Real Shadows Read online

  Real Shadows

  ◆◆◆

  Copyright 2020 Monica Clayton

  Published by M.E. Clayton

  All Rights Reserved

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook 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 recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The entire content is a product of the author’s imagination and all names, places, businesses and incidences are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), places or occurrences, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any manner, whatsoever, without the express written consent from the author, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Formatting: Smashwords

  Cover: Adobe Stock

  Warning: This book contains sexual situations and other adult themes. Recommended for 18 years of age and over.

  Table of Contents

  ◆◆◆

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1. Fallon

  2. Xander

  3. Fallon

  4. Xander

  5. Fallon

  6. Xander

  7. Fallon

  8. Xander

  9. Fallon

  10.Xander

  11. Fallon

  12. Xander

  13. Fallon

  14. Xander

  15. Fallon

  16. Xander

  17. Fallon

  18. Xander

  19. Fallon

  20. Xander

  21. Fallon

  22. Thomas

  23. Fallon

  24. Xander

  25. Fallon

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Books

  Contact Me

  Newsletter Sign-Up

  Author’s Note

  ◆◆◆

  Just a couple of things before I let you go and get your read on. While I am doing my best to work with better editing and proofreading software, all my books are solo, independent works. I write my books, proofread my books, edit my books, create the covers, etc. I have one beta who gives me feedback on my stories, but other than that, all my books are independent projects.

  That being said, I apologize, in advance, for the typos, grammar inconsistencies, or any other mistakes I may make. Since writing is strictly a hobby for me, I haven’t looked for commitments in regard to publishers, editors, etc. My hope is that my stories are enjoyable enough that a few mistakes, here and there, can be overlooked. If not, my books are probably not for you.

  Also, I am an avid reader-I mean an AVID reader. I love to read above any other hobby. One of the things about reading that hurts my heart, though, is when I fall in love with a book, but I have to wait for the additional books in the series to be released. Because I feel that disappointment down to my soul, I vowed that if I ever write a series, all books will be published at once. Nope-no waiting over here…LOL. So, if you are reading one of my books, but can’t find any other books on the secondary characters of that book, that means the book is a standalone project. Now, the exception to this was, both Enemy Series (Facing the Enemy and In Enemy Territory). I got enough requests for their secondary characters’ stories, I decided to write them. But, in the future, series books not released all at once will only happen at the request of my readers. As much as this is a hobby, I am writing these books for you guys as well as myself.

  Thank you, all, for turning this hobby into something exciting and magical!

  Acknowledgements

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  The first acknowledgement will always be my husband (unless we ever divorce, then probably not so much after that), but seeing as how I can’t imagine that day ever coming, I can’t ever put myself out there without thanking him for all his love, support and belief in me.

  Second, there’s my family; my daughter, my son, my grandchildren, my sister, and my mother. They are the people who love me the most, know me the best, and love me dearly, despite all they know…LOL!

  And, of course, there’s Kamala. She insists that I don’t have to thank her in every book, but my love for her and gratitude for all her support and enthusiasm, claims otherwise. She’s the first person (outside my family) that I shared this dream with, and she’s been by my side every step of the way. Kam, you really are the best kind of friend!

  And, finally, I’d like to thank everyone who’s purchased, read, reviewed, shared and supported me and my writing. Thank you so much for helping make this dream a reality and a happy, fun one at that! There are not enough ‘Thank You’s in the world.

  Dedication

  For my son –

  You’ll never know just how much I love your laugh and pray you’re happy.

  Prologue

  Fallon~

  My many keys jingled endlessly as I unlocked my front door. My landlord hadn’t uttered a word when I had asked him if it was okay to call out a locksmith to install two additional deadbolts to my door when I had moved in. He had simply said okay, accepted the copy of the new keys, and had docked the cost from my second month’s rent.

  I’ve learned over the years that not all landlords were willing to let you alter their properties on your first day as a tenant. I lucked out with Richard, though. He didn’t object, nor did he pry. Not in all the two years that I’ve lived here has he once asked me about my obsession with locks, and I was extremely grateful for his respect for privacy.

  After the final lock was disengaged, I swung my front door open and stepped inside. I dropped my purse on the light green sofa that took up most of the living room and headed towards the kitchen with my bag of Mexican take-out.

  I was two steps past the sofa when my eyes caught sight of the silver ceramic bunny that lived on the second shelf of the bookcase that, like the light green sofa, had come with the apartment.

  The bag of take-out slipped out of my hand as I noticed how the little guy was now facing east instead of west.

  Like he always was.

  My heart started racing and my body fell under its routine paralysis. Fear-real fear-formed in the pit of my stomach and branched out until it infused every cell in my body.

