Paradox (Pearson Sisters Series Book 1) Read online

  Paradox

  Pearson Sisters ~ Book One

  C.A. HARMS

  Paradox

  Copyright © 2019 by C.A. Harms.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: October 2019

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-781-6

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-781-X

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  Take a moment to stop and look around you. Everyone has a story, and everyone struggles, some worse than others. Don’t be so quick to judge, for one day you may be the one needing help while everyone blindly passes you by without a second glance.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  I stare at her.

  The woman who is responsible for so many of my memories. All the sunny afternoons I would sit on the front porch of my childhood home and she would give me grape Kool-Aid and the best homemade chocolate chip cookies. All the late nights I would wake up scared and she would be the one to comfort me, doing her best to chase away the monsters that haunted me in my dreams. Many times she’d hum a soft, soothing tune until I’d fall back to sleep. If that didn’t work, she would tell me a story, one of happy times to wash away the nightmare I’d awoken from.

  She’s my mother, and though she may still look like her in a sense, she is no longer the same woman I remember from all those memories.

  One fateful night, one wrong turn, and one man who thought it was okay to drink and drive. In one single moment, everything I knew and cherished changed. Now here we are left to deal with the aftermath of someone else’s poor decision. I sit at her bedside while she lays perfectly still, only the simple rise and fall of her chest as she takes in slow breaths. She stares at the wall as if it tells her everything she needs to know.

  There’s nothing but silence. Nothing but dread, which leads to anger, then settles deep within me, scolding and building to something so unpredictable at times it scares me.

  I spend every day watching her being fed, bathed, and dressed. Each time it breaks my heart a little more. To watch a woman that was so full of life become this empty version of herself is crippling.

  They say she can hear me, but I’m not sure she can. I don’t know if she knows who I am anymore; all I do know is every day I wake up, go to work, come here, and sit by her side. When I leave, I return home for what little sleep I can get before waking up to repeat the entire thing all over again. I am all she has, and I won’t abandon her.

  My father already has.

  He couldn’t handle the state my mother was in after the accident. The idea of taking care of her for the rest of his life terrified him. What kind of man does that? What man runs out on the woman he vowed to love and protect through the good and the bad?

  A heartless bastard, that’s who, but I’ll never leave her. I’ll always take care of her, no matter the cost.

  I work my ass off to pay for her housing at Evergreen Estates. It’s expensive, but she’s worth it. I’m not sure honestly if she would know the difference between this place and another, but I know, and I refuse to act as if she deserves nothing less than the best. She’s already had one man walk away from her without looking back; I won’t do that to her, too.

  I’d continue to live in an empty house, eating cheap cereal and microwave popcorn, if it meant she stayed here, safe and cared for.

  She’s my mother, the first woman I loved, and until her last breath, I’ll be by her side. Even if seeing her in this state breaks me down a little more each day.

  I’ll protect her, and I will never walk away.

  Chapter One

  Shane

  I yawn for what feels like the hundredth time since I left the bar as I pull up into my driveway. Putting my car in park, I cut the engine and notice the light on next door. A house that has been empty for weeks, months even, no longer looks deserted. Seeing a U-Haul parked outside, I lay my head back against the headrest and stare at the front window. Why, I have no idea. I’m sure it had more to do with my sleep-deprived mind than actual interest in my newest neighbor. The street I live on is lined with rental properties, small one- and two-bedroom homes owned by the same man. I think over the last year, more than half a dozen renters have been in and out of the neighboring home to mine. It’s not uncommon to see people come and go without ever getting the chance to meet them even once. But I’m not the friendly neighbor type that makes it a point to introduce myself. I prefer my privacy. Other than doing a lot of little minor jobs and upkeep for the property owner himself to cut back on my own rent, I generally stay to myself.

  I hear a loud bang, one of a door slamming just before a shadowed figure steps into the light provided by the single street lantern positioned between our two driveways. I can’t see much but know that the shadow belongs to a woman. Barefoot, it seems, she practically jogs to the U-Haul, jumping into the backend and climbing up quickly. Again more shuffling echoes in the night, the sound of something heavy hitting what I assume to be the floor of the U-Haul just before she jumps down out of the truck and pulls the large door shut at the back. It bangs, then she slides a lever or something to the side before stepping back again, her figure illuminated by the streetlight.

  A few seconds later, she jogs back across the front of the yard, pulls open the screen door, and goes back inside, once again allowing it to bang loudly as it shuts. My nostrils flare with irritation. Could she be any louder?

