Strength Read online

  Copyright © 2018 Amy Daws

  All rights reserved.

  Published by: Amy Daws, LLC

  ISBN-13: 978-1-944565-21-3

  ISBN-10: 1-944565-21-3

  Editing: Stephanie Rose

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  Cover Design: Amy Daws

  This book is licensed for personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author. The only exception is by quoting short excerpts in a review. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, please go to www.amydawsauthor.com to find where you can purchase a copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  More Books by Amy Daws

  Acknowledgements

  More About the Author

  Sample of Challenge

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Author’s Note

  This book was originally entitled That One Moment. It was featured as book five in my London Lovers Series and inspired The Harris Brothers Series spinoff. I received many messages from readers saying they didn’t realise the Harris Brothers’ sister had a book already. So, after much consideration, I rebranded That One Moment to fit with the Harris Brothers look and feel.

  Strength is the original story, That One Moment, with new, never before published scenes and epilogues. I hope you enjoy the story of Vi Harris and Hayden Clarke.

  Dedicated to my readers who love to go where I take them.

  EVERY MOMENT IN LIFE HAS a ripple.

  Every day has twenty-four hours.

  That’s one thousand, four hundred forty different chances per day that can affect the course of your life.

  Watching a ripple that you caused and immediately wishing you could take it back is a devastatingly powerless feeling. You have to sit there and witness it grow and spread, like an infection.

  And once it starts, there’s not much you can do to change its path or pattern of movement.

  Unless, of course, you decide to make a splash.

  “HAYDEN CLARKE. GOOD TO SEE you again.” Doc rises from behind his desk and extends his hand to me. He’s a tall, robust man with a grey beard. Dressed in khaki trousers and a navy jumper, he is the perfect cliché shrink.

  I give him a firm, confident shake, trying to portray my entire state of mind with one simple gesture. “Hiya, Doc.”

  “Please sit. I’ve been looking forward to this appointment for weeks.” He gestures to one of the maroon leather armchairs and takes the one seated directly across from it.

  I drop down onto the familiar seat and rest my ankle on my knee. “You probably say that to all your patients.”

  “I wish I could, Hayden. I wish I could.” Instead of grabbing his notepad like he normally does, he crosses his arms over his chest and eyes me speculatively. “Tell me, how are you feeling with your one-year anniversary approaching?”

  He dives right in. Every time. “I’m feeling fine. I’m focusing on preparing my speech for the charity gala, as you well know.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Are you still confident about speaking? It’s a sensitive subject matter.” He cocks his head to the side like he can see the answer if he looks at me hard enough.

  Glimpses of the night I wish like hell I could forget flash through my mind. I straighten my posture and mindlessly touch my brown leather cuffs on each of my wrists. “Definitely confident. I can handle it,” I answer pragmatically.

  A look of fondness lights up his features. “I think it will be a big turning point for you, Hayden. I really do.”

  “That’s sort of the point.” I release the cuffs and rub my hands down my denim-clad thighs. “I’m ready to get on with my life. The last few days, I can’t seem to stop thinking about the days leading up to that night.”

  He nods thoughtfully. “That is expected given that the anniversary is only days away. What are you doing to continue progressing in your recovery beyond the charity gala? Who are you spending your days with?”

  I shrug my shoulders and frown. “Leslie, Theo, and Baby Marisa mostly.”

  His brows arch. “Anyone outside of your family?”

  I clench my jaw because he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to and it irks me. “Not really. I help out with the baby a lot, and I’m back working with my brother again. We’re busy.” The truth is I don’t have many friends left after spending the last four years drinking my life away. And eventually trying to take my life.

  “Any word from Reyna?”

  My eyes cloud over at the mention of her name. “She texts occasionally. I don’t really engage much with her.”

  He simply nods and I let out an exasperated laugh. “We’ve already established that she’s not a good friend for me to lean on. Now you want me to go out and make new friends? How am I supposed to know what kind of friends are safe?” I challenge him.

  “Hayden, it’s not about making friends. It’s about putting yourself out there. There are lots of people you can converse with who wouldn’t be anything like what Reyna was to you. I’m just noticing a pattern here. You’ve lived with your brother, his fiancée, and their new baby for three months now. You don’t appear to be showing an effort to intermingle with people outside of your family, to become a part of society once again.”

  “I disagree with you,” I jeer, slicing my hand through my hair. “I’m getting up in front of hundreds of people to tell my entire bloody story. That seems like the definition of putting myself out there.”

  Doc smirks and nods again, which only further frustrates me. I stand up and stride over to the window to gaze down at the busy west end London traffic. A red double-decker bus full of tourists passes by. I’d give anything to be out there as a foreigner on holiday and oblivious to the shit that goes on in here.

