Home (Finding My Home Book 1) Read online

  HOME

  THE HOME SERIES BOOK 1

  NIKITA PARMENTER

  Copyright © 2020, Nikita Parmenter All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the Author’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is for all my Wattpad readers thanks for being so patient with me. Also, my bestie Sherlock apparently, I have to dedicate every book I write to her, love you.

  Contents

  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

  Other books by Nikita Parmenter

  About the Author

  There was a time when my life wasn’t so, well for lack of a better word, shit. Mom and dad were happy, dad had a good job, in fact he had a job full stop. He didn’t drink, didn’t gamble or deal drugs, amongst other things that I don’t even want to think about.

  Mom was alive.

  In essence life was a lot less complicated. I had a group of friends that meant the world to me, we did everything together. I was only eight, but it didn’t matter to me that my closest friends in the world were all guys. I liked climbing trees, being pirates and playing football. Even at that age I didn’t like the way girls seemed to say one thing, then changed their minds in the next second or talked behind each other’s backs.

  We were all happy, life was good, great even but then mom got sick. Looking back now, I'm still not entirely sure what was wrong with her. All I know is that her health deteriorated really quickly. When she died, I was devastated but I had my boys and they helped a lot.

  It wasn’t long after she died though, that I started to notice things changing with my dad. He wouldn’t be there when I got home from school, he stopped making me lunches and there was rarely any food in the house. I learnt how to clean my clothes and make my own food because he stopped doing it any of it and when he actually was at home, he would be angry and he smelt funny. I now know that the funny smell was a mixture of alcohol, weed and a general lack of hygiene. My father was wasted constantly.

  Things started to go missing in the house, like mom’s antique side table and the TV that used to be in the living room. The boy’s parents finally started to realise something was wrong when I was no longer allowed to have the boys round to my house. They were all friends with my parents and were hit hard by my mother’s death as well. By the time they realised something was wrong though, and before they could do anything to help me and my father, he had sold the rest of the stuff he hadn’t already pawned, packed up the station wagon and dragged me kicking and screaming into the car. Just like that, he drove us away from everything I'd ever known and didn’t even look back.

  I never got to say goodbye to the boys, I never got to tell them how bad it had gotten. Maybe if I had, their parents would’ve stepped in sooner and I would’ve been saved from the fuck load of pain I’ve been put through in the last nine years.

  I snap myself out of my trip down memory lane, now is not the time to get lost in the past. I walk up to the dilapidated building, knowing full well no sane person would come here, and I wouldn’t either if I had a choice. I don’t though, so here I fucking am.

  My extremely loving father threatened that I either pull my weight and make these drops or he sends some of his friends to my room. Fucked up, right? I mean, what kind of father would do that to their daughter?

  It’s not an idle threat either, he’s not saying it just to manipulate me into doing what he wants, he’d really do it. Which is why I'm in this shady as fuck neighbourhood with a backpack full of coke and not the fizzy beverage kind, armed with a gun and a couple of knives.

  Thank fuck I’ve never had to use the gun; I have had use my knives a few times though. I shudder and push the memories back, no time for that now. As long as I do as I'm told, my father makes sure the dicks at the drop points know not to lay a finger on me. Of course, that hasn’t always been the case and is the reason why I'm always armed, even when I sleep. I also sleep fully clothed and get to school early to use the showers. I'm less vulnerable that way.

  I knock on the door of the, desperately in need of repair building, expecting it to snap in half. This is one of my regular drops, so I only have to have a pat down. The muscle at the door is one of the more respectful dickheads, which only means that he doesn’t try to cop a feel. Although that might have to do with the fact that, the last guy who tried to grab something he had no right to, got a knife in his leg for it.

  I've now got a bit of a reputation.

  For some unknown fucking reason, they allow you to enter with only one weapon. I mean seriously why that makes a difference in their fucked-up minds, I don’t know. I'm not going to complain though, my gun is my last resort, but it does grant me a layer of security I wouldn't have otherwise.

  My knives are hidden well enough, that they don’t find them on the simple pat downs they do. Everybody always seems to underestimate me even though I have a reputation, and I always use it to my advantage.

  I stroll casually down the dimly lit corridor, towards the back room, despite how much I want to rush. I have an English paper due tomorrow and it’s already gone eleven at night. My only chance of escape is through college, so I dedicate any spare time I can to studying. Which isn’t as much I’d like, since my father gets me to make all of the drops.

