Travis: To accompany the Fallen Angel Series - A Mafia Romance

  Travis

  By: Tracie Podger

  Copyright

  Travis

  Copyright 2015 © Tracie Podger

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents, either, are products of the author’s imagination, or they are used fictitiously. Any reference to actual locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic, or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, to include, but not exclusive to audio or visual recordings of any description without permission from the copyright owner.

  About the Author

  Tracie Podger currently lives in Kent, UK with her husband and a rather obnoxious cat called George. She’s a Padi Scuba Diving Instructor with a passion for writing. Tracie has been fortunate to have dived some of the wonderful oceans of the world where she can indulge in another hobby, underwater photography. She likes getting up close and personal with sharks.

  Tracie wishes to thank you for giving your time to read her books and hopes you enjoy them as much as she loves writing them. If you would like to know more, please feel free to contact her, she would love to hear from you.

  Publicist, Paula Radell, can be contacted via email at Passionatepromos@gmail.com

  Twitter: @Tracie Podger

  Facebook: Tracie Podger, Author

  www.TraciePodger.com

  Available in ebook and paperback.

  Fallen Angel, Part 1

  Fallen Angel, Part 2

  Evelyn - A novella to accompany the Fallen Angel Series

  Robert - A prequel to Fallen Angel, Part 1

  Fallen Angel, Part 3

  Travis - to accompany the Fallen Angel Series

  Coming soon.

  Fallen Angel, Part 4

  A Virtual Affair

  The Passion Series

  Acknowledgements

  I could never have written the Fallen Angel series without the support of my family. My husband has been my rock, without him, I wouldn’t be here.

  My heartfelt thanks to the best readers, proofreaders and editors a girl could want, Janet Hughes, Paula Radell, Lucii Grubb, Karen Shenton and Alison Parkins - your input is invaluable.

  Thank you to Margreet Asslebergs of Rebel Edit & Design for yet another wonderful cover.

  A huge hug to the guys in Tracie’s Fallen Angels, a fan page on Facebook - you cheer me up, encourage me and give me reason to keep writing.

  And last but certainly not least, a big hug to my publicist and friend, Paula Radell. She is one of the kindest people I’ve come across on this journey called self publishing. Paula is responsible for getting my books out there and I am overwhelmed by her support and belief in The Fallen Angel Series.

  Paula Radell - Passionate Promotions

  As you read Travis you might notice a couple of familiar names. Karen Shenton and Alison Parkins not only beta read but star in the book - both ladies won the chance to be in Travis by being members of Tracie’s Fallen Angels.

  So how did this all start? It’s been a long journey but my love of writing came about after I was encouraged to do so as part of my recovery from depression. I have always loved to read and lose myself in books, words soothe me.

  One day, after a series of dreams, I sat with my laptop and the words flowed from my fingertips - pages and pages of them. I forgot my troubles and lost myself in the characters I have created. I hope you can too.

  If you wish to keep up to date with information on this series and future releases - and have the chance to enter monthly competitions, feel free to sign up for my newsletter. You can find the details on my web site:

  www.traciepodger.com

  There is no friend as loyal as a book - Ernest Hemingway

  Chapter One

  As I cowered under the bedclothes my sister, Aileen, pulled me in close. She had tried to block out the screaming by covering my ears but I could hear the slap as a hand hit skin and the thud as a body fell to the floor. The cries from my mother echoed around the sparsely decorated apartment. My father’s slurred voice boomed.

  “Get up you useless bitch,” I heard him shout.

  Aileen sang to me in whispered tones, a song she had learnt years ago before the family ran away. I knew the song; she had taught me the words. It was a folk song sung around the fires back in Northern Ireland. A song she hoped would drown out the sound of my parents fighting.

  ****

  I was the youngest of four, born in New York to a drunkard of a father and a weak, feeble mother. I think it was my mother that I hated the most. She would stand by and watch her husband beat us and then take a beating herself. Never once did she defend us, protect us from his fists, from the torrent of abuse we received on a daily basis. She ignored the looks from passers-by as we walked to school, with our bruised faces and tatty, torn clothes. She ignored the pleas from school to attend meetings and she lied to cover for him.

  I didn’t really know my family history other than my parents and siblings had fled Northern Ireland just before I was born. The family had been packed up in the night and sent away. In some of his drunken ramblings, my father would tell me that he had been in the Army. Not your regular Army - “One fighting for freedom,” he would say. As he drank more he would get angry, scream and curse. My mother would then usher us away from him to the one bedroom all the kids shared.

  Home was a two bedroom apartment in a broken down block. Corridors that stank of piss were littered with discarded liquor bottles and needles. We would have to tread carefully to get to the main door and into fresh air. Neighbours screamed at each other day in and day out, and the kids ran wild.

  The screaming from my mother stopped, the front door slammed and after a few minutes all we could hear was her gentle sobs. I crawled out from under the bedclothes and with Aileen we made our way to the kitchen. The place was a mess; the contents of cupboards and drawers were strewn across the room. What little food we had, had been spattered against the wall and the refrigerator door hung from one hinge. Its incessant buzzing echoed around the room.

