The 7: Pride Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  BLURB

  DEDICATION

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  THE SERIES

  ALSO BY SCOTT HILDRETH

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  BLURB

  DEDICATION

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  THE SERIES

  ALSO BY SCOTT HILDRETH

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The 7: Pride

  PRIDE 1 Edition Copyright © 2017 by Scott Hildreth

  Cover design by Jessica: www.JessicaHildrethDesigns.com

  Formatting by Max Henry

  All rights reserved

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

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  Fisher Knox's pride has him staring down the barrel of a gun to defend a woman he doesn't even know. Little do the assailants know, this wouldn't be the first time Fisher has killed a man.

  DEDICATION

  If you’ve ever squished your toes in the beach’s wet sand, and then glanced over your shoulder at the impression–only to find it washed away–this one is for you.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Every sexual partner in the book is over the age of 18. Please, if you intend to read further than this comment, be over the age of 18 to enjoy this novel.

  PROLOGUE

  Fisher

  For the last six years, seven months, thirty days, and twelve hours, I was confined to a six-foot by eight-foot cell. It wasn’t easy, pleasant, or humane, but it was my life.

  I had no idea when I volunteered to go to war as a US Marine that I’d soon be serving an eighty-month sentence for manslaughter. The man who was killed was a noncombatant. Amidst a few dozen locals who were firing AK-47s at my fellow Marines, the men in my fire team mistook his walking stick for a weapon.

  I was twelve hours away from the end of my prison sentence, and I had a decision to make. I lived in a world of black and white. Decisions – at least for me – came easy. They fell on one side of the line or the other. Everything life offered me was either right or it was wrong.

  Nothing was gray.

  Sitting alone at one of the many stainless-steel tables in the cellblock, I was preparing to enjoy the last snack of my prison sentence. Smuggled into the cellblock from the chow hall, the chocolate chip cookie was contraband, but it was a risk I was willing to take. Some idiot, however, decided he was going to steal it from me.

  Correction.

  Attempt to steal it from me.

  The unmistakable sound of keys rattling in the distant corridor warned me of the approaching guards – undoubtedly coming to douse me with pepper spray, beat me senseless, and stuff me into a dingy cell in the prison’s Special Housing Unit.

  It wouldn’t be the first time, that’s for fucking sure.

  “Inmate Knox, stand down!” a guard shouted across the cellblock.

  I wasn’t about to break the stare of the man in front of me. In prison, to look away was a sign of weakness. Although I had many faults, being weak wasn’t one of them. I’d never backed away from a good fight in my entire life. Twelve hours from my release or not, I had no intention of breaking a life-long tradition. My foolish pride wouldn’t let me.

  I hadn’t cut my hair once since I was locked up, but I wasn’t about to allow him to use it to his advantage. With my eyes still locked on his, I tilted my head back and slid the rubber band from my wrist.

  “Put it down,” I said through my teeth.

  More than likely it was a dare from another inmate – some form of initiation into one of the many prison gangs. The problem, and it was a big one, was that he’d chosen the wrong inmate to take a cookie from.

  His beady brown eyes narrowed.

  Without breaking his gaze, I gathered my hair, cinched it with the rubber band, and spread my feet shoulder width apart. He was slightly taller than me, which was an accomplishment. At 6’-2”, I wasn’t short by any means.

  I looked him up and down. He was muscular, his head was cleanly shaved, and he had a long goatee. He resembled every other white supremacist in the prison, but I didn’t recognize him. Convinced he was new to the system, unaware of the long unwritten list of prison rules, and a few seconds away from the ass kicking of a lifetime, I decided to give him one last chance.

  “Put down the cookie, or I’m going to break your left arm. That’s a promise, by the way. You have no idea who you’re fucking with.”

  Cookie in hand, he continued to glare. The corner of his mouth curled into a half-baked smile.

  “Last chance,” I seethed.

  “Inmate Knox! Stand down!” the approaching guard yelled.

  I glanced to my right. Two prison’s guards outfitted in riot gear were circling the cellblock. Inmates stood in the doors of their cells waiting to see what was going to happen, undoubtedly placing bets on who they thought would win the brawl.

  I shifted my eyes back to the thief.

  He lifted the cookie to his mouth and took a bite.

  I jumped into a spinning back kick and planted my left foot against his left cheek. The impact of the kick knocked him to the floor. The entire cellblock erupted into a sea of screams, cheers, and shouting. Men began to bang objects against their cell doors – their way of applauding my actions.

  Before I could get in another punch or kick, I was tackled to the floor by the two guards. A handcuff was quickly secured to my left wrist. A fiery burning in my eyes reminded my how much I hated pepper spray, but did little to subdue me.

