Elliott Redeemed

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  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  To SickKids Children’s Hospital, Toronto.

  Thank you from the bottom of my heart for looking after my daughter and every child who walked through your doors before her or since.

  Acknowledgments

  My huge thanks to Charis Kelly (RN, BScN, MN, Burn Program, SickKids Children’s Hospital, Toronto). Without your expertise and your time, Daniel’s story wouldn’t have unfolded the way it did. But more importantly, with your expertise and time, thousands of children with burn injuries get the incredible treatment they deserve. I am deeply appreciative for both. Any errors in the telling of this story are all mine.

  Special thanks to my editor, Lizzie Poteet, for once again having faith in the story I wanted to tell, and for making it better once I’d told it. Thank you for continuing to make me a better author. It’s also a little bittersweet, because I know you won’t be here for the end of the series. But you should know a little bit of you will live on in each of their stories. They’ll find their happy endings . . . I hope you click your ruby slippers and find yours. There’s no place like home!

  Dear Beth Phelan . . . I love you. That is all.

  To my dear Stars. You continue to be my happy place on the internet. Thank you for being such great champions of my stories. And a special mention to Stacey Spence . . . Elliott says thank you for the memories ;-)

  When writing gets tough, there are a handful of authors guaranteed to offer words of wisdom or put a smile on my face. Sidney Halston, Kimberly Kincaid, Robin Covington, and Selena Laurence—I have never been more grateful for your friendship.

  None of this would be possible without all of you awesome bloggers and reviewers who take the time to not only read my stories, but write meaningful reviews to share. I truly appreciate it from the bottom of my heart.

  Mum and Dad . . . thank you for letting the minions stay at the Grandma and Poppa Hotel when I need to get words written.

  To T, F, & L . . . thank you for simply being yourselves. I love every precious part of each of you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Mommy, please,” he begged. The electrifying pain of his own skin burning made him puke all over his only pair of jeans that didn’t have holes.

  He curled into a ball on the threadbare carpet, knowing the pain would be worse if the man’s cigarette touched his stomach like last time. He looked through his tears to the tatty green chair sitting in the corner next to the television. Through blurry eyes he could see his mother holding her hand to her head, nursing her own wounds. There was no way she would stop the monster. She would never be his saving grace.

  The pain eased for a moment. In the moments between sobs, he could hear a crackle and hiss as the man who had taken over their lives took another drag. Daring to take a look, he could see the tip of the cigarette glowing the brightest orange.

  The glow taunted him. And warned him too—while it was at its brightest, in his line of sight, it couldn’t hurt him.

  “Ready, son,” the man slurred.

  He hated it when the man called him “son.” He didn’t know who his father was, but it couldn’t be a guy who wore a wife beater and smelled like cooking fat.

  The cigarette pressed against his skin. His entire body spasmed as the heat seared through his hip.

  “Happy fucking birthday, you little shit,” the man said as he poured half his can of beer onto Elliott’s face.

  He spluttered and coughed, but didn’t say a word. The man couldn’t control him, and neither could the burn.

  Elliott Dawson sat up quickly, his right arm swinging around to fight off his invisible opponent. He scanned the room as he tried to slow his breathing, taking in a collection of guitars and two framed photographs—one of him with his best childhood friend, Adam, and one of Elliott’s band, Preload, at their very first gig at a pub on the Danforth.

  Thank fuck he was home. In his own bed. Another night of waking up in a strange room, of eating strange food, and of not being understood half the time would have tipped him right over the edge. He flopped back on his bed and rubbed his face, pushing away the long brown hair that clung to his damp skin. A two-month tour of Europe was something he and his bandmates had only been able to dream about when they’d been teenagers practicing in their Toronto group home, but the reality of this dream come true was hard fucking work.

  Elliott looked around the room again and took a deep breath. Pancakes. He smelled pancakes. His stomach rumbled. He reached for his phone to check the time. Noon. He’d fallen straight into bed when they’d gotten in at one that morning. He wasn’t sure what time zone his body was in or when he’d last eaten.

  He climbed out of bed, and grabbed a pair of shorts, his bones and muscles aching from the thirty-five–concert tour. The air-conditioning was cold enough to freeze his balls off, but outside the hot muggy August air of downtown Toronto would be more than likely to melt them. He jogged down the stairs and wandered toward the kitchen. He could swear his footsteps echoed, but he knew it was just his imagination—his mind having to get used to a once-full house becoming empty.

  “There’s a shit-ton more in there,” Nikan said from one of the stools at the breakfast bar, tipping his chin in the direction of the oven as he stabbed a huge forkful of pancakes covered with syrup. “Pixie brought them over about twenty minutes ago. Said she made way too many and that we might’ve missed real Canadian food.”

  Elliott laughed. “Sounds just like her. I wonder if Dred got to sleep in this morning or if Petal had him awake first thing.” Knowing their lead singer’s feeling about his daughter, Elliott doubted Dred would have minded the intrusion. He grabbed a plate and helped himself to a stack way higher than he needed and poured an equally obscene amount of maple syrup on them.

