Endgame: An Ocean Bay standalone novel Read online

  Copyright 2017 by Chloe Walsh

  All rights reserved. ©

  The right of Chloe Walsh to be identified as the Author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright and Related Rights Act 2000.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system – without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Endgame,

  An Ocean Bay Standalone Novel,

  First published, June 2017

  All rights reserved. ©

  Cover photo licensed from Shutterstock Inc.

  Cover designed by Red Rebel Clover.

  Formatted by Elaine York.

  Edited by Aleesha Davis.

  Disclaimer

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  The author acknowledges all songs titles, song lyrics, film titles, film characters, trademarked statuses, brands, mentioned in this book are the property of, and belong to, their respective owners. The publication/ use of these trademarks is not authorized/ associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Chloe Walsh is in no way affiliated with any of the brands, songs, musicians or artists mentioned in this book.

  All rights reserved ©

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  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

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Epilogue

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  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other books by Chloe Walsh

  2017 Book Releases

  Playlist for Endgame

  Rourke

  And as I lay me down to sleep,

  in god’s arms my soul to keep,

  and if I die before I wake,

  in god’s arms my soul to take.

  “Momma.” Curling up in the smallest ball I can make, I snuggle into her skeletal frame. “Momma, I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be scared, my darling,” she soothes, stroking my hair with her hand. The hand with all the needles. “Momma loves you up to the sky and back again.”

  “Momma, don’t leave me.”

  “I don’t want to leave you,” she whispers. “Momma wants to stay here with you, my baby boy, but God has bigger plans.”

  “I hate him,” I cry.

  I cry and I cry and I cry.

  “He’s gonna take my Momma.”

  Why won’t someone stop this?

  Why won’t they stop that man in the sky from taking my momma?

  I need her here with me.

  She makes me happy.

  I feel safe when I’m with her.

  “Please, Momma. Don’t let him take you.”

  “Daddy’s going to take good care of you, Rourke.”

  Her voice is sad.

  It makes me sad.

  “I promise we’ll see each other again one day.” She touches my cheek and I sniff, breathing her in. I know this is a bad day. Even though I’m small, I know this day is important. I need to remember this day. I need to remember Momma.

  “No!” With tears pouring down my cheeks, I cling to her. “Don’t go, Momma. Please don’t go. I don’t want Daddy. I want you…”

  “I wish I didn’t have to, sweet boy,” she sobs. Her breathing sounds funny. Crackly. “You’re so small... I know this is hard for you to understand.”

  “I’ll be good,” I promise, blinking away my tears. “I’ll do everything you tell me… I won’t be bad, Momma. Just stay here. With me.”

  “I want you to keep this with you,” Momma sobs. She hands me a shiny black book. “Keep this close, Rourke, and whenever you’re sad, read it.”

  “I can’t read,” I wail, taking the book from her.

  “Not now,” she soothes. “But one day, you will. When you’re grown, you’ll be able to do everything.”

  “Come on, Rourke.” That’s my Dad. He’s nearby. He’s crying too. “It’s time to let Mommy have some rest.”

  He picks me up and takes me away from her.

  I hate him. I kick and lash and bite at him. I want him to be sick. Not Momma.

  He can’t fix her. He should be able to fix her. Dads are supposed to fix things.

  “Goodnight, my darling,” Momma whispers as I am carried out of the room kicking and screaming.

  And even though I’m small, I know that this is the last time I will see my mother awake.

  Rourke

  “ROURKE! ARE YOU LISTENING to me?” My father’s voice drilled through my ears, loud and piercing and so very fucking annoying.

  Grabbing my pillow, I dragged it over my head and buried my face in the mattress. “Go the fuck away,” I mumbled drowsily.

  “Get up, Rourke,” Dad continued, tone surprisingly persistent. “Cassidy and her daughter will be here soon.”

  Oh joy.

  “Again.” I released a growl, struggling to resist the urge to jump off my bed and kick his ass for being such a dumb fuck. “Go away.”

  “Rourke,” Dad said with a weary sigh. “Please. I need you to make an effort today. This is – she is important to me.”

  Like I gave a shit.

  “Rourke?” Dad tried again.

  Fine! “I’ll be down in a sec,” I grumbled, angry at myself for giving into this bullshit farce.

  This wasn’t the first time my father had asked me to make an effort for a woman. He’d spurred that same sentence about wives fou
r, three, and two before this one.

  “Thank you,” Dad replied, tone laced with relief, before slipping out of my room.