  “So, what then? You don’t think my speech will be much of a challenge?” I snap, looking over my shoulder at him.

  “I didn’t say that.” He sighs heavily and narrows his eyes at me, obviously gauging my temper.

  “I’m reading between the lines.” I like Doc because he doesn’t bullshit me, but I get tired of having to find all the answers myself. Him questioning my recovery makes me feel insecure at a time when I’m desperate to prove to everyone that I’m not the same person. “Come on now. Out with it, Doc. Tel
l me one thing that would be more challenging.”

  “Look, Hayden. You’ve done the twelve steps. You’ve told your story in group therapy. You’re staying clean. These are all good things, so let’s focus on them.”

  I walk back to my seat. “Don’t hold back on me now, Doc. Come on! Challenge me,” I dare, tossing my hands out wide as I sit down. I always did love a challenge.

  He shrugs his shoulders like he expected my reaction. “What if I asked you to tell your story to a single person? Not a room full of others in therapy. Not a ballroom full of people. Not a family member or close friend. Rather, an acquaintance. Telling your story to an audience full of strangers is one thing. But finding someone whom you can sit down with, look in the eyes, and tell your story to is another completely. The point is you would not just be talking at them. You’d be engaging with them. They’d likely have questions and comments, and you’d have to field them all with an open mind.”

  “And you think that’s the ultimate challenge,” I scoff arrogantly but feel a churning in my abdomen over the idea.

  Doc shrugs. “You said you’ve been recalling the days leading up to your attempt?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, grimacing at where he’s going with this.

  “All right. Let’s try this. Find one person and tell them about the five days you experienced leading up to your attempt. Be honest. Be open. Be vulnerable. It will be difficult and it will pull you back to that time, but getting it out will be the ultimate test to your recovery. We’ll call it the Countdown Challenge.”

  “Bloody hell,” I snap. “I thought that’s why I am doing my big gala speech. To test myself. To push my recovery.”

  “You’re doing that speech for many reasons, Hayden—one of which is for your family. It is a benefit they began for you after all. But both of these challenges will push you in different ways.” He pauses, scratching his beard as he attempts to collect his thoughts. “Let me ask you this. Do you remember how important Leslie felt to you the day she found you?”

  I nod, wincing at the flashback that blasts through my mind’s eye.

  “She was important because you didn’t know her well. She wasn’t someone close to you, so you believed her intentions. Sharing your truth with someone new to you would be a very similar experience. It could be incredibly enlightening.”

  I huff, “And how will I find someone?”

  Doc grins. “You’re a charming bloke. I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

  “OI, VI! GET YOUR ARSE down here, wench! We are in desperate need of libations!”

  I stop dead in my tracks on the sidewalk near my flat and crane my neck toward the faint sound of shouting coming from down the alley.

  “Don’t you ignore us, Vi! We know you’re up there!” a deep, booming voice bellows.

  I’d know those voices anywhere.

  “I think I can climb this wall. Quick, Booker, give us a lift.”

  My eyes fly wide when I hear a faint groan and a scuffle. I rush around the corner and peer down the narrow alley that leads into the private entrance of my flat. “Oi! Tell me I’m hallucinating!” I shout, pushing my stray blonde strands away from my face to get a better look.

  My four brothers freeze like the cat that got the cream. Tanner—who’s all of twenty-three, but acts like he’s twelve—is sitting on the shoulders of his twin, Camden, while our baby brother, Booker, is bracing his hands low in preparation for Cam’s foot.

  “What the bloody hell are you all doing?” I ask. My gaze swerves accusingly at our older brother, Gareth, who’s leaning against the brick wall of my building looking thoroughly entertained.

  Gareth shrugs his broad shoulders. “Just trying to determine who’s going to break a bone this time.”

  “Get down, the lot of you. Dad will string you up if someone gets injured! What were you planning to achieve there?” I glance up to the fire escape ladder that’s a good fifteen feet above our heads.

  Tanner drops lithely off Camden’s shoulders and says, “I figured you were up in your garden with your ear buds in and couldn’t hear us. I thought we could grab hold of the fire escape if Booker gave us a boost.” He scratches the back of his shaggy blonde hair as his blue eyes squint up toward the roof. He stares off into the distance speculatively and admits, “It didn’t seem so high a minute ago.”

  “I live on the eleventh floor! You were going to climb the entire way up?”

  “Of course! I’m made of stronger stuff than most, Vi!” Tanner says, puffing his chest out.

  “And Booker?” I snap, ignoring Tanner’s cocky demeanour. “You think putting the smallest one on the bottom of this death trap was a good idea?”

  “We asked Gareth, but the bastard wouldn’t—” Camden starts but is cut off.