  I couldn’t process sound over the rush of blood in my ears and the frantic pulsing of my heart. My mind would not let my eyes look left nor right. My mind did allow them to water, though. It allowed them to water, and silent tears streamed down my face.

  I stared at that little silver ceramic bunny, and it was amazing how he could be a symbol for both safety and danger, all in one. He was a beacon for safety when he was facing west, but he was a sign of danger when he was facing in any other direction. Even if he were still facing west, he could still be a sign of danger if you didn’t pay enough attention to how he was facing west.

  See, there was a reason he sat alone on that particular shelf; a shelf that was never dusted, a shelf that had superficial literature on it that I would never read. There was a reason why he faced west in a very specific manner.

  Because I knew that he couldn’t help himself.

  Somehow, he knew all about my fixation with grey bunny rabbits. I didn’t know how he knew, but he did. He had to have known the comfort they had brought me when I was younger. He had to have known about the stuffed bunny that I had had for years because he’s gifted me with t
he exact replica over the years. But what he didn’t know was why this particular silver ceramic bunny was important to me now. It was no longer a symbol of comfort, but a warning system.

  If that bunny was moved, even a fraction of a millimeter in any direction, I’d know that he found me. I would know that he found me again and that he’d been in my home.

  Like he has now, once again.

  If I get out of this moment alive, this will be the seventh time I will have had to move over a six-year span; the seventh time when I will have to try to find unknown shelter and an uneventful job to feed myself with.

  So far, he’s remained in the dark, opting to mentally torture me rather than outright attack me. It’s almost as if he realizes that, if he did attack me, that would be the end to his game. If he came after me in the light, I’d be able to identify him, possibly fight him. But I knew he didn’t want that.

  He wanted a victim.

  But more importantly, he wanted our sick, twisted, one-sided relationship to continue. He’s been stalking me for six years, and every time that he’s found me, the defeated punch to my chest felt just as painful as the ones before.

  I just wanted a normal life. I wanted a life without some creep determining my every move. I wanted a life where I had friends and a steady job I could complain about.

  I wanted a life where the police didn’t look at me like I was crazy.

  Ignoring the food on the floor, I walked over to the bookshelf, grabbed the silver bunny, and held on until I could function enough to start packing up my life again.

  Chapter 1

  Fallon~

  Most people would balk at driving across the country with their life savings in a suitcase, but desperation overshadowed common sense at this point.

  Fleeing California-which is exactly what I was doing-with everything I had seemed like a sound decision at the time. And if I did end up getting robbed at gunpoint, well, there were worse things that could happen to a person, and that thought, in itself, was as grim as it got.

  As self-centered creatures, we always think our worries and woes are the worst out there, but, if given the choice, I’d rather get robbed than raped. I’d rather get robbed than murdered. I’d rather get robbed than lose a child. I’d rather get robbed than live in constant fear of a threat I couldn’t identify.

  Hence, why I was fleeing California and heading towards North Dakota.

  Why North Dakota, you ask?

  Because no one lived in goddamn North Dakota.

  Well, that’s not entirely true, I suppose. Lots of people lived in North Dakota. But they lived in the ‘big’ towns of Fargo and Grand Forks. My destination was a little nowhere town called Brant. Imagine any small town surrounded by farmlands, with only one high school, maybe two grocery stores, and one auto shop that could charge you an arm and leg but didn’t because the owner is your baseball coach.

  That was Brant, North Dakota.

  Ideally, it wasn’t a place you wanted to move to if your goal was to be invisible, but I’ve been trying that method for over six years and it hasn’t worked for me. After calling my landlord to give him my thirty-day notice, calling all necessary utility companies, packing my few belongings, and withdrawing every cent I had from the bank, I had purchased a burner phone, called the only person in the world I still kept in contact with, and headed towards North Dakota.

  I had grown up in foster care after losing my parents when I was seven. And while it had been rough to lose my parents the way I did, foster care hadn’t been as horrible as it could have been. Oh, I was familiar with neglect and abuse, but I never endured anything I couldn’t come back from.

  I had been a shy child, and the fact that I had been scrawny hadn’t helped me much. I had been easily picked on and bullied, but I had thought of it more as picking my battles rather than bowing down. Besides, every kid in foster care had been doing the same thing that I had been doing.

  We had all just been trying to survive.

  My dreams of being adopted by a loving family had been dashed early on and, like most foster kids, I had grown up quickly after that. I might have still been picked on, but I had been independent, depending on no one, since I was around eleven-years-old. Once the reality of life slapped me across the face, my singular focus had been to make sure I had a plan when I fostered out of care. The hopping around from home to home hadn’t bothered me so much as it had saddened me constantly. No matter how many times I tried to fight against the feeling of rejection, it had always hit me hard.

