Pocketful of You : Book Three Read online

  Pocketful of You

  Book Three

  Chloe Walsh

  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 book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This 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.

  Published by Chloe Walsh

  Copyright 2014 by Chloe Walsh

  All Rights Reserved. ©

  Pocketful of You

  Pocket #3,

  First published, August 2019

  All rights reserved. ©

  Cover designed by Sarah @ Opium House Creatives.

  Edited by Aleesha Davis.

  Proofread by: Brooke Bowen Hebert.

  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 ©

  For my Walshy.

  Author’s Note

  Pocketful of You is the third in a four-book series and contains a cliffhanger ending.

  Because of its explicit sexual content, mature themes, triggers, and bad language, it is suitable for readers of 18+.

  Thank you so much for joining me on this adventure.

  I hope you enjoy the next stage in Sketch and Romi's story.

  Lots of love,

  Chlo xxx

  Blurb

  "Nothing in Pocketful is as it seems."

  Evil is lurking all around us and Sketch and I cannot escape the secrets of our past. A past that, up until now, neither one of us knew existed. Torn apart by our cruel, vindictive fathers, we face our biggest challenge yet; staying alive.

  Pocketful of You is the third in a four-book series. Therefore, the storyline continues into the fourth book. Because of its explicit sexual content, mature themes, bully themes, potential triggers, and bad language, it is suitable for mature readers.

  Series in order:

  Pocketful of Blame

  Pocketful of Shame

  Pocketful of You

  Pocketful of Us

  Preface

  Long after the bullet perforated my flesh, whiskey-colored eyes continued to materialize just beyond my reach.

  In the emptiness of nothing, only one face kept me company.

  Romi.

  And still, I couldn’t fight my way out of the darkness.

  I couldn’t get to her.

  The hauntingly honest lyrics of Selena Gomez’s song Back to You looped through my brain continuously. I knew there was a reason my brain insisted on this particular song.

  Junior year.

  The Winter Formal.

  Romi was my brother’s girl that night but, for one song, one three-minute dance, she was mine.

  At the time, I had felt like I had died and gone to heaven.

  Maybe this time I really had.

  1

  Romi

  "You're making a terrible mistake. Pull that trigger and all hell will break loose. You'll start a war you can't win, Cal."

  A sense of déjà vu washed over me as Mr. Capaldi's words of warning poked at some part of my subconscious.

  I'd heard these words before.

  In a dream?

  A nightmare?

  I couldn’t be sure.

  But this was different.

  This was reality.

  I'm already at war, I recited the words in my mind moments before my father uttered them aloud.

  "I'm already at war," my father sneered.

  And then he pulled the trigger.

  The gunshot rang out, loud and shrill, leaving a hole in his chest that ricocheted straight through mine.

  I watched the blood drain from his body and, at the same time, felt the life fade from mine. It was in that exact moment in time that I was certain that my heart did indeed beat for Sketch Capaldi.

  He was dying.

  And so was I.

  Maybe it was for the best.

  Death would keep us safe.

  Life was too dangerous.

  The world we lived in was full of betrayal and horror.

  Paralyzed, I observed the madness with a detached sense of reality. I was floating above my body, my soul lifelessly levitating above Sketch as he bled out on the floor of the motel room with his father beside him, while my own father carted me away from the scene.

  Was it the shock of what I had just witnessed that rendered me motionless, or could it be the alcohol still flushing through my veins?

  If you love him, why are you leaving him? a persistent voice echoed over and over inside of my head. Fight back, Romi!

  It's happening, Romi, Chris's voice pierced through my mind, full of remorse and regret. I told you they were coming for you. I told you to run. Now it's too late...

  "I'm sorry it's come to this," my father said in the least sincere tone I'd ever heard while he roughly shoved my now-hysterical frame into the backseat of the awaiting Hummer. "But it was always going to end this way, Ramona."

  "Oh my God!" Jolted back to reality by the sound of my name, I scrambled for the opposite door, desperate to get back to Sketch. "You sh-shot him!" I screamed, yanking in vain on the locked door handle. "Sketch! Sketch, hold on! I'm coming – get the hell away from me –"

  My words broke off when my father dragged me away from the door. Scratching and tearing at his hands, I tried and failed to free myself from the danger hiding beneath the surface of the man that raised me.