  I'm only seventeen, the worst I get if I get caught is a few months in juvie. I've already been twice but I loved it, they made us focus on our schooling and I didn’t have to worry about unwanted touches. Of course, because I just did what I was told, I got out early on good behaviour the first time I went. The last time I went back though, I caused few fights to see if I could get my sentence extended a bit. It didn’t work and I didn’t want to push it too far considering I actually want a future but, I didn’t get to leave early, so I counted that as a win anyway.

  Dad was beyond angry, of course.

  I walk into the room and eye the two bodyguards. I say bodyguards but it’s not like they’re professionals, they’re just muscle positioned to the edges
of the room. I focus on the slightly potbellied, tattooed and balding man, sat behind the desk in front of me, like he’s sat in an opulent office somewhere and not the dirty and rundown house, he’s actually currently occupying.

  He takes me in, no doubt seeing my black, ripped from wear jeans, black Henley and bike jacket. My dark waist length hair, is braided down my back so I can get my helmet on and to keep it out of the way. His inspection finishes on my haunted dark navy eyes.

  He smirks at me, “Everleigh, are you coming to work for me finally?”

  It’s the same tired line he uses every damn time I make a drop.

  “Nope sorry, Jerry” I reply returning his smirk with one of my own.

  I place the backpack on the desk in front of him and wait whilst he checks the merchandise. Once he’s satisfied, he motions to one of the muscle guys and who brings a backpack to the table dropping it on top, before stepping back to take up his position again. I step forward and open the bag to check that dear old Jerry hasn’t tried to play me and the backpack contains the right amount of money.

  When I'm sure it's all there, I swing the bag onto my back and salute him sarcastically causing him to chuckle. Jerry’s one of the better scumbags I make drops to. He’s not so bad. I make my way back through the rotting house and out to my bike, pulling on the straps of the bag to make sure they’re secured tightly, as I swing my leg over my bike and settle in the seat. I put my helmet on and rev the engine, pulling away and making my way back to the trailer where I live. The only reason my father lets me keep the motorbike, is that I need some way to get around town to make his drops for him.

  I park the bike in a securer neighbourhood nearby and trek the rest of the way home. I mentally scoff at the word. This shit hole definitely isn’t a fucking home, it’s not even slightly close to being one. I think I’d be more likely to compare it to hell.

  As soon as I enter the trailer, the smell of weed smoke and piss permeates the air and I resist the urge to gag. I ignore all the leering looks and disgusting words thrown in my direction by my father’s business associates. I use the term extremely loosely, there are no professionals here, unless you count the women. No woman would be here voluntarily. Of course, these women were most likely willing to exchange their services, for the lines of coke spread on most flat surfaces in the disgusting trailer. I walk across the room and silently hand my father the backpack full of money and the gun. I'm only allowed to have the gun when I make drops for him and it’s to protect the merchandise not me.

  Let’s not get it twisted and pretend he gives a flying fuck what happens to me.

  I know better than to try and walk off before he's counted all of the money and stand dead still even as one of his grimy friends palms my ass. I also know from experience, it's better to let it slide as the repercussions for standing up for myself, are not worth it in this situation. As twisted as it is, at least it’s only my ass he’s touching. Small mercies.

  “When’s this one up for sale then Marv?” the filthy slime ball holding my ass asks my father.

  “Six months Larry” he replies nonchalantly and without feeling, as if the fact he's just agreed to whore his daughter out when she turns eighteen, is no big deal.

  I stand there gaping, as he continues to count the money. I need to get out sooner than I thought. Without looking at me, he gives me a slight nod and I hurry my way back to my room, twisting the standard lock and then securing the extra four ones I added myself.

  The trailer is so flimsy, that if someone really wanted to break in, they could probably just punch or kick a hole straight through the wall by the door, but the added effort of trying to either break through the extra locks or the wall would make enough noise, that I'd be able to either escape or prepare for them.

  I pull my note books out of my school backpack and start on my English paper. I don’t sleep much anyway and I definitely won’t while they’re here, so it won’t make much difference to me however long I have to stay up in order to finish it.

  The noise and partying from the front room just gets louder the later it gets, and I roll my eyes. The neighbours stopped trying to report the noise a long time ago and I’ve never worked out how my father got them to stop. I’m probably better off not knowing.

  My father won't be resting here he never does, he has a large home he's paid for using money from the drugs, gambling and fuck knows what else. I know there’s more to his business, than just dealing drugs because there is no fucking way, he could afford a house that opulent, if that’s all he was doing. Even if you included the gambling in that. Someone is fucking bank rolling him. I’m sure of it.

