Break the Faith (The Breaking Trilogy Book 3) Read online

  Break the Faith

  M. Mabie

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Connect with M. Mabie

  Also by M. Mabie

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Epilogue

  A Preview of ROOTS AND WINGS

  Also by M. Mabie

  About M. Mabie

  Copyright

  Break the Faith © 2019 M. Mabie / Fifty5cent Publishing

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of the material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/ publisher. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, alive or dead, is coincidental and not indented by the author.

  LICENSE NOTICE. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  DISCLAIMER. This is a work of adult fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks are not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  The author does not endorse or condone any behavior enclosed within. The subject matter is not appropriate for minors. Please note this novel contains profanity and explicit sexual situations.

  Cover Design Copyright © 2019 by Jay Aheer/Simply Defined Art

  Editing by Felicia Wetzig.

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  Also by M. Mabie

  THE WAKE SERIES

  Bait

  Sail

  Anchor

  THE KNOT DUET

  Twisted Desire

  Tethered Love

  STANDALONES

  Fade In

  All the Way

  CITY LIMITS SERIES of STANDALONES

  Roots and Wings

  Sunshine and Rain

  Smoke and Mirrors

  THE BREAKING TRILOGY

  Break My Fall

  Break Me Down

  Break the Faith

  1

  Abe

  Fourteen Years Ago

  I rested my bike against the wall of the garage, and even before I opened the door, I could smell the Saturday meal Mom was cooking up. Warm and comforting, just like her.

  I’d taken a long bike ride that day. It was December, but the sun had been bright and the temperature much higher than normal. A break from the cold rain and clouds we’d had for the past few weeks.

  Pulling my shoes off at the back door, I closed it before the cat ran out. “Oh, no you don’t,” I told him and gave the gray and white furball a scratch behind the ear.

  You can’t escape either.

  “Have a good ride, Abraham?” Mom asked from the sink, drying a large bowl. Father loved eating whatever she cooked but hated if there was even one dirty dish in the kitchen. He didn’t make much sense sometimes. Those were just the rules, the ways he liked things, and we all did our best to keep him happy.

  Happy Father was unfair. Angry Father was cruel.

  “I rode down to Voss Creek by the Carters’ and then around town.”

  She handed me the dry bowl, and I put it in the cupboard near me.

  “Sounds like a good day. Go wash up and check on Jacob. A few of the neighborhood boys were picking on him earlier. Before Father went to the church to polish his message for tomorrow, he had words with him, but I think it only upset Jacob more.” Her shoulders slumped forward and then she pulled a few caramels from her apron pocket and passed them to me. “See if you can cheer him up. Pray with him.” Her smile was thin, but she was trying.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered and took the candies. It must have been an eventful day at home if she was giving them to us. Candy wasn’t something Father often approved of us having, but Mother had a secret stash for certain occasions.

  Bad days. Good behavior. Needed distractions.

  “Tell him I made roasted chicken and cheesy potatoes for dinner.” They were Jacob’s favorite. He’d mash them all together, and if we had corn, he’d mix that in too. He called it Seconds Chicken because he always went back for more, which wasn’t very common for him. He was a far pickier eater than me.

  Doing as I was told, I went to my room and changed my shirt, which was dirty from a day outside, and then I cleaned up in the bathroom before knocking on my brother’s door.

  “I’m reading what you said,” Jacob pleaded through the wall.

  “Father isn’t home yet. It’s me,” I replied and cracked his door. The youngest Hathaway was on his bed with his Bible. Leaning against his nightstand was a large white poster board with “Weak men have weak faith” written in large, bold black letters.

  “What happened?”

  His bottom lip was swollen, and it was hard telling if it was from the kids on our block or from our dad. Either were believable. Although the Nichols boys were always causing trouble, I’d never known them to hit—at least not when I was around. Then again, our dad usually didn’t hit either.

  “Nothing. Father says it’s just a lesson God’s trying to teach me about being a stronger man.”

  I pointed to his mouth and asked, “And there?”

  “Guess I bit it.”

  Not that it was impossible to bite a lip, but it didn’t look like what had happened.

  I stepped closer inspecting the rest of him for other injuries. “You okay?”

  He rolled over so he didn’t have to look at me and took The Word with him. “I have to read this before Father gets back, Abraham.”

  I couldn’t tell what scripture he’d been given from that far away, but there was no doubt if Father had told him to read it, he’d be quizzed on it that evening.

