Identity Read online

  the tough choices are what makes life

  Years ago, I was the scape goat for a very powerful man and his six sons. I managed to escape and build a quiet life for myself. When the opportunity arose to help others in similar situations, I took it. Now, I’m known in the streets for my talented hand in forgery among other things. Almost anybody a person wishes to become, I can make it happen, well, with the help of my two best friends.

  Arsuilla. Survivor. Savior. I answer to them all. Oh, and voice stealer. I swear, throat punch a guy one time and it’ll stick with you for a lifetime.

  Life is looking up until the six sons find me. At first, I fear they’ve been sent by their father to drag me kicking and screaming back to him. But I soon come to realize, I’ve got more to fear from Anderson, Alejandro, Abraham, Atlas, Alek, and Aric. Like losing my heart to the six brothers.

  This is a Villainously Romantic WhyChoose Retelling with some chuckles, several fearless stunts, and enough determination to rival the sea.

  .

  Identity

  Copyright 2019 © Brandy Slaven

  Edited by Michelle Ann at Inked Imagination

  Cover by K.B. Everly at Everly Yours Cover Designs

  All rights reserved.

  This book is protected under Copyright Laws. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. 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 author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please contact the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this story are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A PEEK AT TOXICITY

  OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  This is for all of you who believe the

  villain deserves their happily ever after too.

  Also, for KB. Without your idea,

  none of these would’ve happened.

  “Gods be damned, Su. You are one beautiful woman now,” Atlas says from his position above me on his elbows.

  I lift my head to capture his lips again. The soft hemp necklace around his neck brushes against my skin with every move he makes. Atlas has the same dark tanned skin as his five older brothers. A product of their forced occupation. That’s about all they have in common.

  Atlas hooks a finger and runs the edge down the tip of my nose.

  “Where’d ya go, Suzie Q? I miss you.”

  He hasn’t called me that nickname in years, and I’m ashamed to admit how much I miss it. I choke back my cry of grief. Even in my dreams, I can’t escape my misery.

  “Well, while I’ve got you here…” he starts before kissing the tip of my chin and leaving me wanting.

  I hold my breath, anticipating his next words, but they never come. As he opens his mouth to speak again, a loud blaring horn fills the space between us. My eyes widen in surprise as I try to comprehend what’s happening, and he clears his throat and tries again. Only to fail with another loud blare.

  Groaning, I roll over and press stop on the stupid alarm on my phone, though, I’d rather toss it across the small space of my studio apartment. With it being a replacement for last month’s bout of anger, I cover my face with a pillow instead.

  Shut away from the world and reality, I let my tears fall. I’ll never show any weakness in front of anyone else again, but this is my safe zone. At least twice a week, my dreams betray me and everything I’ve worked so hard to forget.

  My lips feel swollen from Atlas’s imaginary kisses, and I swear I can still smell the lingering scent of him surrounding me. I miss the fuck out of him. In the same hand, however, I miss his five brothers the same way. They were all important to me in one way or another, which made it six times as hard when I left them. I’ll both never and always regret my decision to leave.

  The alarm goes off again, forcing a low, frustrated growl from my throat. Throwing my pillow off my face a little too hard, it crashes into the small lamp on my bedside table. Of course, the lampshade flies off while the glass portion of the lamp smashes on the floor.

  I curse my rage issues as I let out a puff of air towards the ceiling. There isn’t enough room in this tiny apartment for all that mess. All it would take is one real Hulk tantrum, and that would be all she wrote. This place would be in shambles.

  Sucks about the lamp. It was a thrift store find, though, and easily replaceable. A pillow and lamp short now, and I still haven’t turned off the obnoxious alarm. Letting out another puff of breath, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed before reaching out a finger to touch the off button on my phone. Growling at the broken glass near my feet, I straighten and carefully walk the four steps to the other wall for the broom and dustpan. If I get cuts on my feet from it, that’ll just make me one cranky witch. To save myself and the people that will have to be around me today, I get it swept up and tossed in the trash can in the corner under the sink.

  My hands reach for the ceiling as I stretch the kink out of my spine and come to my feet. Sucking in a deep breath of air, I hold it there for a few seconds before slowly releasing it as I bend to touch my toes. Meditative yoga only lasted for a week before I called it quits, but a couple of the techniques stuck with me. Like this one that I do every morning as I get ready.

  Combining the fact that I don’t set my alarm until the absolute last minute with the time I've already wasted, I’ve got less than five minutes to grab a shower and throw some clothes on. Dropping my tank on the corner of my tiny twin-size wall bed, I pitch my panties in the hamper and step towards the shower in the corner that’s barely big enough to fit one person.

  But, what the hay. I consider myself lucky to even have a shower in this place, despite it taking up space in the ridiculously small twenty by twenty room. The two nerdos across the hall not only have to share a room, but they also don’t have their own private shower. They have to share one with three other apartments at the end of the hall. Now that would be a gigantic bummer. Do I miss the old days of having a private bathroom as big as this room? Nah. Because the one thing I have now that I didn’t have back then is my freedom, and I wouldn’t give that up for anything.

