Detour: A Creekwood Novel (Creekwood Series Book 1) Read online

  DETOUR

  A Creekwood Novel

  A. MARIE

  Copyright © 2020 A. Marie

  Published by Booktickets By AM

  All rights reserved. No part of this book 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 consent of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. No copyright infringement intended. No claims have been made over songs and/or lyrics written. All credit goes to original owner.

  Editing: Sarah Plocher, All Encompassing Books

  Proofreading: Julie Deaton, JD Proofs

  Cover Design: Murphy Rae

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Playlist

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  PLAYLIST

  Music plays a big role in my writing. You can find the full playlist on Spotify

  Everything Is Everything—Ms. Lauren Hill

  Young, Dumb, & Broke—Khalid

  Ain’t No Rest For The Wicked—Cage The Elephant

  Heathens—Twenty One Pilots

  Pretty Girl—Maggie Lindemann

  Issues—Julia Michaels

  Sorry Not Sorry—Demi Lovato

  Taki Taki—DJ Snake Ft. Selena Gomez, Ozuna, Cardi B

  You Should See Me In A Crown—Billie Eilish

  Indestructible—Welshly Arms

  Same Ol’ Mistakes—Rihanna

  Apartment—BOBI ANDONOV

  Play With Fire—Sam Tinnesz, Yacht Money

  Middle Finger—Bohnes

  Head Above Water—Avril Lavigne

  Power Over Me—Dermot Kennedy

  Won’t Go Down Easy—JAXSON GAMBLE

  wRoNg—ZAYN, Kehlani

  Too Good To Be True—Danny Avila, The Vamps, Machine Gun Kelly

  Without Me—Halsey

  Blood // Water—grandson

  I’m A Mess—Bebe Rexha

  Dangerous—Royal Deluxe

  Day Dreaming—Jack & Jack

  Nightmare—Halsey

  Horns—Bryce Fox

  Let You Love Me—Rita Ora

  For the ones who laugh through the pain simply because there is no other choice.

  Detour: taking a roundabout route or alternate route; whether by choice, out of necessity, or possibly even unknowingly at times

  CHAPTER 1

  Angela

  “You ruined my life!” my mother shrieks in my ear as I crane my neck away.

  Tell me something I don’t know, I think to myself, clutching this crappy railing with both hands, hoping it’ll hold firm to the wall until she’s through with her violent fit. Thankfully, at eighteen, I’m stronger than she is. Finally. It wasn’t always that way, what with my mother only being in her late thirties. She started having kids early, very early, too frickin’ early. But now that I can hold my own, she’s resorting to more drastic means. I must say this one tops the dysfunction cake, too, even for her.

  I only have to hold on a little bit longer.

  Arms wrapped tightly around mine, she holds my body to hers, trying to shove me down the flight of stairs in our small townhouse. With my heels dug into the worn Berber carpet and the banister held in a death grip, I’m able to wait her out, letting her tire herself out until she gives up—hopefully.

  She’s telling me what a mistake it was to have me, to give a child of her own flesh and blood a chance at life, and I can’t stop the eye roll begging to be released. Like that’s when her life took a turn. Right.

  Her fourth marriage just imploded, much like the first three, and she’s looking for someone, anyone, to blame. Since she’s pushed almost everyone else in her life away, the blame falls solely on my shoulders. Again.

  Unfortunately, this same song and dance happens about every month or so depending on how her romantic life is going. The problem is always different but the reason remains the same: me.

  Just a little longer though.

  Soon I’ll be out of this house, too. Then who will she blame all her misery on? My older sister, Kelsie, got off easy by choosing, from a young age, to live with her dad after the divorce. According to my mom, he’s the one that got away. Personally, I think she got pregnant at sixteen to trap him into marrying her in the first place. Alas, the marriage didn’t stick through thick and thin like she had hoped, but that hasn’t stopped her from pining after the delusion she sells herself.

  I never had a choice though. In any of it. I didn’t choose to be born, especially not to a life like this, and living with my father was never an option. No, my mom got pregnant with me during a rebound one-night stand shortly after losing Kelsie and her dad. She’s resented me and the regrettable memories attached to that dark time everybody, including dear ol’ Daddy, would prefer to forget. Well, I can only assume since he’s been paying child support each and every month like a woman’s trusty menstruation cycle yet hasn’t bothered with contacting me even once over the years.

  I swear that monthly check taunts me, too. Some days—like today—more than others. I mean his address is right there. Colorado. I’ve never reached out to him though. All too familiar with being unwanted, I don’t need one more reminder what a mistake I was.

  The bite of nails on my wrist brings me back to the moment, and I clench my jaw. Things are getting worse. She’s getting worse. Last time, she threw a plate of food—delivery, of course, since my mom doesn’t cook—at me when her soon-to-be ex-husband didn’t come home for dinner. Before that it was a bottle of hair product lobbed at my head—which I dodged just in time, luckily, only to watch as it splattered against the wall, inches from my face.