  I found my mom on her hands and knees trying to gather pots and pans, cutlery and plates. Blood dripped from a split lip and a cut on her cheek. I knelt beside her and placed my hand on her arm. I wanted her to look at me but, as usual, she pushed me away. In silence I helped clear the kitchen and threw out the broken chair. I left her leaning over the sink, holding a dirty washrag to her face.

  Aileen was already outside sitting on the steps to the main door and puffing on a cigarette. I sat beside her and she placed her arm around my shoulders.

  “Don’t be worrying now, Travis, you hear me?” she softly said.

  “Why does he do it?” I asked.

  “Because he’s fucking evil, that’s why.”

  “Why does she put up with it then?”

  I had so many questions floating around my ten-year-old brain, so much anger and resentment.

  “She’s scared of him, Trav. She won’t ever leave, where would we go?”

  We were stuck in a life of domestic abuse, living from one pay packet to the next, that’s assuming dad worked that week of course. We scrimped, got by on charity and the kindness of an old woman living on the ground floor. Everyone called her ‘Mad Mary’ but she was the only reason I had shoes on my feet. Someone told me that she’d once had a son. He had been killed in a gang fight, and she often gave me his clothes or his sneakers. Although nothing ever really fit me, I appreciated them. Some days she seemed
madder than normal; her mutterings would grow louder as she walked the corridor or the sidewalk. But then there were times when she would let me in her apartment and we would just sit. She often read books to me - my reading wasn’t great since I rarely made it to school. I liked to listen to her soft voice, it was calming - so very different to the shouts I was used to.

  I left my sister and knocked on Mary’s door. I heard the shuffling as she made her way to it, the pause as she looked through the spy hole and then the clunk of multiple bolts being released. She opened the door and let me in. No doubt she had heard my parents fighting; our apartment was directly above hers with paper-thin walls, she was probably expecting me.

  “Come on in then, Travis, don’t let the heat out,” she grumbled. I closed the door and sat on the couch beside her.

  “Bad one was it?” she questioned.

  “Yeah, I fucking hate them both, Mary,” I replied.

  “Now, now, Travis. Enough of that language. How is your mother?”

  “Bleeding as usual. Why doesn’t she fight back? Why doesn’t she leave?” I asked, tears were threatening to wash the grime from my cheeks.

  “It’s a difficult one that. Only she can answer it, dear.”

  She made her way to the kitchenette and poured a glass of lemonade for me.

  “I remember when your parents arrived. It took your mother a long time to settle in, but she was kind to me when I lost my boy. She’s a good woman, Travis, she’s just having a hard time.”

  I couldn’t believe what Mary said, that my mom was a good woman. Every day I would look at her and in my head scream the same thing over and over…“Fight back!” Yet she never did.

  So what made me hate her? It wasn’t that she stood by and let her husband beat her and her children. It was what she stood by and let our older brother, Padriac, do to Aileen and me. That was what I could not forgive her for, not in a million years.

  ****

  It had started the previous year, or maybe it was only then that I became aware of it. It had been one of those hot muggy summers. The streets of Hell’s Kitchen shimmered as the heat bounced off the sidewalk. Steam rose from the ground when water hit the street as kids opened the hydrants to play and cool down in. Aileen, sixteen at the time, was playing with Carrig - my twelve year old brother - and me. We were darting in and out of the water as it sprayed from the hydrant, soaking our clothes and laughing.

  Even at ten years old I knew my sister was the most beautiful of all the girls on our block. Her red hair flew around her face as she danced and skipped, holding our hands as we played. Her blue eyes would sparkle with laughter as she sang to us. She was the one responsible for feeding Carrig and me, for making sure we were up and dressed on the odd occasion we went to school. She was the one who cleaned and repaired the house after our dad trashed it. She was the mother we should have had.

  Looking up the block I saw Padriac. Our older brother was nearing twenty and already an alcoholic. He was weaving his way along the sidewalk staggering from side to side, bouncing off the cars and singing at the top of his voice. As he got closer I saw his torn shirt and bloodied fists. He had obviously been in yet another fight. Sometimes he came home with a fist full of dollars from a fight in a back street. A group of men would form a circle and two of them would fight for money. He never gave any of that money to my mom but spent most of it in the bar on his way home.

  I felt the tension from Aileen’s hand, the hand that held mine. She quietened as she saw him and pulled Carrig and I closer to her. She started to cross the road but there wasn’t enough time before Padriac closed in on us.

  “What the fuck are you doing, showing your body off like that?” he shouted.

  Aileen wore a white shirt and a long skirt. Like ours, her clothes were soaked through and the outline of her bra was visible.

  “You’re drunk, Padriac, go on home,” she replied.

  “You look like a whore. Trying to earn some money, are you?”

  “Pad, we are playing, nothing more,” she said.

  “You should be out earning your keep.”

  “And who is going to look after these two, huh? It sure wouldn’t be you.”