  I fought to raise myself to my feet, eventually broke free of the guards, and stood before the cellblock of men with one hand cuffed and my vision blurred. The cookie thief struggled to stand, and grinned a shitty little grin of accomplishment.

  The guards I had escaped from began striking my legs with batons. Hitting a guard would add six months to my sentence, but I made a promise that I was going to break the asshole’s left arm, and I had every intention of keeping it, no matter how many guards I had to fight to get to him.

  I closed my eyes and drove my forehead into the face of the guard on my left. As I felt his nose shatter beneath my skull, I swung my right foot in a circle, blindly searching for the
leg of the guard on my right.

  My foot came in contact with his leg, providing me a target for a strong uppercut. I clenched my teeth, tightened my stomach muscles, and swung my right fist upward in the direction of where I expected his face to be.

  My knuckles collided with the bottom of his jaw. The sound of bone hitting bone provided reassurance that he wouldn’t be getting up any time soon.

  I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my palms and did my best to focus on the man who stole my cookie. With blurry vision and burning skin, I cupped the loose handcuff in my left hand, swung it toward the thief’s arm, and handcuffed his left wrist to mine.

  His eyes shot wide.

  “Sickening feeling, isn’t it?” I chuckled out a sinister laugh. “Knowing you’re handcuffed to some crazy prick?”

  While the guards struggled to get to their feet and the entire cellblock erupted in cheers, I pulled down on the handcuff, swept his legs out from underneath him, and fell to the floor beside him.

  I forced him onto his stomach, twisted his right arm behind his back, and pulled against it until he writhed in agony. While he cried out in pain, I raised myself to my feet, lifting his left arm with me as I stood. The unmistakable popping sound of the joint breaking was my cue to release it.

  In twelve hours I was scheduled to be released. Over a chocolate chip cookie, I added no less than six months to my sentence. As far as I was concerned, it wasn’t about sitting in prison or being free. It was about right and wrong. Most would argue my logic, but they weren’t me.

  I was unique, there was no doubt about it.

  I came into the world early, and was planning on leaving late. Everything that filled the time between my arrival and departure was either an opportunity for me to learn a lesson or teach one.

  I glanced at the two fallen guards, shifted my eyes to the whining bitch of a cookie thief, and then looked around the cellblock. Maybe the next idiot who was challenged to steal a cookie from a former Marine turned inmate would think twice before he attempted it.

  I pressed my boot against the broken arm of the cookie thief. As he winced in pain, I pressed my heel into his flesh even more. “Name’s Fisher Knox,” I seethed. “And don’t you ever fucking forget it!”

  ONE

  Anna

  I stumbled through the dirt parking lot toward the bar with shoes that had rubbed my sockless feet raw, keys to a car that wouldn’t run, a dead cell phone, and a menstrual cycle that was as unpredictable as the Texas weather.

  I hoped one of the patrons would be more courteous than the twenty or so cars that passed by me on the highway without offering so much as a helping hand. The three raggedy pickup trucks and two motorcycles in the parking lot provided little reassurance my hope would be met. At least at 2:30 in the afternoon, I knew I’d be safe going in alone.

  I reached for the door, hesitated, and then pushed it open. The putrid stench of piss, vomit, and stale beer hit me like a speeding freight train.

  Angry that my car was broke down, angrier that my period started four days early, and aggravated even more that the battery on my cell phone mysteriously went from 72% to completely dead in the twenty-five-mile drive from Uvalde to wherever the fuck I was, I allowed my eyes to adjust from the bright Texas summer sun to the pitch black bar.

  Three drunken men and the bartender stared back at me. Another man seated at the bar appeared to be inebriated and stared at his half a glass of beer.

  Perfect.

  I wiped my sweaty face on my forearm and tossed my head toward the door. “Car broke down a few miles back on 90, and my phone’s dead. Any chance I can use your phone?”

  The thirty-something year old douchebag bartender’s white-framed sunglasses were resting on his forehead as if on display. He tilted his head toward a man sitting at the bar. “Pete fixes shit. He’s smarter’n fuck. He might be able to fix it.”

  The man raised his head ever-so-slightly and offered a drunken grin. “God damned truth. I fix broke shit.”

  “I’ve had problems with it for years. I probably need to have it towed somewhere.” It dawned on me the bill for towing it would probably be more money than the car was worth. “I’ll need a phone book too, my phone’s dead.”

  Pete the fix-it man finished what little beer was left in his glass. His comb-over and sun spots made him appear to be sixty years old, although I guessed he wasn’t much older than thirty-five.

  “Said that already,” he said dryly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your phone’s dead. You said it twiced.”

  Twiced?

  And you’re the smart one here?

  After walking out of a shitty relationship three years later than I probably should have, I’d driven half the distance between Laughlin Air Force Base in Del Rio, Texas, and San Antonio. In the middle of nowhere with minimal cash, no credit cards, and what I suspected would be an extremely pissed off ex-boyfriend as soon as he found out I was gone, my options were minimal.