  When I heard the door click shut behind him, I rolled onto my back and looked up at the ceiling.

  I remained perfectly still as I stared at nothing in particular and fought to get my heart rate under control. It was a difficult thing to do when I was two seconds away from losing my shit.

  Reaching into the drawer of my nightstand, my fingers curled around the old, familiar, leather bound journal and just like that, my heartbeat steadied. Clutching the journal to my chest, I closed my eyes and breathed slowly.

  I hated my father.

  It was a bold statement to make, and a cliché one, too, but I meant it. I fucking despised the man who was partially responsible for my existence.

  My father was weak in nature, temporary in loving, lacking in loyalty, and displayed every characteristic I couldn’t stand in a human.

  Cassidy James.

  Wife number five.

  What a fucking joke.

  WHEN I FINALLY hauled my ass out of bed and trudged downstairs, both Dad and Amelia were in the kitchen along with Fran, our semi-retired housekeeper. Dad was hovering over his iPad with a deep frown etched across his face. Amelia was standing near the stove, watching over Fran as she stirred a pot of her famous pea soup.

  “Rorky-Porky,” Fran called out, noticing my arrival. “Come on over and taste this for me, boy. Your little sissy ain’t real good at telling an old lady the truth.”

  Smiling fondly at the old woman who was solely responsible for raising me and my little sister when our father checked out on us, I walked over and took a sip from the wooden spoon Fran was holding out to me. “Millie ain’t lying, Fran,” I told her with a smile. “Your soup tastes better every time you make another batch.”

  Fran beamed up at me, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. “You’re a charmer, Rourke Owens.”

  No, I wasn’t, but I loved that old woman like she was my blood. My affections for Fran somehow managed to cover my usual assholeness.

  “Are you excited to meet your new mama?” Fran asked with a wink.

  Only she had the ability to make a joke about Dad’s new wife without me losing my shit. Fran got it. She had known my mother. She’d been right here in this house when Camille Owens passed and every time my father brought home a new mommy for us. “Can’t wait,” I shot back sarcastically.

  “I’m expecting you both to be on your best behavior,” Dad interrupted. “You too, Frannie. Cassidy is important to me and I want her and Mercedes to feel welcome in Ocean Bay.”

  “Of course, Daddy,” Amelia replied softly, not meeting my eyes.

  “I meant you, Rourke,” Dad warned, eyes still locked on my face. “Don’t fuck this up for me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I shot back mockingly. My father had some fucking nerve asking me for anything. He didn’t deserve shit from me.

  “Please,” Dad pressed, blue eyes locked on my face. “Promise me you’ll try and accept Cass and her daughter.”

  “You know me, Dad,” I retorted dryly. “I’m not one to make promises I have no intention of keeping.”

  Mercedes

  I ALWAYS KNEW MY mother wasn’t a responsible person. The fact that I had attended no less than four schools in the last two years put proof to that particular pudding. Cassidy James was highly unconventional, and as reckless as a teenager jacked up on booze on prom night. She was thirty-three years old and I swear had never mentally passed the age of nineteen.

  From a young age, I knew my mother wasn’t like the other kids’ moms. Having me when she was just a child herself, sixteen to be exact, had impacted her, and I think stunted her emotional growth rate. How I had managed to survive to the age of seventeen was a miracle in itself and a tribute to my sheer survival skills. I had pretty much brought myself – and her – up.

  For years, we moved from town to town, city to city, and state to state; my mother chasing her latest dream, which usually came with a penis hanging between its legs.

  Yeah, my mom loved men, and men loved my mom.

  But as reckless and immature as she was, I never in my wildest dreams could have predicted my mother’s latest fuck up.

  She was pregnant.

  Yep.

  She’d gone and gotten herself knocked up.

  Again.

  Without being married.

  Again.

  I wasn’t opposed to having children out of wedlock. I was, however, opposed to having children without a stable home or regular income.

  My mother had neither.

  Even I had heard about the sperm donor, Gabriel Owens, serial womanizer. The guy was richer than most and slicker, too. I’d only met him a handful of times and I knew enough from those encounters that they were a perfect match. He was vain and my mom was a babe.

  Unsurprisingly, Gabe had kids, too.

  One of each.

  A son my age, Rourke, and a daughter, Amelia, a couple of years younger.

  Both by different women.