  “I’m not that small anymore! I’ve been doing two-a-days.” Booker frowns and rubs his triceps defensively while maintaining his proud posture.

  Truthfully, not one of them is small. They are all over six foot and athletically built. Gareth, Camden, and Tanner are more heavily muscled than Booker, but none of them have an ounce of fat on them.

  I grin and rustle Booker’s brown hair affectionately. “You need a cut again.”

  “Come home and give me one.” He grins sheepishly and my heart lurches at the tenderness in his eyes. I’ve only lived in my new flat for a year now, and Booker makes it no secret that he misses me living at home. I miss him, too. The adorable, cheeky bugger.

  “So, what are you guys doing here, shouting up my neighbourhood?” I ask, placing my hands on my hips in a motherly, scolding type of way that is all too natural for me when I’m around them.

  “You think you can get away with celebrating your birthday without us?” Camden replies, strolling over to me with a devilish smile. He’s such a man-whore that I can hardly look at him without rolling my eyes. He has twinkling blue eyes set in the darkest of lashes that have a way of sucking you right into his games. And of course he wears his blonde hair like all the other slutty footballers, having just enough length on top to sweep off to the side. The prat knows women can’t resist him. I quit moaning at him about his conquests a long time ago. He’ll never change.

  He throws his huge arm around my narrow shoulders and musses my hair. “Come on, Vi. Off we go.”

  I planned to spend the afternoon on my balcony, soaking up some sun with my dog, Bruce, but it’s useless to say no to my brothers. The five of us walk through the top end of Brick Lane Market toward Welly’s Pub—the spot my brothers quickly dubbed their hangout in my neighbourhood.

  It’s finally starting to feel like my home area at last. A few years ago, I got a proper job as a designer for Nikon working on high fashion camera bags. Their headquarters is located in a big converted warehouse in Shoreditch, East London, not far from our dad’s home in Chigwell. I turned into a commuter bee every day, until last year when I saw a brilliant penthouse flat open up within walking distance from work. Living in proper East London feels like a fun adventure compared to Chigwell. This part of the city has a gritty, urban edge to it that I find thrilling. It’s chock-full of eclectic independent shops, street vendors, and shabby chic pubs. The graffiti-covered warehouses have a quintessential East London vibe that can’t be replicated.

  “How’s Bruce?” Gareth asks, pulling a cap out of his trousers and securing it low on his head to conceal his face from on-lookers. He suddenly turns to walk backwards so he can eye a pretty brunette we just passed. She shoots him shamelessly obvious bedroom eyes.

  “A monster as usual,” I say.

  “As long as he’s protecting you, that’s all I care about.”

  Several more heads turn as we walk, many people likely recognising Gareth since he’s a defender at Manchester United Football Club. He signed at twenty-one and became a starter straight away. He gets noticed everywhere on this side of town, as do my other brothers.

  We stroll into the dimly lit pub and, as it’s not even four o’clock yet, it’s practically empty aside f
rom the few day drunks holding the bar up. Gareth heads to the bar to get us our drinks while the rest of us grab the large, round corner booth that always feels as if it is here just for us. I slide in and eventually end up sandwiched between Booker and Tanner. Camden strides over to help Gareth carry the round of Guinnesses.

  One extra Guinness sits ominously in the centre of the table. Gareth looks down and yanks his hat off, smoothing his hand over his dark hair in preparation. With a quick exhale, he raises his glass. “To Vilma on her birthday,” he begins, his hazel eyes glossing over as he looks at me. “You share a lot more than a name and a birthday with our mum, but you’ll always be Our Vi to us.”

  My chin wobbles as the others murmur, “Happy birthday, Vi. Happy birthday, Mum.” We clink our glasses with the spare drink in the centre, then tip the liquid into our mouths, remaining silent for a moment.

  This is the first birthday I’ve spent away from home and, if I’m being honest, I’ve felt a bit emotional about it all day. I’m just newly twenty-five, but I fully admit that I lived at home for longer than I should have. However, when you grow up as the only female in a house full of men, you can’t help but become attached to the feeling of being needed.

  Our mother, Vilma Harris, died of cancer when Booker was only one year old. Tanner and Camden had just turned three, and I was four. Gareth was eight, so he remembers a lot more about her than the rest of us, but he rarely speaks of her.

  What I do know is that in only a few short months, our father, Vaughn Harris, went from being a professional footballer with a large, happy family, to a single parent of five kids, four of which were under the age of five. It was certainly a game changer for all of us. Dad was a star striker for Manchester United and one of the best they’d ever seen. He was in the prime of his career in the 80s when they won the FA Cup in ‘83 and ‘85. About ten years later, he was still a starter when our mother got the diagnosis of stage four ovarian cancer. It had spread to other organs before she even had a chance to start treatment.