Sweet Mercy, page 1
CONTENTS
Sweet Mercy
1. Mercy
2. Gabriel
3. Mercy
4. Gabriel
5. Mercy
6. Gabriel
7. Mercy
8. Gabriel
9. Mercy
10. Gabriel
11. Mercy
12. Gabriel
13. Mercy
14. Gabriel
15. Mercy
16. Gabriel
17. Mercy
18. Gabriel
19. Mercy
20. Gabriel
21. Mercy
22. Gabriel
23. Mercy
24. Gabriel
25. Mercy
26. Gabriel
27. Mercy
28. Gabriel
29. Mercy
30. Gabriel
Sneak Peek - Gabriel Fallen
Also by K.A. Tucker
About the Author
Copyright © 2019 by K.A. Tucker Books Ltd.
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For more information, visit www.katuckerbooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-990105-46-3 (Ingram paperback edition)
ISBN 978-1-990105-00-5 (KDP paperback edition)
ISBN 978-1-9990154-4-2 (ebook edition)
Editing by Hot Tree Editing
Cover design by Shanoff Designs
Published by K.A. Tucker Books Ltd.
Printed in the United States of America
K.A. TUCKER® is registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office
SWEET MERCY
From internationally bestselling author K.A. Tucker comes the first book in the dark and sexy Empire Nightclub series.
One visit to my father in prison—convicted for a murder he didn’t commit—and I’ve attracted the attention of the last man I’d ever want knowing that I exist.
Gabriel Easton.
Son of an infamous crime boss. Pretentious liar. Merciless womanizer. A scoundrel to the core.
Worse, he has figured out how desperate I am to protect my father from brutality behind bars. He has the power to grant that protection, and he has offered it … for a price.
I'll do anything for my father, including agree to Gabriel's cruel game. But I won't comply with his every whim and wish.
Unfortunately for me, I think my loathing for him is what he’s enjoying most.
That's fine. By the time I’m through with him, he’ll be crying my name.
Mercy.
1 MERCY
“Mercy Wheeler!”
My body, already rigid, stiffens at the sound of my name on the guard’s tongue. I’ve been waiting in Fulcort Penitentiary’s visitor lounge for over two hours now, long enough to leave me doubting whether I’d ever be let in.
Shutting my textbook, I collect my purse and rush for the counter with my stomach in my throat, afraid that any dallying could lose me my visit with my father.
The guard staff changed over at some point, because the thin older gentleman with the kind smile who took down my information earlier has been replaced by a burly oaf with beady little eyes and an unfriendly face. His name tag reads Parker. “Who you here to see?” he demands in a gruff tone.
“My dad.” I clear the wobble from my voice. “Duncan Wheeler. It should say that on the log?” It comes out as a question, though I can see my father’s name written in block letters next to the tip of this guy’s pen.
“I like to double-check, is all.” He smirks, then recites a long string of numbers and letters. My father’s inmate ID number. “This is your first visit here?”
“Yeah.” My father only began his sentence two weeks ago, and it took time to get me approved on his visitor list, which is bullshit. I’m the only person on his visitor list.
Parker the guard takes a long, lingering scan of my plain, baggy T-shirt. That, along with my loosest pair of jeans, is what I carefully chose to comply with the prison’s visitor dress code policy. No tank tops, no shorts, no miniskirts. Nothing tight. Nothing to “provoke” the men serving time behind these bars.
His eyes stall on my chest for far too long.
I fight the urge to fidget under the lecherous gaze. He’s at least twenty years older than me and unappealing, to say the least. Just imagining what kinds of thoughts are churning in his dirty mind makes my skin crawl. Then again, everything in this place—the barbed wire fences, the heavily armed guards, the long and narrow hallways, the constant buzzing as door locks are released, the fact that I’m about to sit in a room with murderers, rapists, and God only knows who else—makes my skin crawl.
“What’s your old man in for?” Parker finally asks.
I hesitate. “Murder.” Are prison guards supposed to be asking these types of questions?
“Yeah?” His gaze drops to my chest again, and he’s not trying to be discreet about it. “And who’d your daddy kill, sweetheart?”
I’m not your goddamn sweetheart. My anger flares, at the invasion of my privacy, at the term he so casually tosses out, at the lustful stare. “Some asshole who wouldn’t take no for an answer from me.” A mechanic named Fleet who worked at the same auto repair shop where my dad worked, a slimy guy who smelled of motor oil and weed and apparently jerked off to cut-and-paste photos of my face atop porn mag bodies. Who cornered me one night with the full intention of experiencing the real thing.
My father didn’t mean to kill him and yet here he is, serving twenty-two years because of a freak accident. Because the prosecutor was convinced otherwise and decided to make an example of him. Because we hired the world’s most ineffective lawyer. It’s the first thing I dwell on when my eyelids crack every day and the heaviest thing on my shoulders when I drift off at night.