  I sit for a few more minutes, my mind lost in my day, lost in the numerous tasks I had completed, all of it blending together, feeling as though it has been days since I’ve had a decent night’s sleep. My arms feel weak from hour
s of manual labor, followed by slinging drinks for close to five hours after my shift at the shop. My feet are killing me; the need to take off my boots and prop up my feet is long overdue. My back aches, but I have no other choice; if I don’t bust my ass day in and day out, then my mother will be the one to suffer.

  I don’t know how long I sit in my driveway, keys still in the ignition as I stare off at nothing in particular. Time tends to escape me often. Feeling myself start to relax, I know if I don’t head inside soon, it will only be minutes before I fall asleep in my truck. It also would not be the first time it’s happened, either.

  Dragging my ass up the driveway, climbing the two steps leading to my front door, I place the key in the lock and twist it slowly. Feeling extremely sluggish, I turn the handle and push forward. Stepping inside, I turn on the light and pause, looking around my small living room. Memories of my childhood engulf me as I take in the furniture that is older than me. Pieces of the life my parents built fill my space. Most items I sold after the accident, those belonging to my father, were the first to go after he ran out on my mother. I only kept what I knew in my heart she’d be sad to part with had she been alert enough to know.

  The brown suede couch is old and has seen better days. In a few places, the material has begun to wear and is now so thin you can almost see right through it. A large blanket is draped over it to protect the little barrier it has left. Almost every spare dime I have goes toward my mother’s housing; very little do I keep for myself, only for the necessities.

  Taking in a deep breath, I turn and flip the lock on the front door and find my way to the couch. Kicking off my boots, I lay down on the wrecked sofa and cover my eyes with my arm. Tonight’s visit with my mother weighs heavy on my mind, making it next to impossible to relax enough for sleep. Her therapy, the sight of her being fed, followed by being cleaned up like a toddler, shatters my fucking soul. It kills me that I can’t help her, that I cannot somehow make things better for her. I can’t go back to the day of the accident and erase the past. Instead of her getting in that car, if she remained home making dinner or maybe one of her famous desserts. I imagine more than I should her standing in our old kitchen frosting a cake or decorating cookies with the look of pure determination to make them just right. The way she would spend hours cutting up fresh peaches or apples to create more pies than we could eat. The neighbors got used to her knocking on their doors to leave one of her creations for them to enjoy. Our own small town Betty Homemaker. I know she secretly loved the praise they always gave her after indulging in her baked goods.

  Knowing that I’ll never get the chance to see that again is something I’ll always have difficulty coming to terms with. It hardly seems fair that her life has been altered by one person making a very poor choice. I spend most of my days angry, furious even. Not only did that day take my mother, but it also took the man I once was, the man I could have become.

  It changed me.

  Feeling my body give way to the hours without sleep, my arms and legs grow heavy and my breathing deepens. I let my mind wander to a time when things were easier. A time when sitting around with friends, having a few beers, and watching whatever game was playing at the time was a normal thing to do. A time when spending hours in the gym going a few rounds with the guys was a way to blow off steam while getting a good workout didn’t leave me feeling guilty afterwards because I was taking time away from my mother.

  ***

  Throwing one punch after another, Slate chuckles while attempting to hold on to the bag.

  “Slow the fuck up, man.” He holds on firmly, looking over his shoulder to Brock and Sam, who watch from a few feet away. “One of you assholes come over and hold this thing.”

  I throw a few more punches and hear the grunting of Slate. It fuels me, enjoying the struggle he is obviously dealing with.

  “You’re doing a fine job.” Brock crosses his arms over his chest, and I smirk, knowing the guys are giving Slate shit. “Watching you get tossed around like a girl is entertaining.”

  “Dicks,” Slate mumbles before he stumbles when I throw another punch, connecting with the bag.

  I pause, taking in a deep breath, and then without warning, I cut loose. One strong punch, then another, and I don’t stop. The sounds of my fists hitting the bag echoing around me grows louder and louder with each jab.

  Each blow sounds as though it’s reiterating until it reaches the point where it begins to hurt my ears.

  I pause, my body feeling weakened, my hands hanging at my sides. Only the sound of the bag being hit doesn’t stop. It continues on, growing louder and louder as I reach up to cup my ears, trying to block out the sound. I look past the bag, seeing my friends staring back at me, laughing and carrying on as though they don’t hear the same things I’m hearing. Their mouths are moving but I can’t hear what they’re saying over the continued thumping in my ears.