  Over and over.

  I didn’t need the candy; I’d had a good day. So I tossed the soft chews over his shoulder onto the pag
es he was studying. “We’re having Seconds Chicken for dinner. Mom asked me to have you wash up so you’re ready when he gets back.”

  “I will,” he said and brushed the treats off the page he needed to flip.

  I never had the trouble Jacob did. Someone was always teasing him or calling him names. He liked to sing in the choir and play piano, which were usually activities left for the girls. The Lord knew they didn’t have much else. But Jacob excelled at music and liked doing both, so I didn’t see what the big deal was.

  Retreating to the door, I’d leave him alone, but before I left, I said, “You know he won’t make you do Service and Testimony. Don’t worry.”

  How would it look if the great leader couldn’t even keep his blessed children in line? Would others doubt his power? His teachings and ideals? Would they think he was a phony like I did?

  Jacob sighed quietly, but the frustration was loud and clear. “I know. I’m just tired of feeling different. I almost want to wear it. If anything, just to be like everyone else for a while.”

  It wasn’t easy being the sons of the Pastor. We were expected to be perfect, polite, Godly young men. He was ten, and I was almost fourteen, but we weren’t like the other kids. Weren’t treated like the other children in town. One day, one of us was supposed to be the next in line like our father and our grandfathers before him.

  I had a feeling neither of us wanted that because we hated the idea of being like him.

  William B. Hathaway

  The Grand Pastor.

  The Godliest Man in Lancaster.

  The Leader of the Legacy Board.

  Our father, the worst man I knew.

  2

  Abe

  Myra didn’t speak. Hearing her father had passed, her blue eyes held mine for about a minute and then she lay her head back down on the pillow. On her side, she stared at the backs of the books dividing the two rooms, blinking slowly.

  Adjusting to get closer to her on the warm mattress, I crooked my leg on my knee and ran my hand over her bare arm beside it. I hadn’t lost a parent, not like she had, and she’d lost both of hers. Her mother years ago and her father now.

  Blank.

  That was her reaction, and I wasn’t sure what to do. It was still early in the morning and she’d awoken to the... devastating news? Was she devastated? Traumatized?

  Day by day, I’d learned when Myra was unsure or overwhelmed, she’d revert to silent thought and work things out in her own time. It wasn’t avoidance or her ignoring issues, it was the way she navigated them. How she coped.

  When she wanted to talk, I trusted she would. If she had questions, she would ask them when the time was right.

  It was my duty to be there for her, comfort her, in whatever form or fashion that helped the most.

  Her breathing was calm and easy, and she didn’t appear upset or distressed—not in the ways you’d expect of a daughter who’d just lost a father. No tears. No sobbing. No pained expression.

  Grief was a strange creature by itself, but coupled with the confusion and resentment she’d recently expressed about Lancaster, I wasn’t sure what she’d want to do. Regardless, whatever she chose would be right for her, and I’d support my girl one hundred percent. No questions asked.

  Tucking one of her golden locks behind her ear, I pressed my lips to her temple. “I love you, Myra.”

  Her skin still smelled as sweet and floral as the night before, but the air in the room differed completely from the desire and need that had floated in it only hours earlier. Now it was solemn and cool.

  I wasn’t about to underestimate her though. She was strong. Bright. Brave. Myra had the ability to face anything with poise and grace, head on. This would be no different.

  Leaving her there, I wandered to the kitchen. No longer tired, I was hungry and since I wasn’t going to leave her alone to go to church that morning, I assembled ingredients to make a big breakfast.

  Not that I was some world-class chef, but from watching her, I’d gotten better.

  We’d both been learning.

  Most of my new skills had spurred from having someone there to cook for. Someone to please besides myself. When I lived alone, I didn’t think too much about how well things tasted or even having a variety. It was mostly egg sandwiches, burgers on the weekends, and the occasional frozen pizza, but watching and enjoying my time in the kitchen with Myra had changed my attitude toward cooking.

  When she’d first come to stay with me after Jacob died, the last thing I’d wanted was for her to think she was there to cater to my every whim. So I’d relied on the basics, the few I knew, and did my best to make it equal. Admittedly, I’d also downloaded the Pinterest app and had been finding and saving ideas for when it was my turn to prepare meals.

  I didn’t mind.

  Before I knew it that morning, I had a hot, buttered griddle and a growing stack of pancakes. It wasn’t until I turned off the burners and refilled my cup of coffee that Myra tiptoed her way out of the bedroom.