I’m exhausted by guilt and anger, and it doesn’t seem like it’s going to let up any time soon.
Pervy Parker smirks. “Lock your things up in number seventeen and then head to security screening.” He slaps a key onto the counter with his meaty paw. “Phone, car keys, coins, belt. Don’t forget so much as a coin, unless you wanna get strip-searched.” His mouth curves into a salacious smile. “And you won’t get to say no to that if you ever wanna see your daddy again.”
My face twists with horror before I can smother it. They wouldn’t actually strip-search me for forgetting to take out a penny from my pocket, would they?
The prick laughs. “Welcome to Fulcort Penitentiary.”
Who is she here to see? I wonder, watching the shriveled old lady fidget with her knuckles, her hair styled in tight gray curls, her wrinkled features touched with smears of pink and blue makeup. A husband? A son?
I’ve kept my eyes forward and down since I passed through the airport-level security screening process and was led me to this long, narrow visitation room. I’ve set my jaw and ignored the hair-raising feel of lingering looks and the stifling tension that courses through the air. My father warned me against attracting attention, that having inmates knowing he has “such a beautiful daughter” would only make his life harder in here. While I rolled my eyes as he said that, I also decided to heed his warning the best way I can, so as not to ruin his life further.
So, no makeup, no styled hair—I didn’t even brush it today—and minimal eye contact.
Except this sweet-looking grandmother who sits at the cafeteria-style table across from me has caught my gaze and now I can’t help but occupy my mind with questions about her while I wait. Namely, how many Saturdays has she spent sitting at Fulcort waiting for a loved one, and what will I look like when I’m sitting in this chair twenty-two years from now?
A soft buzz sounds on my left, pulling my attention away from her and toward the door where prisoners have been filtering in and out.
An ache swells in my chest as I watch my father shuffle through. It’s only been two weeks and yet his face looks gaunt, the orange jumpsuit loose on his tall, lanky frame.
He pauses as the guard refers to a clipboard, his gaze frantically scanning the faces at each table.
I dare a small wave to grab his attention.
The second his green eyes meet mine, his face splits with a smile. He rushes for me.
“Walk!” a guard barks from somewhere.
I stand to meet him.
“Oh God, are you a sight for sore eyes!” He ropes his arms around my neck and pulls me tight into his body.
“I missed you so much!” I return the embrace, sinking into my father’s chest as tears spill down my cheeks despite my best efforts to keep them at bay. “They made me wait for hours. I wasn’t sure if I’d make it in today—”
“That’s enough!” That same guard who just yelled at my father to walk moves in swiftly to stand beside us, his hard face offering not a shred of sympathy. “Unless you wanna lose visitation privileges, inmate!”
Dad pulls back with a solemn nod, his hands in the air in a sign of surrender. “Sorry.” He gestures to the table. “Come on, Mercy. Sit. Let me look at you.”
; We settle into our seats across from each other, my father folding his hands tidily in front of him atop the table. A model of best behavior. The guard shoots him another warning look before continuing on.
“So?” I swallow against the lump in my throat, brushing my tears away. I’ve done so well, hiding tears from him up until now. “How are you doing?”
He shrugs. “You know. Fine, I guess.” He quickly surveys the occupants of the tables around us.
That’s when I notice that his jaw is tinged with a greenish-yellow bruise. “Dad! What happened to your face?” I reach for him on instinct.
He pulls back just as the tips of my fingernails graze his cheek. “It’s nothing.”
“Bullshit! Did someone hit you?”
His wary eyes dart to the nearby inmates again. “Don’t worry about it, Mercy. It’s just the way things are inside. Someone thinks you looked at them funny … Pecking order, that sort of thing. It’s not hard to make enemies in a prison without trying. Anyway, it’s almost healed.”
My eyes begin to sting again. This is my fault. I should never have told him about what Fleet did that night. It’s not like the dirty pig succeeded in his mission; a swift kick to his balls gave me the break I needed to run inside and call the police. Now, had the police done their goddamn job, Fleet never would have strolled into work the next morning with a smug smile on his face and a vivid description of how firm my ass is, and my normally mild-mannered father wouldn’t have lost his temper.
Two weeks in and he’s already been attacked? My father is one of the most easygoing guys I’ve ever met. The fact that he went after Fleet the way he did in the garage was a surprise to everyone, including Fleet, according to what witnesses said.
“Hey, hey, hey … Come on. I can’t handle watching you cry,” my dad croons in a soothing voice. “And we don’t have time for that. Tell me what’s going on with you. How’s school? Work?”
I grit my jaw to keep my emotions in check. We’re supposed to have an hour, but the guard already warned me that Saturdays are busy and this visit will most likely get cut short. So much for prisoner rights. “Work is work. Same old.” I’ve been an administrative assistant at a drug and alcohol addiction center called Mary’s Way in downtown Phoenix for six years now. The center is geared toward women and children, and there never seems to be a shortage of them passing through our doors, hooked on vodka or heroin or crack. Some come by choice, others are mandated by the court.
