Heaven and Hell
Kristen Ashley
Published by Kristen Ashley at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Kristen Ashley
Discover other titles by Kristen Ashley:
Rock Chick Series:
Rock Chick
Rock Chick Rescue
Rock Chick Redemption
Rock Chick Renegade
Rock Chick Revenge
Rock Chick Reckoning
Rock Chick Regret
The ‘Burg Series:
For You
At Peace
Golden Trail
The Colorado Mountain Series:
The Gamble
Sweet Dreams
Lady Luck
Dream Man Series:
Mystery Man
Wild Man
The Fantasyland Series:
Wildest Dreams
The Golden Dynasty
Fantastical
Other Titles by Kristen Ashley:
Fairytale Come Alive
Lacybourne Manor
Mathilda, SuperWitch
Penmort Castle
Sommersgate House
Three Wishes
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work
of this author.
*****
Dedication
Once upon a time, I was a girl from a small
town in Indiana who had big dreams of
everything.
Then, at
university at Purdue, I met Kelly Brown who by that time had lived
on four continents.
Then she introduced me to her parents, Pam
and Neil.
They were chic, they were cosmopolitan, they
were cultured, they were well-traveled, they were unbelievably
bright and they were extraordinarily generous.
And they opened my world.
So I dedicate this book to Pam, Neil and
their daughter, my darling Kelly.
Thank you for sharing the world with me.
A Note to My Loyal Readers
In previous works, I appreciate that you’ve
put up with a variety of editing errors, whether you’ve done it
patiently or impatiently. I hope I’ve settled my “past” issues (to
my girl Kate Dobson, thank you for pointing that out).
With
Heaven and Hell,
settling this
was done with the help of Chastity Jenkins, who proofread this book
for me. In the middle, she got pneumonia. I hope you can’t get that
electronically. Thanks, Chas, for having my back.
And again, many thanks to my Facebook members
who keep stepping in to help when I get stuck. This time, I have
Gitte Doherty to thank simply for having a kickass name I could
steal. And Jeanice Monson gave Kia her Cherokee but I had so many
ideas for vehicles thrown my way from members, it was a tough call.
Sam chose the Cherokee.
Sam gives you a big, ole kiss, Jeanice.
*****
Hell
The television was on and I heard him. Like
his voice was a magnet, even though I wanted to avoid that room,
would do anything to avoid it unless ordered otherwise, my body
floated from the kitchen to the living room.
Cooter was in his easy chair watching it
and, automatically, my body stopped nowhere near his chair.
And my eyes were riveted to the television
screen, watching the gorgeous man with his white smile and
intelligent eyes talking to the sports commentators.
They were probably talking about football,
something I had absolutely no interest in whatsoever. But I knew a
lot about it. This was because Cooter lived and breathed football
during football season. He was quarterback at our high school,
popular, hot, God, I’d wanted him. So young, so fit, so talented,
so cool, so beautiful.
And, dream of dreams, when I was a junior
and he was a senior, he’d picked me.
I was in heaven.
Three years later, that heaven turned to
hell.
I heard a yapping but ignored it. This was
Cooter’s dog, Memphis saying hello to me.
When Cooter got Memphis everyone in town was
shocked. Cooter was definitely a pit bull or Rottweiler type of guy
and not because both those types of dogs were really cute but for
other reasons. So when he came home with a brown and white King
Charles spaniel; I was stunned. When he proceeded to dote on that
dog like it was his child, I was freaked. I didn’t think Cooter had
an ounce of affection in him available to give to anyone, no human
and certainly no dog.
But there you go. He did. He adored Memphis.
Completely.
He’d named her Memphis with the declaration,
“Fuck the redcoats,” like the English were still our enemies and
him naming a spaniel after an American city would offend them in
some way that would cause nationwide distress.
Then again, Cooter had a full supply of
animosity for a lot of people, places and things and he kept it
stocked up.
Not to mention, Cooter was the quarterback
of a winning team in a small town that lived football and therefore
he hadn’t had to worry too much about books and, not knowing this
then, but definitely knowing it now, he was scary lazy so if he
didn’t have to do it, he didn’t.
So he didn’t. I wasn’t certain he cracked
open a book throughout high school. But I
was
certain he
didn’t do it in his very short tenure in college.
Therefore, Cooter was not the brightest bulb
in the box.
“
And there he is, folks, Sampson Cooper,
thanks for stoppin’ in, Coop,”
the commentator said and I
watched Sampson Cooper smile.
My heart fluttered.
Sampson Cooper. Very tall. Very dark. Very
beautiful.
I adored him. When Cooter was out of the
house, I internet stalked him. I knew everything about him.
Everything.
Well, everything you could learn on the
internet.
I knew his stats when he played college
ball. I knew his stats when he played pro ball. I knew the exact
day he requested to be released from his contract playing for the
Indianapolis Colts so he could join the Army. I knew he did this in
memory of his brother, who had died in Iraq and he’d died a hero. I
knew this upset Sampson Cooper greatly. I knew, not long after he
joined the Army, he’d disappeared “off the grid” for four years. I
also knew when he came back. And lastly I, and everyone probably in
the world, knew what he did when he was “off the grid” considering
a tell-all (but anonymous) book was written about it and a big
investigation was launched when it was. Therefore, I knew what he
did was dangerous in a way people like me couldn’t comprehend the
level of danger. I knew it was also heroic. And lastly I knew that
he tried to keep a low profile but when he found this impossible,
he’d come out into the limelight and stayed there but I guessed he
did this because, at least, if it was his choice, he had some slim
chance of controlling it.