  Nikan shook his head. “Dude, you’re heading for a serious sugar crash later. Oh, and Pixie had Petal with her when she swung by, so he’s probably still out too. You know how he usually sleeps for days once a tour’s over.”

  Dred had been the first of his bandmates to move out of the house that Elliott, Dred, Jordan, Nikan, and Lennon had shared for so many years. The seven months since had flown by. By the end of this most recent leg of their tour, Dred had been video-calling five times a day with his fiancée, Pixie, who had stayed behind with Dred’s young daughter, Petal, in the home he now shared with his little family.

  Elliott took a huge forkful of pancake, and groaned. “God bless Pixie,” he mumbled through a mouthful of pancake, butter, and syrup. “I might have to work out for three hours this afternoon to work this off, but goddamn it’s worth it.”

  Nik nodded. “It’s kind of strange just the two of us living here now, but one of the perks is the gym is always empty.”

  Strange as it felt now to not hear Jordan clomping around the house, Elliott knew that his having moved out—moved on—was the right thing. Lexi, a tiny ballerina, had danced her way into Jordan’s heart so forcefully that she’d shoved his demons out. They had settled down together in their own Baby Point home in February.r />
  “I wonder how Lennon did in his new place last night,” Nikan said.

  It seemed odd, Lennon having all his things moved into the condo he’d owned and previously rented out for several years while they were away on tour, but then again, nothing about his bandmates’ recent moves felt normal—at least not yet. They’d bought the place together shortly after they’d made it big—not just for convenience, as most people had assumed, but because Jordan had become suicidal at the prospect of being separated from the only family—his group-home “brothers”—he’d ever had.

  “Given Lennon’s insomniac tendencies,” Elliott said after yet another mouthful of pancakes, “he probably got most of his things out of boxes before getting into bed, and was up again at seven finishing it off.”

  “You thinking of moving out anytime soon?” Nikan pushed his empty plate away and rolled his eyes as Elliott poured more maple syrup onto his pancakes.

  Elliott had thought about it a lot on the trip. “Unless you want this place, in which case we can play a round of Rock, Paper, Scissors, I was thinking of offering to buy you guys out of it. No pressure to leave or anything. I mean, I’m totally happy with the setup we have.” He didn’t want Nikan to feel like he had to move out any time soon. “What about you?”

  “Figured I’d think about it once this tour is over. Doesn’t make much sense to me to buy a place and have to worry about it while I’m away. I get the European leg is done, but I figured maybe after we’ve finished the U.S. and Canadian legs I’ll start looking.”

  “Well, don’t feel like you have to rush that for me. Plus, I’m thinking of heading up to the cottage for some R&R and to burn off a little energy.”

  Nikan studied him, knowing full well what he meant. “Are you cool?” he asked.

  He wasn’t. He was anxious. Negative thoughts were on a constant loop, running through his head night and day, putting the chaos and turmoil he felt into words, challenging him to do things he shouldn’t. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  Elliott’s cell phone rang. “Yo.”

  “Elliott, glad I caught you,” Ryan, Preload’s manager, said, sounding way too fucking chipper.

  “Given I’ve been home less than twelve hours since the last thing you signed me up for, can I assume this is a social call?”

  Nikan laughed.

  “You’d make a shit stand-up comedian,” Ryan said. “Look, I’m sorry to hit you up on your first day back, but we got a request a couple weeks ago. I was gonna deal with it once you’d had some time to settle back home, but it’s gotten more urgent. There’s a sixteen-year-old kid in SickKids Children’s Hospital who is a massive fan and has cancer.”

  Elliott’s stomach turned. He knew what Ryan was going to ask. He hated going. He hated doctors and—he was ashamed to admit to himself—he hated patients more. It was impossible to deal with their pain. He wished he was better equipped to help them. But having suffered so much pain of his own, he couldn’t. He couldn’t put on a happy face and make like everything was going to get better when it fucking wasn’t. “What do you need? Signed merch?” It wasn’t going to be enough, though. It never was.

  “The parents were kind of hoping you might be able to swing by the hospital and see him. Look, I know the timing is shitty and I know you don’t like to do these things usually, but I figured you guys would rather do it than drag Jordan and Dred away from their families. Could you and Nikan could head over there today?”

  “Gimme a minute to talk to Nik.” He put the phone on mute. “Did you catch most of that?”

  Nikan nodded. “Yeah, whatever the kid needs.”

  Of course Nik would be willing. They didn’t call him Saint-fucking-Nik for nothing. And it was pointless calling Lennon, because he hated making contact with anybody. “Yeah, we’ll be there. Hit us up with the details.”

  Nikan stood up and began clearing the plates. “You going to be okay with this?” he asked Elliott.

  “Yeah, I got this,” he said, even though the blood in his veins felt like thick, dirty oil. Rivers of it would clog his arteries until he could set it alight and let it all burn out. Then his head would clear. Then he would be able to breathe.

  But until then, he’d do what he’d always done.

  Survive.

  * * *

  Kendalee Walker watched her husband kiss another woman.

  And felt . . . almost nothing.