  Her grip loosens, arms crumpling like wet pieces of paper, allowing me to relax my grip a fraction. The cheap-ass wood from the banister has begun flaking off into my hands as she approaches the wind-down portion of today’s tantrum.

  She’s sobbing uncontrollably now, and even though the angry streaks staining my hands give me pause, I don’t dare let go yet. She’s like a wild animal—one wrong move could spook her causing my ass to go tumbling down the stairwell.

  These clothes, along with my body, will need to be thoroughly washed after this shit show is over. My mom’s perfume is incred
ibly strong from a healthy distance, like a football field, but with this close proximity I’m afraid the fragrance will seep in forever if I don’t scrub it off immediately. I shouldn’t say I hate anything about my own mother, but, on a list a mile long of things I strongly dislike about the woman, her overpowering floral perfume is high at the top. It almost makes me despise all flowers on principle alone. It’s like she uses it to mask the stench of desperation she’s constantly oozing. If only it worked that way.

  Tiny droplets of sweat fall from her short wavy hair landing on my tense forearm as my feet work to stay rooted to the landing. Her waning exertion is finally taking its toll, and I count down the minutes until this is all over. And not just this, today—I mean all of it: the put downs, the physical attacks, the all-out psychological warfare my mother has become proficient in. How much is enough? When will it all end? And at what cost? Because with Rianne, there’s always a price.

  Just a little longer.

  Now she’s leaning her full weight on me in a childlike manner, leaving no doubt in my mind that the perfume has spread to my person from the heavy contact. Damn it. Slowly releasing the rail, I spin toward her—keeping my back to the wall rather than the empty stairwell—and wrap my arms around her thin, trembling frame.

  The few steps to her bedroom feel like miles as I guide her inside. Her body shaking with sobs, she shuffles into bed before I tuck the blankets loosely around her. I can’t console her like she wants. Like she expects. That stopped a long time ago. All I can do now is weather the storm that’s sure to pass just as quickly as it blew in. I’m not the villain here and I refuse to be her victim. I’m just surviving until I can get the hell out of here.

  With that thought, I grab the tweezers from the bathroom to remove the slivers that have embedded themselves in my palms knowing it’ll be easier than extracting myself from this hell hole when the time comes.

  Just a little longer.

  CHAPTER 2

  Angela

  2 Months Later

  I sigh, taking in my small apartment. Small is actually an understatement. More like tiny. Minuscule. What word did the landlady use again? Micro.

  A micro studio apartment, but it’s mine and it’s absolutely perfect.

  My mom and I never lived anywhere big or fancy save for that short stint with husband number three when we actually lived in a house. Not a shitty house either like the marriage before that, but a decent one with a bedroom just for me that I got to paint whatever color I wanted. I mean I didn’t, knowing we’d be out of there before the paint could even dry, but having the option mattered more than painting the room itself.

  Between husbands, and live-in boyfriends, and whatever the hell else title my mom would use to describe her many suitors over the years, we would bounce around from dumpy apartment to dumpy apartment, each one crappier than the last, until my mom’s crazy would show, getting us evicted. That or the unpaid rent would finally catch up to her, forcing us to flee during the night in order to escape criminal charges for essentially squatting for months at a time.

  Not anymore though. History will not be repeating itself. What the local car wash I work for lacks in hourly wages more than makes up for with tips affording me a chance to live on my own before high school is even over. That paired with the measly savings I was able to stash away are what got me into this micro studio a month before I graduate. With my mom’s freak-outs getting increasingly worse, I couldn’t wait until graduation. So, when the apartments next to my school posted a vacancy within my meager budget, I ran over during lunch break to fill out the application. Upon paying the deposit, I was handed the keys to not only my first place but my long-awaited shot at freedom. Freedom I’d been holding out hope for since I was too young to understand just how much it would actually cost. More than money, more than wishful thinking, more than anything I could’ve anticipated. But after years of tireless work, both mentally and physically, I’m finally here; move-in day, but more importantly, move-out day.

  Today begins my chance to break from the dilapidated mold my mother haphazardly cast for me years ago—eighteen to be exact.

  Drew, my ex-stepbrother, shuffles through the door carrying an overstuffed box, asking where he can set it. With a jerk of my chin, he takes the couple steps to find the bedroom portion of my studio, it really is small in here, then drops the box full of shoes next to the bare bed.

  Drew’s father was the one with the big house matched with even bigger expectations of a blended family involving the Great and Formidable Rianne and her munchkin. It’s safe to say he did not find his happily ever after following that yellow brick road.