  My body jerks in surprise, and I sit up, looking around to find that I’m in my living room. The same small house that I have lived in for the last three years. Only the sounds I was hearing in my dream continue on around me, though they don’t resemble that of a fist hitting a bag, but that of a continuous hammering sound instead. Loud smacks, only to pause a few minutes, then pick back up and begin again.

  Reaching around to my back pocket, I pull my phone free and see that it is barely after seven in the morning.

  Irritation rolls through me. Sitting up on the couch, I move toward the sound. Peering out the small window above my sink, I see the garage door on the property next door is open wide and the music that bellows out the opened window accompanies the continuous noise of hammering.

  Frustration rises within me. Doing my best to hold back, I brace my hands on the countertop and hang my head. For months nothing, no movement, not a fucking sound, and now I’ve got a disrespectful neighbor that finds this shit to be okay at this early hour.

  The hammering stops, and for a second I feel like maybe I can let it all go, then another sound fills my ears.

  “What the fuck?” Before I have a chance to stop myself, I’m pushing off the sink and marching toward my front door. Yanking open the door, I push the screen door and don’t even attempt to keep it from slamming shut behind me. In three long strides, I’m on my driveway and rounding the side of my house. My hands are fisted in an attempt to rein in my aggravation, and I have every intention of telling the sorry son of a bitch next door to cut the fucking racket when I’m met with a dog on all fours that is as tall as my waist.

  As if it is guarding the garage, I am staring into the eyes of a St. Bernard. I’m frozen, watching, waiting for it to move, only it continues to watch me with curiosity.

  I didn’t even notice movement or hear anyone approaching until I hear a voice.

  “Bear, no,” a feminine voice comes from inside the garage, but one of authority. “Sit, boy.”

  I watch in amazement as the dog does just that, but it’s a slow, cautious movement. Sitting back on his hind legs, he continues to watch me, even tilting his head to the side as if he is sizing me up.

  “Sorry.” I look up to see a girl—no, a woman—stepping out of the garage. Her hair is piled high on her head in a mess of golden curls. Reddened cheeks, not from embarrassment but from exertion…the heat of the morning maybe. The Arizona heat already hits us, making it unbearable at times. “His bark is so much worse than his bite, I promise.” As she walks closer, she pauses next to her dog and runs her hand over his head. “Hence the name Bear, because he is more a cuddling cub than anything else. You must be my new neighbor.”

  Still not saying a word, I look from her to her dog and then back to her once more. Slowly, she arches her brow, and I place my hands on my hips, debating if I should just turn back around and forget about what I had originally come over here to say.

  “Are you mute?”

  “No.” I finally find my voice and look past her, remembering where my irritation stemmed from when I see all the shelving leaning agai
nst the edge of her garage and the hammer she still holds in her hand. “I just came over to meet the neighbor who seems to have absolutely no respect for those around her.”

  “Excuse me?” It’s her turn to place her hands on her hips as she squares her shoulders and takes on a defensive stance.

  “Some of us are trying to sleep after a late night of work, and here you are beating the hell out of the walls inside your garage with your music blaring like you’re in some dance club.”

  “I wasn’t aware that I resided next to someone who still lived like a college student. Up all night, sleep all day, or is it an old-timer, maybe? Maybe you should live in a retirement community instead.”

  We stare at one another, both holding our shoulders high and our eyes narrowed on one other. Obviously sharing some kind of unspoken battle is going to get us nowhere. I can already tell she is a stubborn one, and the chance of her admitting she made a poor choice isn’t about to happen.

  “I work twelve to fifteen hours a fucking day.” I run my hand through my hair in frustration, feeling the wildness of it as it falls out in all directions. “I would appreciate it if you would keep the noise down to a minimum and maybe shut the damn garage door too when you decide to beat the hell out of your walls or whatever it is you’re doing.”

  I turn to walk away, knowing that I could’ve handled that differently but aware that it is far too late now.

  “All you had to do was ask, you know,” she hollers after me, only I don’t turn around. “Thanks for the friendly welcome. I can already see how pleasant of a neighbor you’re gonna be.”

  I pause at my front door, my hand braced against the frame, and I fight the urge to go back over and apologize. Then the music comes to an abrupt stop, and seconds later, I hear her garage door shut. At that moment, I know I’ve already made an impression that is pointless to attempt to correct. I don’t have time for pleasantries anyway; I don’t have time for friends.