  He stepped closer to her, his face full of menace. I hated Padriac about as much as I hated my father. He was too quick to lash out with his fists for no reason, too quick to drag his younger brothers to the ground before laughing at our humiliation. He reached out to grab Aileen by the arm. Carrig stepped in front of her, his little hands trying to push Padriac away. I stood rock still, too scared to intervene. Padriac grabbed a handful of Aileen’s beautiful hair, dragging her into the alley behind him. I watched as her hands covered his and her nails dug into his skin as she tried to work them loose. Carrig had started to cry.

  “Pad, leave her alone, please,” he said.

  The other kids stopped their play and watched. Aileen was trying to fight him off but he was much too strong. He grabbed at her breast, laughing as he did.

  “You want a man to touch you? Is that was this is about, huh?” he said.

  “Take your filthy hands off me, Pad. I swear, I’ll tell dad about this,” she replied.

  “Tell him what? You’re standing on the street looking like a whore, he’d be pleased you’ve finally got a job.”

  A crowd had gathered; a man approached them and placed his hand on Padriac’s shoulder, an attempt to pull him away. Padriac spun around with his fist raised, ready to strike whoever had interrupted him and the man backed off. Just the look on Padriac’s face had most people watching, wary of intervening. However, it gave Aileen time to react. I watched her run down the alley, her hair flying out behind her and I smiled. She’d gotten away that time.

  “What are you fucking grinning at?” he said to me.

  “Nothing,” I replied, turning away to head for home.

  “Carrig, you better toughen up boy. Go and get Travis,” he instructed.

  I started to run. Padriac had decided that Carrig was going to be the next fighter in the family and for practice - or rather for his perverse fun - he encouraged Carrig to practice on me. The trouble was, Carrig was as scared of Padriac as I and if he didn’t do as he was told he would be beaten instead. I remembered the last time.

  Every time Carrig’s fists rained down on me I could hear him whispering, “I’m sorry.”

  I never really fought back because if I got a punch in, Carrig would be punished for being careless, for letting his defence down. I would simply stand, defend myself as best I could, and wait for it to be over.

  Carrig was as fast as me but somehow never caught up before I shouldered my way through the front door to the apartment block, taking the stairs two at a time. I stood outside the apartment door, my hands resting on my knees and I bent at the waist trying to catch my breath; or maybe I was just delaying having to go back inside. I had no desire to spend time in that apartment, watching my mother sit by the open window, smoking cigarette after cigarette and with a wistful, faraway look on her face. If she wasn’t too lost in her thoughts she would notice me and smile, encourage me to sit with her but most of the time I would try to hide in the bedroom and do nothing to attract attention to myself.

  I slowly opened the door. As I made my way to the bedroom, I could hear my dad snoring, no doubt passed out on the sofa after an afternoon in the local bar. Our room was small, barely big enough to contain what little furniture it did. There was one donated chest of drawers; we didn’t have enough clothes to fill anything more, a double bed, a single pushed alongside it, and a mattress on the floor. The single bed was always left for Padriac; the rest of us just curled up wherever there was a space. Most nights that single bed was left empty, but none of us would take the gamble and sleep in it.

  I crawled across the double bed, its tangle of blankets that were long overdue for a wash and curled up on our bed. I could hear the distant cries of a child, no doubt from the apartment above us and the thump of music from another. Somehow that mix of ‘normal
’ sounds lulled me to sleep.

  I was awakened by the crash of the front door being forced open. I heard my father shout, my mother cry out in surprise and the thud as someone hit the floor. I crept to the bedroom door, opening it slightly. Padriac was lying on the floor laughing. My mother bent to help him up and when he swung his fist, catching her lightly on the side of her head. As usual, she took it in her stride.

  “Get the fuck up,” my father growled, dragging him by his arm.

  Padriac mumbled before he got to his feet, swaying and reaching out for the wall to steady himself. I noticed the stack of money in his shirt pocket; a few bills had fallen to the floor. I also noticed my mother look at them. She moved to Padriac’s side to support him but as she did her foot swiped at the notes, quietly pushing them under a small table against the wall.

  “Leave me alone, I’m not a fucking idiot. I can walk,” Pad said, stumbling towards the bedroom door.

  As the bedroom door was pushed open, I scuttled backwards.

  “Look who we have here. Should have seen him earlier, dad, running away from a fight he was.”

  I backed into the corner as Padriac walked towards me. My father was standing at the door and I could see my mother behind him. I pleaded with my eyes for her to help me, but she cast hers down. I raised my clenched fists, using my arms to cover my head as the first blow connected with it. The force of the blow rocked me on my feet and tears sprang to my eyes. I would not let that bastard see me cry, so I swallowed hard, forcing the sob back down my throat. I tried to tune out the sound of my father’s laugh as Padriac grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me towards the single bed. He threw me down, bouncing me against the hard mattress.

  “Thinks he’s a man now, dad. I see you, you little shit, playing with your cock.”

  I frowned, blinked a few times in surprise. I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Yeah, sees his sister and gets a hard-on each morning, he does.”

  “No I don’t,” I stammered.