  If I wasn’t pressed for time as it is, the water heater would rush this process. I've got a good seven or eight-minute window before the lukewarm water drops to tepid then to frigid without warning. The first couple of weeks living here, I’d about broken my neck hopping out of the ice-cold spray. One time I even got wrapped up in the shower curtain.

  I’m out in two minutes flat. The whole barely having any hair thing is a major help. Before my life became what it is, my hair was a long, dark mane of thick locks. There was no denying its beauty, but it was always such a hassle. Took forever to wash and dry, not to even mention styling. Some days I wonder if I’ve just told myself those same things so many times now that it must be true, and it wouldn’t have anything to do with keeping my identity a sec
ret from everyone around me. Not even the crazy boys across the hall know my true name.

  Stepping out and towel drying my body to the best of my ability, I run a hand through the dyed white locks on my head. The sides are buzzed, so it’s easy enough to run the top through my fingers and it’s ready to go. Sitting in a salon chair every three weeks for touch ups so my dark roots don’t show is so worth the quick prep in the mornings. It’s the one concession I allow to come out of my budget for my appearance since I don’t splurge on make-up or clothes like a normal girl. There’s a bag stashed inside my bug-out duffle under the sink with some dollar store makeup, but I never wear it. That particular bag is emergency use only.

  I shut those thoughts down quickly. The thought of the duffle reminds me that this isn’t a game. Just thinking about it could jinx everything.

  Humming under my breath to forget about the bags, I try to lose myself in remembering lyrics to old musicals while getting dressed. It’s the middle of the week, so I’ve got to don the old nine to five work uniform. The black slacks and white buttondown is hardly a uniform compared to some, but it’s mild compared to the leather and bright colors of my everyday wardrobe. I’ll wear the clothes they want, but I stick to my guns with my shoes. I’ve been written up several times now for refusing to wear their dress shit. At this point, they’ve given up trying to talk me out of my boots, and if the bosses were going to fire me, they’d have done it a long time ago.

  Speaking of which, I lace them up before covering the tops with the purposely-bought bootcut slacks. Call me a Girl Scout or psycho even, but I slip a small switchblade down the inside of my left one for good measure. Grabbing my soft leather jacket off the coat rack by the door, I double check to make sure I’ve got my keys, headphones, and wallet. The only thing missing is my phone, which I snatch off the now empty table. Without bothering to lift the bed into the wall, I stroll out into the hallway and lock the door behind me.

  Should’ve known I wouldn’t be alone. Orsam is dressed to lady kill in sharp blue jeans and a pastel pink Henley. He’s propped against the wall across from me as he or his brother does almost every single morning, like they’re waiting on me to wake up and make my appearance.

  “What? All alone this morning?” he asks, a sly grin pulling his cheeks up.

  I scrunch my nose at him.

  “Why does that surprise you, funny boy?”

  He covers his mouth with his hand.

  “Because after all that moaning you were doing in there, I was sure you’d brought home a stray last night.”

  Keeping tight control over my face so that I don’t blush, I roll my eyes toward the ceiling.

  “It wasn’t my room you were hearing it from. That was your brother from the top bunk.”

  “Now that’s just all kinds of wrong, witchy woman,” he replies. “You know we don’t have bunk beds in here.”

  Shrugging my shoulders with a smile, I link my Bluetooth earbuds around my neck and pop them in my ears as I take off down the hall towards the stairs.

  His voice calls out, “Be careful driving to work on your deathtrap, witch.”

  I flip my middle finger in the air, and his chuckle follows me into the stairwell right before my music kicks on. The Hollies “Long Cool Woman” rushes into my brain, forcing me to put some dance into my step as I descend. Nothing like a little bit of old school rock and roll to make a day better, especially when your current situation is trying to ignore the sour damp smell of the building in which many people call home. My apartment was scrubbed top to bottom and is as clean as I’m physically able to make it. Considering half my neighbors aren’t as dirt conscious as I am, it tends not to stay that way. I knew that would be the case when I first rolled into town and laid eyes on this filthy place. It was without a doubt where I’d be staying, and it came as no surprise that there was a vacancy. If there were ever a place I’d not be looked for, it would be here. No one from my old life would be caught dead in a place like this, and in my book, that makes it better than perfect.

  Blinding rays of the sun hit me in the face as I open the door leading outside. One could easily forget how dark and dreary the inside is until you’re hit with the brightest flash of warmth by walking out. Sad, but at the same time fantastic thing is, this neighborhood is decent. There haven’t been any car thefts, muggings, or police calls out here in years.