  There had been a couple of homes that wanted to keep me but, without outright adopting me, they couldn’t because foster care was all about supply and demand. They shuffled us around like pawns on a chessboard making room for the newly deserted or rejected.

  No longer wanting to be at the mercy of anyone, I had started working after school as soon as I had been old enough. Little had I know that that life choice would make me a perfect candidate to reside in the orphanage instead of an actual home. Homes were for the children still in need; the babies, the helpless, the mentally challenged. They were the ones who needed loving care. The fifteen-years-olds who could work and go to school themselves hadn’t required such things as love and guidance.

  I had spent the last three years in foster care going to school and working my ass off with part-time after-school jobs. I had wanted to work, but I knew I needed my high school diploma more if I was ever going to amount to anything in my life.

  The only thing I’d had of any sentimental value, during those younger years, had been a ratted, torn, grey bunny rabbit that had either been given to me my first day in foster care, or had been a toy from the time in my life where I’d had a family; a time before my parents had been killed by a drunk driver.

  That rabbit had been named Silver, and he had withstood years and years of house shuffling, bullying, neglect, and abuse. I had held on to that piece of…consistency all my life until he came up missing one day when I had just turned sixteen-years-old. I remember tearing up the entire orphanage looking for him, but I never did find him. And everyone I had asked had claimed not to have known what happened to him.

  But one of them had lied.

  I wouldn’t know that until six years later, when I had walked into my one-bedroom apartment after working the closing shift as a bartender at Drink This, a local college bar in northern California. I hadn’t been able to swing college no matter how good my grades had been, so I opted at being happy to just be able to hold down a good job that could support me without the need for government assistance. I’d never been proud, but I had wanted more in life than what foster care had showed me. However, I’ll never forget walking into my apartment and heading towards my bedroom to see the grey, worn, stuffed bunny rabbit sitting proudly in the middle of my bed.

  For months, before the rabbit had appeared on my bed, I had thought my mind was playing tricks on me. I had thought I was under adult-life stress or something. I’d come home to small items being misplaced or slightly skewed in one way or another. It had been small things that had made me think, oh, hey, I must have forgotten to put it back.

  It had never been anything huge or obvious. There were times I’d get in my car and the seat was slightly pushed back, or a window rolled down; stuff like that. It had all been minor incidences that could easily be explained away by carelessness or just not thinking. It had never occurred to me that it might be something more until I had seen that rabbit on my bed.

  My rabbit.

  The shock of seeing it had rendered me immobile for a few incomprehensive minutes before I did what we all yell at the stupid girl in the movie for. Instead of calling the police and making sure I didn’t touch anything, I had snapped out of my shock, walked towards my bed, and had picked up the rabbit to verify if it was, indeed, the one from my childhood.

  Holding the rabbit in my hand had brought on real feelings of fright and violation. Never having had experienced anything like a stalker before, the knowledge that this
hadn’t just any old stalker, but someone from my past and was still fixated on me all these years later, had been numbing.

  And like every time since then, I had called the police. And while they had taken my fright seriously, they hadn’t taken the crime seriously. I had gotten a whole bunch of nothing. They had taken the rabbit as ‘evidence’, but politely reminded me that there was nothing they could do without proof of something more.

  I had remained in that apartment for two more months before the paranoia had pushed me to the edge of insanity. I had moved, and I’ve been moving every time he’s found me. Or, hell, it could be a she for all I knew.

  Over the years, some officers have been compassionate, and some have been assholes. An invisible stalker was not high on their priority list. And I got it. I really did. This was a personal crime that only affected me and, so far, I hadn’t been harmed physically. Police officers had real crime they had to deal with every day. There were murders, rapes, robberies, and shootings they had to deal with. My random intruder, who liked to misplace my ceramic rabbit, was hardly a national tragedy.

  But my fear?

  That was real.

  I had done everything, short of changing my name, to escape this…person. I’ve changed so many jobs and cities and appearances over the years, I no longer knew what there was left to do. So, I had called the only person I could remotely consider a friend, Karla Craig, and had told her everything. She was the only person I considered a friend because I never stayed in a place long enough to make friends. I had kept to myself. I also hadn’t been ready to explain my crazy to anyone because that’s how I felt sometimes.

  I felt crazy.

  Karla and I had grown up in foster care together, but when she was around sixteen, she had been claimed by a long-lost relative, and he had taken her to live with him and his family. I had been happy for her but devastated by the loss. Friends-true friends-were hard to come by in foster care. We stayed in touch, but our lives were definitely polar opposites.