Physis (Phoebe Reede: The Untold Story #4) Read online

  Table of Contents

  GLOSSARY

  CHAPTER ONE: HUSH

  CHAPTER TWO: LESS THAN ORDINARY

  CHAPTER THREE: RESCUE EFFORT

  CHAPTER FOUR: OUT OF CONTROL

  CHAPTER FIVE: AT THE RACES

  CHAPTER SIX: COMING HOME

  CHAPTER SEVEN: COMIC RELIEF

  CHAPTER EIGHT: IN CAHOOTS

  CHAPTER NINE: COME ON OVER

  CHAPTER TEN: SAFE HOUSES

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: CHOICES

  CHAPTER TWELVE: CHANGES

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: BABY BLUES

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: APOLOGIES

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: FIRST DATE, AGAIN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: FOR TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: BROKEN EDGES

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: SEEKING FREEDOM

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: REVELATIONS

  CHAPTER TWENTY: ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: RACING HOME

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: THE FOURTH

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: LOSING YOU

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: TRACKING WELL

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: CONTRACT ISSUE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: OLD SCARS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: ANGEL BABY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: RISE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: TRACKING TIME

  CHAPTER THIRTY: NIGHT SHIFT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: BABY DON’T CRY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: LIFE GOES ON

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: ROUTINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: LET IT GO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: AS ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: BACK ON TRACK

  ALSO BY MICHELLE IRWIN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PHYSIS

  #4

  MICHELLE IRWIN

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2017 by Michelle Irwin

  First Edition

  Published in Australia

  Print ISBN: 978-1545067475 and 978-0-9954228-4-1

  Cover Artist: Pink Ink Design

  Cover content used for illustrative purposes only, and any person depicted is a model.

  Editing by: Hot Tree Editing

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The following story is set in Australia and therefore has been written in UK/Australian English. The spelling and usage reflect that.

  All rights reserved. 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 the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and for all other inquiries, contact:

  Michelle Irwin P O Box 671 MORAYFIELD QLD 4506 AUSTRALIA

  www.michelle-irwin.com

  [email protected]

  To all the princesses who rescue themselves and the princes who need them.

  GLOSSARY

  CHAPTER ONE: HUSH

  CHAPTER TWO: LESS THAN ORDINARY

  CHAPTER THREE: RESCUE EFFORT

  CHAPTER FOUR: OUT OF CONTROL

  CHAPTER FIVE: AT THE RACES

  CHAPTER SIX: COMING HOME

  CHAPTER SEVEN: COMIC RELIEF

  CHAPTER EIGHT: IN CAHOOTS

  CHAPTER NINE: COME ON OVER

  CHAPTER TEN: SAFE HOUSES

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: CHOICES

  CHAPTER TWELVE: CHANGES

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: BABY BLUES

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: APOLOGIES

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: FIRST DATE, AGAIN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: FOR TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: BROKEN EDGES

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: SEEKING FREEDOM

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: REVELATIONS

  CHAPTER TWENTY: ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: RACING HOME

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: THE FOURTH

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: LOSING YOU

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: TRACKING WELL

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: CONTRACT ISSUE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: OLD SCARS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: ANGEL BABY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: RISE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: TRACKING TIME

  CHAPTER THIRTY: NIGHT SHIFT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: BABY DON’T CRY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: LIFE GOES ON

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: ROUTINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: LET IT GO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: AS ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: BACK ON TRACK

  ALSO BY MICHELLE IRWIN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Note: This book has an Australia main character, as such it uses Australian/UK spelling and some Australian slang. Although you should be able to understand the novel without a glossary, there is always fun to be had in learning new words. Generally, temperatures are in Celsius, weight is in kilograms, and distance is (generally) in kilometres (although we still have some slang which uses miles).

  Arse: Ass.

  Bench: Counter.

  Bitumen: Asphalt.

  Bonnet: Hood.

  Boot: Trunk.

  Bottle-o: Bottle shop/liquor store.

  CAMS: Confederation of Australian Motor Sport.

  Cock-ups: Fuck-ups/mistakes.

  Dob: Tell on.

  Doona: Blanket/comforter.

  Face Washer: Face cloth.

  Fairy-Floss: Cotton candy.

  Footpath: Sidewalk.

  Fours: Cars with a four-cylinder engine.

  Fringe: Bangs

  Gobful: Mouthful

  HANS: Head And Neck Support/system. A device used to support the racer’s neck while driving.

  Message bank: Voicemail.

  Out on the Piss: Out drinking.

  Newsagency: A shop which sells newspapers/magazines/lotto tickets. Similar to a convenience store, but without the food.

  Pap: Paparazzi.

  Panadol/Paracetamol: Active ingredient in pain-relievers like Tylenol and Panadol.

  Phone/Mobile Phone/Mobile Number: Cell/cell phone/cell number.

  Real Estate: All-inclusive term meaning real estate agency/property management firm.

  Rego: Registration (general); cost of vehicle licence.