  "Relax, Chris is too sentimental to let the boy die," Dad snarled, keeping a firm grip on my throat. "More's the damn pity," he added in a petulant tone. "He should have been killed years ago." Shoving me against the leather interior, he barked orders to the driver, listing off a vaguely familiar address, before turning back to face me. "You have no idea of the danger that boy represents to our family." His voice was laced with venom, his eyes icy cold, as the car I was trapped inside pulled away, taking me further away from the one person I was sure of in this fucked up world. "You have no idea who he really is." Releasing his hold on my throat, he sat back and adjusted his silk tie. "But you'll soon find out."

  "What are you talking about?" I strangled out, heart palpitating. Trembling from head to toe, I desperately fought against the panic and fear threatening to consume me. "That boy has never done a thing wrong to you, Daddy, and you shot him!"

  "Hasn't he?" my father roared back, grasping my
throat once more. "Wake the hell up, Ramona!"

  "I am awake," I screamed. "And Sketch is innocent!"

  All of a sudden, a memory of a conversation I'd shared with Chris trickled through my mind…

  "…Chris, we need to call our parents."

  "No! Don't call them."

  "What? Why the hell not?"

  "Because we can't trust them…"

  "Oh my god," I breathed, panic-stricken, as awareness dawned on me with crushing strength. "Chris said Sketch and Presley, but not them," I repeated. "When he really meant not you!"

  "Not me what?" my father demanded. "I'm not what, Ramona?"

  "Trustworthy." I exhaled a ragged breath. "I can't trust you."

  "No?" he quipped, lips curving upwards in a cruel sneer. "You can't trust the man that raised you?"

  "No." I shook my head. "I can't." It all made perfect sense now. Chris's words of warning. The dreams that had always haunted me. The faded memories of another lifetime that refused to disappear…

  "…Don’t you think it's strange that we live there? Pocketful? Come on, Romi, our fathers are important people. They're successful and rich beyond most men's wildest dreams. They have businesses running the length and breadth of the United States, so why are they living in a town that hasn't progressed beyond the seventies? Why not live in Lake Charles or some other city? Why Pocketful, Romi…"

  "Nothing in Pocketful is as it seems." Sniffling, I curled my fingers around his and yanked his hand away from my throat, scrambling to the far end of the seat in my pathetic bid to protect myself. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. The pain inside of me was crippling. "It's all a cover up." Panic gripped me in merciless talons, forcing me to relive and revisit every red-flag warning that I had purposefully pushed to the back of my mind.

  "…You're gonna run on home to your daddy and forget everything you think you saw tonight, forget everything you think you heard. You're gonna park your sweet little ass in your daddy's mansion and stay there. You got that, princess…"

  "…Is it the crying?" Sketch asked. "Do you still hear it, too…"

  "…In the dream? The floor wasn't moving. We were on a boat…"

  "…I didn’t leave you, Romi! I stopped you from leaving me…"

  "…Your dad wanted me out of the picture…"

  "…She knows about the trade…"

  What trade?

  The trade.

  Think, Romi!

  "…You can't be in Pocketful after your eighteenth birthday…"

  "…They're coming for you…"

  The boy.

  The boy.

  The boy…

  "…They're coming for both of you…"

  "You killed Chris!" I accused, breathing hard and fast. "You tried to kill Sketch! And Catochi…" Shuddering from the irrepressible memories tormenting me, I shook my head and forced myself to continue, "He works for you." Swallowing another lump in my throat, I squeezed out, "You ordered the hit, didn’t you? Both hits! Those men that shot up the diner? They're the same men you ordered to kill Chris – to toy with him like a cat hunts its prey and strike him down." Narrowing my eyes, I accused, "You're the boss man, aren’t you?"

  "You should conserve your energy –"

  "Oh, just fucking admit it!" I screamed back at him, body vibrating with terror. "You had Chris killed!" My voice rose as my reality threatened to break me. "Was I supposed to die, too?"

  "Chris remembered too much," he replied simply – as simply as if he was reeling off the time. "You, on the other hand, couldn’t remember a thing. Only one of you posed a threat."

  "So you killed him?"

  My father shrugged off my question. "I took care of the problem."

  "By having him killed?" I cried out hoarsely.

  "By eliminating the threat," he bit out, hands balling into fists at his sides. Chris was a liability. He was a compulsive snoop, too damn smart for his own good, and he got himself killed. Had he stayed out of my damn business, the boy would still be alive, but he stuck his nose where it didn’t belong."

  "How could you do this?"

  "Wake up, you little fool," he snapped, his tone morphing into one of anger. "For once in your life, take off those rose-tinted glasses and look around you."

  "I don’t –"

  "Who do you think I am?" he demanded then. "Who do you think you are?" His eyes darkened with frustration. "Are you honestly this obtuse?"