  At least he was consistent…

  Mom was deliriously happy of course. She’d finally snagged her dream man. One with a big, fat wallet. And as if getting pregnant at her age wasn’t irresponsible enough, Mom had only gone and made herself Mrs. Owens the fifth.

  I mean, I could understand remarrying once, hell even twice, but five times?

  Call me cynical, but that shit didn’t float with me.

  I wasn’t unfamiliar with stepfathers; I’d had plenty of them myself. But none of those had ever put a ring on mom’s finger, or a baby in her stomach.

  I shook my head as I thought about my mother, and seriously considered the probability of being switched at birth.

  If it weren’t for our uncanny resemblance, I would have sought legal representation.

  Sigh. My grey eyes, almost an exact replica of my mother’s, and my olive skin tone, not to mention the C-section scar she liked to hold over my head every year during bathing suit season, were proof enough to douse that tiny flicker of hope out.

  One gigantic distinction between us was the fact that Mom was a natural blonde with platinum curls while I was born with the jet-black, poker straight hair I had since grown to the middle of my back. I was also a realist and my mother was a romantic. She loved living in the moment and I thrived on routine. She was a spur of the moment kind of gal, and I was a plan it to the letter type person.

  As much as I wished it to be otherwise, instability was the norm for me, and moving house came as easy to me as packing up my seasonal closet.

  It was the way I had been raised.

  “Did you call Mr. Randle?” I asked her for what I knew was the fourth time. I had to keep on Mom’s ass about important things. Otherwise, we’d have been living on the streets a long time ago.

  “Gabe has taken care of all of that for us,” Mom gushed as she thrummed her slender hands against her protruding stomach.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.” I felt like I was a parrot; I’d been repeating the same thing over and over for weeks now. “I have friends in Kansas, Mom. And a job.” And a life. Huffing, I rested an arm on the car door and used the other to steer. “I really think you should reconsider this relocation business.”

  “Mercedes, please,” my mother said in a whiney tone of voice. “Do we have to go over this again?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I shot back. What was supposed to be my last six weeks of freedom before starting senior year had been ruined by the upheaval of my mother carting me halfway across the country with her so she could shack up with her ‘baby daddy’, and I used the term lightly. “You’re hauling me out of school right before my senior year starts and dragging me across the country with you. We most definitely have to go over this again.” And again, and again until you start to see sense, woman!

  “It’s better to move now,” Mom shot back. “You’ll have time to settle in before starting at the Acade
my.”

  “The Academy.” I scrunched my nose up at the thought. Who was she trying to convince? “I wonder if The Academy is as pretentious as it sounds?”

  “Mercy.”

  “Mom.”

  “Gabe assured me that it’s a wonderful school.” She smiled excitedly. “And very exclusive.”

  “How fabulous!” I rolled my eyes, unable to stop myself. “News flash, Mom. I don’t fit the private school bill.” Not even close. “I’ve been public schooled my entire life.” Where I belonged. Where it was familiar. “How am I supposed to get along with these people?” Snobs. I meant snobs. I wasn’t a superficial rich kid who rolled around in daddy’s money for two very important reasons. The first; we didn’t have any money. Second; I didn’t have a father. “This is going to suck.”

  “Come on, Merc, where’s your spontaneity?” Mom asked, smiling. “Gabe’s a good man with a nice home and a successful business. This is a new adventure for us.”

  “No,” I corrected. “This is mooching, Mom.” I shook my head and forced back the urge I had inside of me to rattle my pregnant mother. “Didn’t you learn anything from the Carolina incident?”

  Mom cringed and I felt like a tool.

  “Fine,” I huffed, throwing my hand up in the air. “I won’t mention the Carolina incident again.” It was hard to stay mad at a woman who reminded you of a child.

  “You’re going to love Ocean Bay, Mercy,” Mom gushed. “Think of all that sun.”

  “And all the alligators,” I chimed in.

  “And shirtless boys.”

  “And poisonous snakes,” I rolled out, not missing a beat.

  “A whole six weeks of sunbathing and lazing around before school starts?” She smiled hopefully. “Come on. That has to sound more appealing than getting up at the crack of dawn to bus tables at Nancy Joe’s, and spending your nights washing dishes in The Pelican Hotel back home.”

  Did she know me at all? “I like to work, Mom,” I shot back. “I like having my own money. You know, being independent?”

  “Ugh. You’re impossible to please.”

  “Not really.”

  “At least you’ll have your car,” she offered with a scrunch of her perfectly positioned nose. “Can’t you be happy about that?”