  Drew, having the same sixth sense all kids and animals have, wisely chose not to visit his father all that often during the short marriage to my mom, but when he did, we were inseparable. A couple years older than me, Drew had no trouble slipping into the role of protective big brother once he witnessed my mother’s harsh treatment. Fortunately, instead of going our separate ways after the divorce, our relationship changed from part-time siblings to full-time best friends. Due to the constant upheaval, in both the physical and emotional sense, I was never able to make any long-lasting friendships, so Drew’s been the one constant in the last several years. Now that we’re older, we don’t get to see each other as much, particularly with his new girlfriend in the picture, but we still make it work when we can. His girlfriend, who lives in Portland, isn’t the biggest fan of our close bond which I can understand. I get how it may look on the outside, especially given my mother’s track record with men—she only keeps guys around long enough to get into their wallets with hopes of reaching their bank accounts soon after—however, even considering I’m nothing like my mother, I’ve only ever seen Drew as a brotherly figure. A relationship I fully cherish.

  “Want me to help you unpack?”

  “And have you put things where they don’t belong? No thanks,” I snicker.

  “What do you mean?” Arms out, he gestures to the cramped space. “There’s only one room.”

  Waving him off, Drew follows me to the door, glancing around on our way out.

  We find one small box left in my Jeep that I reach for before he stops me with a hand on mine.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay the night?”

  With a shake of my head, I tell him, “Not tonight. I need to do this by myself.” It’ll be my first official night in my first official apartment and I want to face it alone. A test of sorts to prove I not only can, but will, make this dream a reality. “Plus, I need to get used to the noises and smells of my new neighbors.”

  Drew’s mouth dips. “Smells?”

  “Yes, smells.” I roll my eyes playfully. “With my windows open, I’ll be able to smell all kinds of things from the people living around me.” He knocks my hand away when I try to ruffle his auburn hair, not that I could what with all the gel he uses to keep it in place. “Oh, that’s right. You’re not used to living in apartments, are you, rich boy?”

  Now he’s the one rolling his eyes.

  “I don’t like the idea of your windows always being open. You’re a young, pretty girl living all by herself. People might notice and try to take advantage of that.”

  Hands in the pockets of my shredded shorts, my oversized cardigan falls off one shoulder from the steady breeze making this otherwise hot day bearable. The loose white tank peeking through conceals the nerves in my stomach leaping about just beneath.

  “They won’t be all the time. Just at night when the temperature drops.”

  Drew’s already shaking his head. “It’s like eighty degrees at night still. What the hell is opening your windows going to do besides invite perverts in?”

  Is he serious? “Save money.” Duh. The truth is he doesn’t get it. Drew’s never had to skimp and save for everything he has. He’s never had to go to the store, paying with lost change he scrounged for. “Also, I’m on the second floor so it’d be pretty hard for someone to get through my window.�
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  Drew just shakes his head again, refusing to argue, instead leaning in to envelop me in a hug. He knows he’s in uncharted territory when I bring up money, or more accurately the lack thereof, and he’s smart enough not to push me on the issue.

  Minutes pass as we breathe each other in before he speaks. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Please don’t go soft on me now. I moved out. People do it every day. I survived a crappy childhood. People do that every day, too.” Stepping back, he releases me but holds me at arm’s length, neither of us ready to let go quite yet. “I just…I want to be free. You know?” I don’t want to lug my mom, or the baggage she’s saddled me with, around with me for the rest of my life.

  Eyes penetrating mine, he says, “I know. But that’s exactly why I’m proud of you. You’re breaking the cycle. You’ll do better. You. Are. Better.” The way Drew grits out each word makes them that much more believable. Kind of. “I just hope she lets you go. I don’t want her popping back up, trying to drag you down to her level.”

  With a sigh, I sidestep him, glancing at the lone box labeled KITCHEN. I filled it with supplies I bought from the local discount store. Not that I know how to use any of them or anything; I just felt like it was the adult thing to do. Baking sheets? A spatula? Not sure what those would ever be used for, but one day I’d like to learn how to cook and those seem like important pieces in helping with that.

  “Me, too. She doesn’t know which apartments I moved to though, just that I’m still in the area.” I thought that was close enough. “And since she despises the idea of earning an honest living, I doubt she’ll bother me at work. Those checks should do a good job holding her off, at least for a little while.”

  When I first broke the news I was moving out, my mom went into full panic mode, scrambling for any excuse to keep me under her roof. For a woman who hates the very idea of me, I thought she’d be thrilled to finally see me off. Instead, she freaked, which I figured had less to with losing her youngest and more to do with the loss of the child support she receives while “caring” for said daughter. I offered her the two remaining checks as a sort of peace treaty to which she jumped on faster than a party of sugar-crazed toddlers at a trampoline park. How long it’ll last is anybody’s guess but I just needed out from under her cruel thumb and money was the quickest way of accomplishing that. I kept the exact location of my new place a secret in hopes of buying myself more time without her.