  I shot the bartender a smile. “The phone, a phone book, and a glass of water would be nice.”

  “Phone’s behind the bar.” He grinned mischievously. “You’ll have to come back here to use it.”

  The thought of being behind the bar with him wasn’t an appealing one. While I considered leaving and walking to the next bar, I suddenly felt surrounded.

  Maybe it was because I was.

  I glanced over my shoulder. The three men had gathered behind me, blocking me from leaving. Going over them or through them were my two choices.

  “I’ll give ya a ride,” one of them said.

  Another chuckled. “Hell, I’d rather ride her.”

  I felt sick. I was cramping from my period, my feet were covered in blisters, and I was sunburnt from walking for an hour in the hot Texas sun. The last thing I wanted was to be harassed by three drunken idiots.

  “Looks like ya excited her, Luke. Her nipples got hard,” the first one said.

  My white shirt was soaked with sweat. Compared to the temperature outside, the air conditioned bar felt like Antarctica. He was right. My nipples were hard. It had nothing to do with the drunken fools ogling me, though. I glanced toward the bartender in hope of a little help.

  “He ain’t lyin’, Luke,” the bartender said with a nod. “Her nipples are hard. Look at ‘em.”

  Thanks, you fucking asshole.

  A sinking feeling filled me. There was no doubt I stepped into the wrong bar at the wrong time. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth and managed to swallow a wad of dry apprehension.

  “Excuse me.” I tried to step between them.

  The one on my right grabbed my arm. “Where are you goin’? Thought you was broke down? You ain’t got anywhere to be. Hell, let’s party.”

  I tried to pull away. “Let me go.”

  His grip tightened. “She’s a fighter.” He chuckled a dry laugh. “A feisty little bitch.”

  “Let me go.” Nervously, my eyes darted around the bar. Everyone appeared to be willing to join in on the abuse except for Pete, who sat at the bar with his head hung low.

  “Call the police,” I shouted, hoping Pete would be sympathetic enough to challenge the drunken fools to let me go.

  “Police?” He chuckled and spun halfway around on his barstool. “Fer what? To break up the party?”

  Hands came from everywhere. One grabbed my arm. Another tugged at my shirt. Someone squeezed my boob. I screamed and twisted my body, hoping to free myself from their grasp, but it only made matters worse. Everyone seemed to be touching me at the same time. Then, someone slapped my face.

  “Shut the fuck up, bitch,” One of them said. “One more scream out of you, and I’ll cut ya.”

  The next thing I knew, I was being dragged by my hair toward a booth in the corner of the bar by one of them while the remaining men did nothing to help me. In fact, they shouted to cheer him on. The apprehension I thought I’d swallowed turned to fear, and I choked on it.

  Drunken shouts
of blowjobs, dick sucking and I bet she’s got a sweet little pussy gave warning to what was next. In my 26 years on earth I had been in the presence of thousands of drunken military men, walked home alone while drunk, woke up in strange places, and had gone on a few dates with some pretty questionable guys – but I’d never felt like I would be a victim of rape.

  At 5’-6” and 130 pounds, I offered little resistance against the man who was fighting to unbutton my shorts. Nonetheless, I voiced a hoarse objection until someone smothered my mouth with their hand.

  My shorts were ripped down my thighs. Someone began to tug at my panties. I bit into the hand that covered my mouth and made an effort to scream.

  “Heeelp!”

  My plea got tangled in my fear, and came out dry and unintelligible. The darkness that surrounded me had nothing to do with the fact the bar was poorly lit. The pit of my stomach began to ache, and I felt like I might not make it out of there alive.

  I’d never been religious, but I started to pray, nonetheless. A sliver of light from the front door brightened the otherwise dark bar. Pressed into the seat of the booth with hands groping me from all directions, I couldn’t see the door or who was either coming or going, but I swallowed hard and then shouted for help nonetheless.

  “Help! They’re raping me!”

  “Shut the fuck up,” one of them hissed.

  A hand slapped my face.

  I dragged my tongue along my front teeth and tasted blood.

  You son-of-a-bitch.

  “Best bet is for you to just turn around and leave,” I heard one of them say.

  “Yeah, you and that bitch hair,” someone else warned.

  The unmistakable sound of boot heels against the wooden floor grew closer.

  “You deaf, motherfucker?” one of the men asked.

  I felt like a weight was lifted from me.

  “Hey motherfucker,” the man on top of me shouted. “What the fuck…”

  He, too, was pulled off me. Free from everyone’s grasp, I sat up and looked around. The darkness was gone, and had been replaced by a sliver of light from the door that was somehow propped open slightly.