  S bends (and into the Dipper): Part of the racetrack shaped into an S shape. On Bathurst track, the Dipper is the biggest of the S bends, so called because there used to be a dip in the road there before track resurfacing made it safer.

  Shout (referring to drinks or food): Buy for someone. “Get the tab.”

  Silly Season: Off season in sports. Primarily where most of the trades happen (e.g. driver’s moving teams, sponsorship changes etc).

  Skerrick: Scrap.

  Slicks: A special type of racing tyre with no tread. They’re designed to get the maximum amount of surface on the road at all times. Wet weather tyres have chunky tread to displace the water from the track.

  Skulled: (can also be spelled sculled and skolled) Chugged/Drank everything in the bottle/glass.

  Soft Drinks: Soda/pop.

  Stiff Shit: Tough shit/too bad.

  Sunnies: Sunglasses.

  Taxi: Cab.

  Tossers: Pricks/assholes/jerks.

  Tyres: Tires.

  Year Twelve: Senior.

  Wag: Ditch school.

  Wank: Masturbate

  Wankers: Tossers/Jerk-offs.

  Weet-Bix: Breakfast cereal brand.

  Whinge: Whine/complain.

  Uni: University/college.

  “HUSH, LIT
TLE BABY, don't say a word.” Her brush trailed through my hair in time with her nasally vocals as she sang to me. Gentle strokes and an almost caring tone belied my situation and made my stomach churn.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing the voice singing the words would meld into my mother’s. That I’d open my eyes and find myself home. Find everything to be a dream.

  Or a nightmare.

  The singing died down to a hum as she pulled my hair up into a ponytail.

  “Xavier said the wedding plans are coming along real nice.” The woman’s tone was pleasant, almost conversational. “Maybe we should try a few different updos to find the right one?”

  I pressed my lips together. Any protests would result in—

  It wasn’t worth arguing.

  To her, I was nothing more than a living doll to be dressed and pressed. It’d been the same since the first time she’d come into the room, with a fresh outfit—one that tied at the shoulders so it didn’t have to slide over my arms—slung over one elbow, make-up case in hand, and a fake smile plastered on her stupid pink lips.

  “I can’t wait to see my handsome young man get married. You two are going to make a lovely pair. We might even be able to invite your family if they clean up their language a little.”

  A shudder raced down my spine as I recalled her description of her first meeting with my father. She’d told me she’d taken him a casserole and found him rather out of sorts. How she could meet him with a straight face knowing where I was—and what was happening to me—I had no idea. It seemed in her mind, the fact that I was being held against my will was a mere technicality.

  I opened my eyes and caught my reflection in the mirror in front of me. The first time I’d seen the mirror, I’d thought it an odd addition to the cold, concrete dungeon. Now, though . . .

  Now I knew it was there for them. For the women who willingly walked through the door. Who begged to be strung up and whipped. Women who probably would have enjoyed the treatment I was getting day in and day out. I didn’t judge them for their choice, but I did hate them for their freedom to make it.

  I hadn’t chosen this.

  And I definitely wasn’t enjoying it.

  There was nothing I liked about the cuffs around my wrists, pinning my hands together and leaving me practically unable to do anything for myself. Nor had I asked for the one around my ankle linked to the others by a heavy chain. The eyelet to one side of the room that connected them all granted me access to only a certain amount of the space. Not enough to reach the door. God, how I’d tried.

  There had been no sign-up sheet that had explained the way I would be treated by my ex-boyfriend, Xavier, and his psycho family. One that warned me I’d be the unwilling date each time Xavier came to me after a weekend away—attending races I should’ve been driving at—with a bouquet in his hand as if flowers in any way made up for taking my life into his hands without my consent. Or for making me the punching bag for his psycho stepdad—a man with a personal vendetta against my father that he delighted in taking out on me. Or the living Barbie doll to a woman so far off the planet, I doubted even Pluto was still in her rear-view mirror.

  I twisted my wrist in the cuff again, checking to see if it was still loose. I’d never had a lot of body fat, but the near starvation I’d endured since my arrival had stolen the last of it. So much so that it had already begun to screw with my body. As best as I could guess, my period was at least three weeks overdue.

  A few sleeps ago, I’d discovered that because of my weight loss, I could now slip my hand out of my cuff. It wasn’t easy—it damn near took my thumb off each time—but it gave me a small degree of freedom I’d craved for so long.

  “We should do a make-up trial too.” Xavier’s mother, Cora, grabbed my head between her hands and twisted it side to side in the mirror, as though it was her own face she was appraising. “Gotta make sure Xavier’s bride is as pretty as she can be.”

  It was too much. I couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t stay quiet. I tore my head out of her hold and dragged myself away from her.

  “Get it through your head! I’m not marrying your son, you psycho bitch!” I screamed.

  She recoiled as if I’d slapped her. Without another word, she grabbed the hairbrush and her make-up kit and made for the door.

  Shit.