  Which makes people like me supremely happy, because if someone stole my bike baby, I’d trek through hell and high water to get her back. After I erased whoever took her off the face of the planet, and no, I don’t mean killing. I’m not that kind of person. A few clicks on a keyboard and BOOM, I can make someone vanish instantly. Social security number, bank accounts, driver’s license, birth certificate. That kind of dead is better than the other.

  Strutting over to my blacked-out Suzuki Hayabusa, a.k.a. Baby, I grab the helmet off the seat and slide it carefully over my earbuds. Then reaching down, I undo the padlock keeping her locked to the steel pipe running up the side of the building. Just because our neighborhood is safe doesn’t mean I’m dumb enough to take the risk of losing her.

  I zip my jacket up and throw a leg over before bringing her to life. She purrs underneath me in a way that I know is more bite than bark. Baby is no joke. She maxes out at two-hundred and forty-eight miles per hour, clocking in as the second fastest motorcycle in the world. I’ve never gotten her up to that speed, but I’ve come close. She’ll come in handy if the need to jam ever arises. I paid a good penny for her, but not as much as some car owners. That’s a win-win for me.

  Backing out onto the street and doing a quick inventory of my surroundings, I drop into gear and let Baby carry me to work. Orsam wasn’t too far off the marker when he’d wished me off on safe travels. I think he knows me a little bit too well now. If there’s a thrill in something, I’m going to find it. The more adrenaline that pumps through my veins, the more alive I feel. I swore to myself a long time ago that I’d never let my fear control me again. Every day is a task of living each moment of free time as though it’s my last. If I didn’t need those little green pieces of paper the world revolves around, I would be off catching a swell in Hawaii or South Africa. Surfing is one of those life experiences I picked up after moving out here. Just thinking of the thrill has my hand squeezing the throttle.

  When I cruise into the employee parking lot ten minutes later, it’s ten minutes faster than it should’ve taken me. One of the best things about my bike is that she rides so damn smoothly, I can’t even judge speed anymore. I take her over to the reserved half spots for bikes. She purrs appreciatively right before I turn her off and put the kickstand down. There’s no reason to lock her up here because they’ve got security and cameras all over the place. The only thing I lock up is my helmet. It’s an expensive piece of hardware and would be super easy to run off with.

  Making my way over to the steps, I run up the ten of them and finish off with a dancing fist-throwing move a la Rocky at the end. No one is outside to witness like the plethora of other times; not like I give a shit, anyway. I do whatever makes me happy. That power belongs to me now.

  Trying to calm the faster pace of my heart, I run a hand through my hair as I scan my ID card, granting me access to the building. As far as jobs go, mine is acceptable. I’m not working with food or the general public. That’s something at least. My cubicle is in the far back corner like the bosses are afraid someone will come in and judge the place based off my appearance.

  I’m totally cool with it because there isn’t but three of us back here. Less people and less time being social. One of the main reasons I’m so good at what I do.

  I jump into my seat ass first, causing it to spin a 360 before settling down. After I unlock my computer and clock in, my headset goes over one ear while my ear bud still plays in the other, and my first call comes through.

  The workday flies by with only two short breaks for coffee and one for lunch. By the time I’m clocking back out, there’s a pep
in my step and not just from the thousands of dollars’ worth of merchandise I sold over the phone. Yeah, I’m one of those people, but at least I work for a legit company. I don’t sell dirty timeshares to sweet little old grandmas or newspaper subscriptions to the millennial generation. Nope. Nickol’s, named after the owner, of course, sells all kinds of outdoorsy stuff. Anything from kayaks to tents or, my personal favorite, surf boards and scuba gear. One of these days I’m going to manage to save enough money to move somewhere there’s clearer water so I can swim with sharks.

  Maybe I’ll even own another pet octopus while I’m there. I had to leave Kraken behind, and it broke my heart. On second thought, I won’t be getting another because none could take her place. I’ll stick to having the eight-legged pet mollusk tattoo on my shoulder.

  Kraken hasn’t crossed my mind in months. If it wasn’t for the dream with Atlas this morning, I’d be wondering what’s up with nostalgia lane, but I know what caused it. All of it has my feet picking up pace while I barely restrain myself from sprinting out to my bike. There’s only one cure for the anxiety weighing heavy inside of me right now. The risk of the surf is calling my name to calm my nerves for sure.

  Sand slips between my toes, and I adjust my grip on my surfboard as I suck in the salty air coming off the ocean. This is one of the best places to be. My cure-all.

  It’s a short ride from both work and home, and I’ve got a nice little set up going with an elderly lady that lives in one of the bungalows right here off the beach. I pay her fifty bucks a month, and she lets me store my board and wetsuit in her shed. Not a bad deal if I do say so myself. I’ve got a key and can come by anytime. Plus, Baby would make it damn difficult to lug a surfboard all over town.

  My heart beats in time with my step as I make my way down to the water. A long time ago, back before everything turned to shit, I’d loved taking sporadic trips to the beach with Atlas and his brothers. Even back then I could appreciate their fine and tan forms as they tossed a frisbee back and forth.