  Instead, she sipped on the coffee she’d made from a travel mug she’d borrowed from one of her friends at the No Frills grocery store where she worked as a cashier.

  What had happened to her old companions, outrage and indignation? After having spent the last fourteen days going back and forth between the hospital where her son lay in pain and the grocery store where she worked because Adrian had left her broke, she was pretty sure exhaustion had killed them.

  Adrian stepped out of the woman’s snazzy little sports car, waved good-bye, and jogged over toward her. While he’d gotten a ride over, she’d walked from work to save a few bucks. And tonight, she’d sleep at the hospital, again, even though fourteen-year-old Daniel hated it. Right now, he hated everything—his pain, his injuries, and his father most of all.

  “Hey, Kendalee,” Adrian said. His tone was curt, and she wanted to tell him to go fuck himself or that awful woman who wore so much red lipstick, her husband’s lips took on a pinkish tinge.

  “Adrian,” she said, curtly, and began walking toward the entrance to SickKids. He placed his hand on her lower back but removed it quickly when she sidestepped to the left.

  “Sorry,” he apologized, and for a moment she almost believed he meant it. “Habit. We should get inside. It’s gross this summer, isn’t it?” Adrian said, bringing her into the present.

  Nope. She was so not discussing the weather with him. “Remember, you aren’t allowed on Daniel’s ward.”

  Adrian swore under his breath as he reached for the door. “How could I forget? It’s fucking bullshit and you know it.”

  She stepped inside SickKids, a place you might drive by a hundred times without thinking about what it was—what it meant. A place you’d never see the interior of unless there was something wrong—really wrong—with your child, or a child you knew.

  Adrian huffed. Again. How had she never noticed that habit? “This isn’t my fault, Kendalee, and it would help if you’d reinforce that.”

  The doors to the elevator opened, and they stepped inside the empty space. Adrian smacked the button. Anger strangled her, its hands around her throat.

  “Your brother abused our son, Adrian. Your twin brother. Can you imagine how confusing that is for him? And you refused to believe Daniel until we had fucking proof,” she hissed. The way the violence scorched its way through her scared her. She might spend ninety-nine percent of her life feeling numb, but there was one topic guaranteed to push her to consider physical harm. She looked at the numbers on the elevator display. Four . . . five . . . six.

  “I didn’t. I just . . . we needed to be sure that this wasn’t another one of his . . . you know . . . things. We’d been dealing with school complaints about his behavior for months. It didn’t seem unreasonable to want to talk to Simon first.”

  “No, Adrian. Your job was to believe your child.”

  The elevator pinged, and the door slid open. Kendalee took a deep breath and stepped out.

  “Kendalee.” The bright voice filled with excitement sounded down the hallway. Shannon, Daniel’s occupational therapist, hurried toward her, eyes bright. Both she and Adrian stopped until she caught up with them. “We had a good day, today,” she said a little out of breath. “There are some celebrities, musicians apparently, visiting the hospital today. The ones Daniel has pinned to his wall.”

  Kendalee pictured the heavy metal rockers and, worse, recalled some of their dreadful music Daniel had been insistent on blaring in his room at home. She’d debated banning her fourteen-year-old from listening to the R-rated lyrics, but there had been other battles to fight.
Personally, she couldn’t care less about the band members one way or another, but if they had the power to help her son dig his way out of his depression, she’d go beg them on her knees to swing by his room. Nothing else had worked, and she’d even stopped praying to St. Dominic Savio. Patron saint of teenagers in trouble he might be, but he clearly wasn’t taking her calls.

  “Is there any way to get them to visit Daniel?” Kendalee asked.

  Shannon shook her head. “It always causes a lot of buzz and excitement, partly because we can’t guarantee which wards they’ll attend or who they’ll spend time with. Officially, they are here to visit the oncology ward on this floor. But Daniel seemed . . . interested, which I think is great. I know you have a lot going on, but I wondered if you’d gotten around to replacing his guitar.”

  Kendalee turned her eyes to Adrian, feeling Shannon’s frustration. It was a question she’d asked every day since his team had suggested getting a new one for him.

  Adrian shrugged helplessly. “Things have been busy at work, I haven’t had chance to get to the music store. And let’s face it, his guitar—and my fucking house—is in ashes because of him.”

  It was a line she’d heard often during the last week as the team had suggested things that would help Daniel’s mindset and mood.

  “Erm . . . I’ll catch you guys later,” Shannon said, extricating herself from the awkward moment.

  Kendalee had always hated scenes and did everything she could to avoid them. But if Adrian had his way, Daniel would just sit and stare at the blank wall of the hospital for penance, and it would be a cold day in hell before she’d let that happen. “Give me the money, and I’ll figure out how to get it done tomorrow,” she said.

  “This is fucking ridiculous,” Adrian said, pulling out his wallet as they walked toward the consultant’s office.

  “No, your attitude is,” Kendalee snapped, then took a deep breath. Getting angry wasn’t going to help. “Look, you say you want to see your son, but the team can see how split you are between supporting Daniel and his recovery and being angry at him for what he did. Daniel feels that.”