  She smiled as she rounded the island, but I felt like I was standing on every eggshell I’d thrown away. Uncomfortable, because without the ability to hear her thoughts or read her expression, I was unsure of how to behave. I didn’t want her to be upset or feel any amount of pain, but that wasn’t something I could control.

  It wasn’t about me.

  Whatever and however she felt, she was entitled to those emotions.

  Honestly, when it came to me, she was entitled to anything she wanted. Whatever I could do to help, I would. Whatever she needed from me, I’d give her.

  That’s what my love for her did to me. It made her the most important. Made her happiness more necessary than my own. She was my highest priority.

  Myra had given me a second chance—or maybe just a legit first chance since we were more on the same page than we’d been when she’d first arrived. Things were mutual and not obligatory. Feelings were real. I wanted us to be together because she made my life infinitely better, and I hoped that was why she’d chosen to be with me too.

  I prayed that now and from here on out I’d be someone who only added to her world.

  She’d shared her body with me the night before. Something precious and satisfying and of her own free will. We’d had sex for the first time, without the blanket of shame or obligations to God or anyone else. We’d been a man and woman making a physical commitment to one another.

  It had been our first time, and it wasn’t perfect, but I don’t think it was supposed to be. It hadn’t been something out of a fantasy, but it was vivid enough that I’d remember it my whole life through.

  Although, I would have loved to have given her more. Who wouldn’t?

  But it had been real. Raw and honest.

  To me that meant a lot. Meant everything.

  There were no false pretenses. No guises.

  Just us.

  There’d be time for all the bells and whistles. Time for the playful discoveries lovers gain with experience. Time to use the delicate keys she gave me to unlock places neither of us had ever been. Time to identify every trigger on her body and galvanize each one with delicate wonder of what it might do.

  We had time.

  We had love.

  Truthfully, I hadn’t been a whole man without it, because since hearing her tell me she loved me I’d never felt stronger. More committed. More protective. More capable.

  I couldn’t fix all her problems, and she wasn’t asking me to. But I wanted to be a worthy, solid partner. Someone she could rely on. Prepared and steadfast.

  I was at her beck and call, whether or not she wanted me there. Neither of us had a choice in that matter. It was what it was, and I wasn’t going anywhere.

  That morning it meant a good breakfast. She needed food and maybe a little company while she sorted her thoughts. My girl was facing a painfully uncomfortable situation, and the least I could do was fill her belly and tend to her.

  Offer comfort. Companionship. Solidarity.

&n
bsp; I was on her side.

  My fork pointed at the variety of options I’d made as I listed them.

  “Biscuits. Gravy. Pancakes. Sausage. Bacon. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Um, there’s juice.” I scanned the island, making sure I left nothing out. “Oh, and coffee, but you don’t want that.”

  “Coffee.” She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands and twisted her hair over her shoulder. When she sat on the wooden stool she winced, and then reached out for my cup.

  She’d not been a fan of coffee and, as a rule, didn’t drink it, but I couldn’t deny her. Still her sudden change of heart was surprising.

  I passed it to her. “Are you all right?”

  “Just tender,” she said and wrinkled her nose.

  Was I distracted? Was I missing her grief? Because all I saw in her flaming blue eyes was flirtation and possibly desire.

  No.

  I ran the thoughts off. She was sore. I needed to reign in my selfishness.

  We’d waited a long time to be together by a lot of standards. We were a husband and wife, legally married for months. Living with one another nearly as long, except for the time she spent at the Griers. And, had we been a couple in Lancaster, save for any complications, we’d be expecting our first child already.

  So although I couldn’t wait to be with her again, we were waiting until she wasn’t tender. Wasn’t sore.

  Also, there was another reason it didn’t feel right to think about what we’d done and how badly I wanted to do it again. The elephant in the room.

  Maybe she’d still been mostly asleep when I told her about her dad earlier. That would explain why she didn’t seem bothered, upset, or even sad.

  “The call earlier—”

  “Yeah, who was that?” she interrupted and then emptied my mug, passing it back.

  I lifted the decanter, she nodded, and so I filled it back up.

  “It was Robbie Carter.”

  Her slender fingers wrapped around the cup and she stared into it.

  Surely it was only a matter of time until her family or mine called to give us the news. I hadn’t talked long with Robbie, and therefore didn’t have much information. He’d only called to offer his condolences. I doubt he even realized he’d been the one who told us first.