  The only reason I know about his other house is because on the two occasions that social services actually stepped up and did their jobs, I was taken out of his care.

  He then pretended to clean his act up and had me moved into this fancy house that was similar to the one from my childhood, but way bigger. He kept me there whilst social services made their visits and then as soon as he’d convinced them he was a good father and there was nothing shady going on, he’d move me back to this trailer, where he does all his business dealings from.

  I'm not sure why he bothered to get me back. I think he had brief moments of guilt, where he knew, just how disappointed my mom would be in him but it never takes him long to go back to his usual scumbag ways.

  By just gone three in the morning, I’ve finally finished the damn paper and I crawl fully clothed under my thin blanket. Another reason to stay fully clothed at all times, it's warmer. Especially because it’s winter and cold enough in here that I can see my breath. I need all the warmth I can find.

  Just as my eyes start to droop closed, ready to sink into the oblivion of a nightmare filled sleep, an almighty bang rocks the trailer, causing me to shoot up in bed. There’s a brief moment of silence before all hell breaks loose and the silence is replaced with gun fire and shouting. I can just about make out someone shouting ‘police’ and I heave a sigh of relief. I quickly take my two knives out of my sleeves and hide them under a lose baseboard, covering it with my English book and the only spare hoody I have, just in case. I then, throw myself down on the floor and place my hands behind my head. I'm not being shot in the crossfire, most likely on purpose by one of my dad’s employees. I know an awful lot of information that could get a fuck-ton of people in trouble.

  This isn’t the first time there’s been a raid, but I haven’t said anything before about what I know. I guess because I was always worried that it would somehow get back to my dad that I’d talked, and I’d end up dead or worse. I always figured, as soon as I was eighteen and could get away without the police bringing me back for being a runaway, that I'd move as far away as possible whilst still staying in the U.S, then go to the police in whatever state I ended up in.

  I'd have a slim chance of escaping with my life that way or at least have a decent enough head start. However, after what my father said earlier about whoring me out, I'm seriously considering telling the police everything now. So long as all the main players have been raided and not just my father.

  I can't risk him deciding not to wait until I'm eighteen to whore me out. As soon as I turn eighteen, I can escape and no one can bring me back but if he decides to put me to work on my back before that and I run, I’ll just be bought straight back here and I daren’t think of the consequences.

  I'll do anything and everything I can to prevent that.

  Even though I'm expecting it, the sudden crash of my bedroom door flying open still makes me jump. The locks give way pathetically easily and I let out an embarrassing squeak. It's silent for a moment before I feel a soft touch on my wrist, causing me to lurch away, a knee jerk reaction I had absolutely no control over. I don’t like being touched.

  “Hey, it's alright young lady, you don’t need to be doing that. We do need to take you down to the station though, so can you stand up for me?” a kind voice asks me.

  I slowly peer up at the officer, dressed in
full tactical gear, trying to determine if it's some kind of trick.

  I keep my hands up where he can see them at all times and slowly stand, taking the opportunity to look over the officer in front of me. He's got a kind face behind the helmet of his tactical gear and must be in his late forties.

  He smiles softly at me.

  “I'm Jim, I need to take you down to the station with me and ask you some questions. Is that Ok?”

  I just nod and walk out of my room ahead of him, it's not like I really have a choice, but I appreciate him asking me if it was ok anyway. I rarely get asked if I’m comfortable with something happening these days. I don’t look at the bodies on the floor, I've been around this sort of violence ever since my mom died and dad went off the reservation. I learnt pretty damn quickly it’s never a good idea to look.

  “Is my dad. . .?” I have to ask.

  “He was shot down when he fired at the officers, I'm sorry” he says it in order to comfort me but, there’s no truth behind the words. He feels no sorrow for my father’s fate.

  A quick glance in his eyes show’s me that he is sorry for the perceived effect it will have on me though. He's a good cop.

  “Ok” I nod. Unable to say anything else because I'm terrible person, my father’s just been killed and I'm relieved.

  So incredibly fucking relived.

  The cop eyes me warily as I get into the back of a police cruiser and I can’t say I blame him. Mine, is not the usual reaction someone has when a member of their family dies. We may have been bound by blood, but that man was not my family and if the cop knew what my supposed father had put me through, he’d probably be wondering why I’m not dancing and shouting with joy.

  Thankfully, they’ve been watching my father and his associates long enough to know that they need to put me in an unoccupied cop car. I don’t want to be near any of my father’s surviving associates for obvious reasons, but more than that, I can feel the heat of their glares from here, they think I tipped the cops off.