“
Anytime, Frank,
” Sampson Cooper
replied, his voice deep and weirdly rough, not rough like
sandpaper, rough like velvet.
My stomach melted.
“
Babe!
” Cooter snapped, I jumped and
my eyes shot to him.
Oh no.
He was getting out of his chair and now, ten
years later, he was no longer fit (in fact, he had a serious beer
belly which was only partly due to his copious consumption of beer,
the other part was food and the last part was being seriously
lazy). I’d discovered he was not talented at all. He was definitely
not cool. And he was anything but beautiful.
At the look on his face, my mind became
consumed with what my next move would be. I knew one thing; I had a
fifty-fifty shot at success. I could take a step back and piss him
off more (for whatever reason he was pissed off) which would make
it worse but conversely it could serve as a deterrent, snapping him
out of whatever mood had hold of him, or I could stand my ground
which also led to both options.
Like often happened, I chose wrongly and my
choice was to take a step back.
He advanced quickly and no matter how much
of a beer belly he had, my husband could move.
I didn’t have a prayer to avoid it, I’d
learned that but, still, I tried.
As usual, I wasn’t fast enough.
He got close and backhanded me hard. With
some experience, it was at the upper end of the scale of how hard
he could hit me. I knew this because it hurt like a bitch and also
because I flew to the side and landed hard on a hand and hip, I
lost focus on the pain in my cheek when the pain radiating up my
arm from my wrist took precedence.
Then he kicked me in the back. I bit back my
cry at this new pain focus and thanked God he was only wearing a
sock. When he kicked me, he did it no matter what footwear he was
wearing and since his job meant he had to wear steel-toed boots,
I’d learned a sock was far, far better.
“I said,” he snarled and I sucked in breath
and stared at the carpet, “get me a fuckin’
beer.
”
A beer.
I’d been watching Sampson Cooper, mesmerized
by a beautiful man, a good man, a strong man, a loyal man, a loving
man and I’d missed my husband, who was none of those things, asking
for a beer.
And he hit and kicked me because I hadn’t
jumped at his command.
God,
God,
I hated my fucking
husband.
I stayed prone and kept my eyes from him.
Again, it was a crapshoot how he would react to this.
Luckily, his presence retreated.
When it did, the beautiful Sampson Cooper
was the last thing on my mind.
Getting my husband a beer was the only thing
on it.
So I carefully but swiftly pulled myself to
my feet and got Cooter a beer.
* * * * *
Two months, three days, four hours and
thirteen minutes later…
The doorbell rang.
Memphis yapped at it.
I moved toward it.
Then Memphis yapped at my heels.
I sighed.
I loved dogs. I loved all animals, actually.
Save snakes, they freaked me out. And lizards, they freaked me out
too. And I wasn’t really big on rodents of any kind. No, that
wasn’t true, hamsters were kind of cute.
But I could not pull up any affection for a
dog Cooter loved. It wasn’t that she wasn’t cute, cuddly and sweet,
even to me.
It was just that, anytime Memphis showed me
any affection, it pissed Cooter off.
So I guessed that was it.
I did what I could not to piss Cooter off,
including holding myself distant from our dog, even when he was not
around.
Memphis, of course, had no idea what her
being sweet to me meant. Memphis only knew Cooter’s devotion and
did not get why she didn’t get the same from me. I had to give it
to the dog, she never gave up. No matter how much I ignored her,
she just got cuter, cuddlier and sweeter.
I admired her for that.
I’d given up years ago.
I looked through the peephole and
blinked.
Then my heart started racing.
Then, in the expanse of about three seconds,
my mind flew in a million different directions finally settling on
one.
It was after six o’clock.
Cooter was usually home by five fifteen.
That said, if he wanted to have a beer with
the guys or whatever he did, when he didn’t come home, he did it
and didn’t bother to phone, text or pop home to let me know.
Lately, this happened more often than not. And the lately that
included most recently, Cooter didn’t come home until almost nine
o’clock.
I wanted to enjoy these moments of reprieve
but I couldn’t. Mostly because the time he was away and I was home
I spent worrying about what mood he’d be in when he got home. He
could be drunk and pissed, which did not bode well or he could be
sober and pissed, which also did not bode well, or he could be
either and horny, which was worst of all. Lately, he came back
smelling of beer but not drunk and always horny but in a way that
made my skin crawl even
more
than it normally did at the
thought of him touching me and that was saying something. Nothing
had really changed with our sex life except he got more into it
(which also was not fun for me) and he lasted longer (again with
the no fun part) and it seemed he was getting off on it more, was
more excited and I did nothing (not one thing) differently to cause
that
.
But right then, Ozzie was standing outside
my door.
Barney “Ozzie” Oswald had been Sheriff for
as long as I could remember. He had to be older than dirt but he
still looked fit, spritely and alert. He always looked fit,
spritely and alert.