  “Cora! Cora, wait! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it,” I called after her. I dragged the chains as far as I could go, tempted to try to slip my wrists out and follow her, only I’d heard the guard dogs going crazy every time anyone came or went. I wouldn’t make it more than a few steps toward freedom before I was torn to shreds by those two monsters.

  Instead, I had no choice but to wait for what I knew would come next.

  Bee. Hunter. Two names for the same beast. The one intent on destroying me. The one who delivered every evil thing he promised and more.

  His punishment was the cost of defiance.

  The price of opening my mouth.

  And I wouldn’t know it was coming until it was too late.

  “PHOEBE, WAKE up, sweetheart.”

  The voice wasn’t Xavier’s but the words were.

  I kicked out and thrashed my arms, trying to force away the weight pinning me to my bed. “No! Please don’t. Leave me alone.”

  “Pheebs! Please stop, Phoebe.” Beth’s cry cut through the night. Clearly my little sister had come from her bed at some point during my—memory—nightmare.

  “You’re safe. You’re home.” It was Mum’s voice whispering to me, and yet all I heard were Xavier’s claims. His fucked-up notion of keeping me safe by locking me away in a dungeon.

  I couldn’t breathe. Blood rushed past my ears and drowned out all thought. My body shook as sweat poured from me. I wanted to follow Mum’s voice to the here and now, but I was lost in the past.

  “Open your eyes, darling.” The concern in Mum’s voice was clear and made me want to force my body into submission to follow her instructions.

  Beth screamed, no doubt terrified at the way my body convulsed and shook in the bed. Night terrors and sleep paralysis had taken their hold again and I was a prisoner in my own body.

  Finally, as if tearing myself back to reality, I jerked control back from the night terrors. My mind landed back in my body as I woke fully, but all I could do was curl around myself as memories of every second I’d been locked away came flooding back.

  Mum rubbed my back as I sobbed into my pillow. The platitudes died on her lips now she knew I was back in the room. They were useless from this point onward. There was nothing she could say to erase the pain that I lived with daily. Not that she hadn’t tried; there was just nothing that worked. And being around her hurt me more than I could say.

  “Phoebe, are you all right?” Beth asked.

  Then she made the mistake.

  Her hand came to rest on my head. I screamed and smacked her away as I jerked out of the caress. I hadn’t been prepared for the touch. She’d been warned not to touch me, but it was impossible to completely explain to a thirteen-year-old girl that even stroking her sister’s hair might result in a violent attack.

  Besides, how could we even begin to describe the horrors I’d endured without fucking her up for life? She didn’t understand the way the simplest touch leap-frogged my mind back to the supposedly gentle caresses of Xavier as he called me beautiful and told me things would be better once I loved him. Once we were married.

  Beth ran from the room in tears and Mum followed, no doubt to comfort her. I didn’t blame her. Fix the problem that can be resolved, after all. Beth would cry, Mum would soothe, and everything would be okay. For them.

  Nothing would be okay for me. Not ever again.

  TWO MONTHS.

  That’s how long I’d been home.

  And how long I’d been in a holding pattern, circling around the life I used to live. The one I used to love.

  Now, I felt like I was standing on the sidelines with my nose pressed against the glass. I wanted to breac
h the divide, but the constant noise inside my head made it impossible. How could I talk about the everyday with the nightmares that haunted me day and night? What did races, the weather, or anything that happened during my siblings’ schooldays mean against the nightmares that lived on in my mind?

  My fingers tapped against the table in front of me. I focused hard on the movement and the sound, letting them fill my head in an attempt to drown out the horrors inside. My teeth found my lip and I rocked in time to my fingers. It wasn’t entirely enough, but the louder the noise inside me grew, the harder I tapped.

  The bowl of Cornflakes I’d poured for myself fifteen minutes earlier sat in front of me, the golden flakes now completely soaked by the milk. I couldn’t eat them though. Hadn’t managed more than a few bites before the noise grew too loud.

  “Mum, Phoebe’s being weird again.” Brock’s voice cut through my introspection.

  “Fuck off,” I muttered. The relationship between us had descended further and further into disarray since I’d come home. He made no secret of his disdain for me. It’d started with Mum and Dad refusing to let Max stay at our house anymore. At first, they’d tried to negotiate a truce, but I didn’t want him there. Apparently, they’d had a rocky relationship while I was gone, but now Brock and Max were back to being friends again and Brock blamed me entirely for his lack of a part-time roommate.

  Mum’s hand hovered over my shoulder, her stomach pressed against the chair. “Sweetie, are you finished with your breakfast?”

  Her question was nothing more than a reminder of the way things were different now. Before . . . well, first I would’ve been reprimanded for swearing at my younger brother. Then she probably would’ve directed me to finish up and clean away my breakfast dishes.

  When I didn’t answer, Mum grabbed the bowl and took it to the kitchen. Her shoulders curled down and her head dropped the moment she turned the corner. No doubt she thought she was out of my peripheral vision. The sight was another lead weight in my heart, dragging it permanently into the pit within my chest.

  While I was distracted watching Mum, a pair of small arms wrapped around the chair, pinning me in place.