Too many suddenly stop coming. Too many times I feel like we’re of no help at all.
Dad nods like he knows.
Because he does know, thanks to my mother and her own addiction to a slew of deadly drugs. Heroin is the one that claimed her life when I was ten.
“And school? You’re keeping up with that, right?”
I hesitate.
“Mercy—”
“Yes, I’m still going.” Only because it was too late to drop out of my courses without receiving a failing grade. Though, given my scores on my recent midterms, I may earn a failing grade anyway.
He taps the table with his fingertip. “You need to keep up with that, Mercy. Don’t let my mess derail your future. You’ve worked too hard for this, and you’re so close to getting that degree.”
I’ve been working toward my bachelor’s degree part-time since I was eighteen, squeezing in classes at night and wherever I could find the time and money. At twenty-five, I’m two passing grades away from achieving it. Up until now my intention has always been to become a substance abuse counselor, to help other families avoid the same anguish and loss that my father and I live with. That’s why I took the job at Mary’s to begin with.
But shit happened, and now I have another focus, and it is laser-specific.
I swallow. “I’m looking at taking the LSAT.”
“LSAT?” My dad frowns. “That have something to do with being a counselor?” My father isn’t a highly educated man. He spent his teenage years working on cars and skipping class to get high. At some point he decided school wasn’t for him, so he wrote his GED and then got a job in a mechanic shop. It took years, but he finally got licensed.
“No. It’s for getting into law school.” I level him with a serious gaze. “If you’d had a better lawyer than that shyster, you would have gotten involuntary manslaughter at most. Your sentence would have been a sliver of what you’re facing now—”
“No, wait.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “What are you saying, Mercy? That you’re going to give up on your plans and go to law school just so you can try and get me out of here? I mean, do you even wanna be a lawyer? I thought you hated lawyers.” He chuckles as if the idea is amusing.
Nothing is amusing about this. “I want to be able to hug you without some guard breathing down our necks.” My voice has turned hoarse. “I want my kids to be able to play and laugh with their grandfather.” It’s going to be years before there are actually tiny feet running about. But will my fifty-year-old father live long enough to see the outside again?
“I don’t like this at all.” Dad shakes his head. “How many years of school is it, anyway?”
“A lot less than what you have to serve right now.” Three full-time, plus articling. If I get accepted anywhere. I’ve always exceled in my courses, but this is a new direction, one I’ve never spent a second considering. And then there’s the whole “how do I pay for tuition and survive for three years while I’m going to law school full-time” question. All of our savings went to that joke of a lawyer who screwed my father.
It’s a lot to figure out, but I will figure it out, because there is no way I’ll accept coming here every Saturday for the next twenty-two years to watch my father wither away.
“This isn’t the life I hoped for you. But I know better than to argue with you.” Dad sighs, his shoulders sinking. “So … what’s the weather like? I haven’t been outside yet today.”
“Sunny. Hot.”
“Shocking.” He offers me a wry smile.
Despite my mood, I can’t help but chuckle. It’s always one or the other in the desert. A lot of the time, it’s both, and in July, it’s oppressively so. But the eternal sunshine is the main reason we moved to Arizona from North Carolina after my mother died. It’s a natural mood-booster, my father says, and he has always worried about me inheriting her depression. “I had to change in the parking lot.” The dented blue shitbox that I drive has never had working air-conditioning, so I pulled my T-shirt and jeans on over my shorts and tank top. “Figure I’ll leave these clothes in the car for Saturdays. It’ll be like my prison uniform.”
He makes a sound. “Good call. Maybe bring a paper bag to wear over your head too.”
“Dad.”
“Trust me, I’ve heard the way the men in here talk about women, especially pretty young women like you.” His eyes narrow on a guy three tables over whose dark eyes flitter curiously to us—to me—while a ready-to-burst pregnant woman sitting across from him babbles away. “I don’t want anyone giving you grief when you come visit me.”
“Nobody is going to give me grief.” Except that guard, Parker, but there’s no way I’m telling my dad about him. “And if anyone says anything, ignore it. They’re just words.”
He harrumphs. “How’s the new place?”
I avert my gaze, dragging my fingertip across the table in tiny circles. “Fine.”
He sighs. “That bad?”
“It’s lacking charm,” I admit. Anyone who has lived in Phoenix for long enough knows which areas of the city to avoid, and when my dad’s conviction was passed and we accepted the fact that I’d need to downgrade from the two-bedroom apartment we were sharing—a downgrade from the house we had before that—we started looking for cheap one-bedrooms closer to work and campus. We found one. A relatively clean, quiet twelve-unit complex with decent management and minimal needles littering the parking lot. A diamond in the rough, my dad called it.
