.

  People of all varieties weave through and across the intersections, soaking up the Southern sun and history of the city. I pass squares and markets. Bars and restaurants. It's a tourist town but doesn't have that "tourist town" feel. It feels like...calm.

  Turning off the street by the river, I take a long causeway towa
rd the neighborhood Google Maps is directing me to. There's a variety of everything here. Mansions, mobile homes, family-sized homes, and apartments. It's a melting pot of everything you could think of, and I'm learning this all from the seat of my motorcycle, driving through town. Who knows what it will be like when I get to really explore?

  The road widens as I ride away from the main downtown area and toward the small island that resides just off the coast. According to the navigation, there is a long causeway that leads from Savannah to an island called Tybee. That’s where my sister’s friend, Amelia, lives, I think, but Nora lives halfway between the city and the island, just off the main road.

  I can smell the salt in the air as I move farther down the causeway. I inhale deeply, letting it sink into my lungs. I never get to the beach enough anymore. Working rarely allows me the time. I make a mental note to head down to the ocean while I’m here.

  I make a left turn into a small neighborhood, dotted with nice-sized homes with tidy lawns and landscaping. It’s not the typical area I could see my sister in. It feels too suburban to me. Nora has always been an apartment in the city kind of gal.

  My GPS talks into my ear and tells me my destination will be on the left. I glance that way and see a small house on the left that is positioned very close to another house. I check the address again then pull into the shared driveway, rolling to a stop then killing the engine.

  I climb off the bike and pull my helmet from my head, leaving it sitting on the seat. I slide a hand through my hair, letting my nails rake against my scalp. That fucking helmet sucks to wear for this long. It gets hot and itchy, but it comes with the territory.

  I raise my hands over my head and stretch out my back a bit, turning in a slow circle, taking in the neighborhood my sister calls home.

  I wasn’t expecting so many trees. I guess I have a misconception of what a coastal town looks like. California has skewed my expectations, I guess. The coastal towns I’ve seen in my life are less…homey.