  "You're a murderer," I spluttered, tears trickling down my cheeks. Pain. More pain than I'd ever felt pummeled my heart. "You k-killed Chris."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake, I didn’t want the boy to die," he countered impatiently. "He was like a son to me. But he wouldn’t stop digging." With a sigh, he added, "In our world, you pay for curiosity with your life."

  "In our world?" I gaped in horror. "There's only one world, Daddy, and the last I checked, murdering people was illegal in it!"

  "You're such a child," he said with a tut. "I blame myself for your naivety. Perhaps I sheltered you from the business too much."

  "Who are you?" Sniffling, I shook my head, unwilling to acknowledge this madness. Desperate for reassurance I knew deep down I would never find, I reached a hand out to touch his cheek before quickly yanking it away. Eyes that had once looked warm and loving were now vacant, unforgiving, and staring back at me.

  "The man I call my father isn't…" heartbroken, I gestured to the stranger sitting opposite me with my father's face, "this… monster."

  "Then maybe you don’t know your father as well as you think," he replied, condemnation flickering in his eyes. "I'm a very powerful man, Ramona. Of course, you would know this if you opened your eyes just once in the past eighteen years."

  "Powerful or dangerous?" I foolishly challenged.

  "What's one without the other?" was his emotionless response.

  "Does Mr. Capaldi know what you did to his son?" I asked, sniffling through my tears. "Was he in on it, too?"

  My father gave me a 'how stupid do you think I am' look. "Of course not," he growled. "Christopher was his heir. He was as precious to him as you are to me."

  "I'm only precious to you because you need me for something," I cried out, cheeks burning from my scorching hot tears. "You didn’t want me to die when I fell from the tree because you need me alive." I knew I was right. It was all coming full circle in my mind, but crucial pieces were still missing. Hard as I tried, I couldn't see the full picture yet. Terrifying as it was to face up to, I knew I had to. Something very bad was happening and my father was at the helm. "Admit it; you were relieved that I was okay, not because you love me, but because you need me for something!"

  "Do you want full disclosure?" he asked then, giving me a peculiar look. "You won't like what you hear."

  Did I? Jesus, I didn’t know. Swallowing deeply, I forced myself to be brave. "Just tell me."

  "I am a powerful man, Ramona. Richer than most men can only dream of being in a thousand lifetimes." Pulling out his cellphone, my father tapped on the screen, his tone of voice matching the emotionless expression etched on his face as he spoke. "However, the majority of my wealth was amassed in what many would perceive as unscrupulous activities."

  "What k-kind of activities?" I dared to ask, heart hammering violently in my chest.

  "Every kind you can imagine and more," he replied coldly. When my jaw remained hanging open in shock, Dad shook his head in resignation. "Not very perceptive, are you, sweet pea?"

  "Don’t call me that," I choked out, once again yanking on the locked door in vain. "You don’t get to kill Chris, shoot Sketch, kidnap me, announce you're a criminal, and then call me your sweet pea." Sniffling, I blinked away my tears, fingers still fruitlessly searching for an exit from this world that I knew in my heart didn’t exist. "Let me go, Dad. Please…please just let me out of the car."

  "I can't do that, Ramona," he replied calmly.

  "Why not?" I cried, frantic now. "Why can't you just let me leave? I won't tell anyone what you did. I just…j
ust let me go, Dad!"

  "A long time ago, someone took something that was of great importance to me," my father announced, sounding nothing like the man who'd raised me. "Something I cared very deeply for, and you, my little sweet pea, are the key to getting it back." A small laugh escaped him then. "Why do you think I kept you alive all these years? A girl, no less."

  "How can you say that?" I flinched, his words cutting me deep. "I'm your daughter."

  "Exactly," he agreed, deadpan. "You are my daughter. And as my daughter, you have a duty to your family."

  "The trade off," I breathed, putting two and two together and coming up with a big, fat four.

  "The trade-off," he agreed with a nod.

  "I'm part of the trade-off."

  "No," he replied. "You are the trade off."

  "Oh my god." My whole life had been one lie after another. I wasn't safe. I needed to get out of here and away from him. Oh god… "Take me back to him." My voice cracked, my pain spilling out. "Please, Daddy, just take me back to –"

  "Holden," my father filled in mockingly. "With any luck, he'll be dead by now. If not now, then soon enough."

  "No," I cried out hoarsely, furiously shaking my head, as the car we were driving in picked up speed. "Don’t say that. Please don’t say that –"

  "Quit the incessant wailing, Ramona," Dad barked. "It won't change a thing. This is the way it is. The way it has to be."