Turn it Up (The Detroit Love Duet #2) Read online

  Turn it Up

  Copyright © 2016 by Kim Karr

  ISBN-10: 0-9889419-8-8

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9889419-8-4

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication 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 publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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

  Editor:

  Nichole Strauss, Perfectly Publishable

  Interior design and formatting:

  Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable

  Cover model:

  Matt Poeschl

  Photographer:

  Scott Hoover, Scott Hoover Photography

  Cover designer:

  Hang Le, By Hang Le

  Table of Contents

  Turn it Up

  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

  Epilogue

  Author Note

  Also by New York Times bestselling author Kim Karr

  About the Author

  DOWN SHIFT

  Jasper

  THE FEELING OF metal scraping against skin is unmistakable.

  At first the coolness might fool you into thinking there isn’t going to be any pain. Something so cold couldn’t possibly hurt. But then the object tears open your flesh and it feels like you’re being cleaved in two.

  Sometimes you yell out in pain. Sometimes you persevere and keep going. And other times you have no choice at all in the matter.

  Once I thought the space beside the transmission tunnel of my prototype car, the Storm, could accommodate both my hand and a seat track.

  I was wrong.

  It couldn’t.

  At least not while I was trying to wrestle the seat into position and bolt it to the floor at the same time. The feel of the cool metal track as it ripped open my flesh, followed by the sharp sting of searing pain, forced me to yank my hand away. Even before I had freed it, I could see blood welling from my palm. There was no doubt that the rather large slice required stitches. With absolutely no hesitation at all, I grabbed a rag, wrapped it around my hand, and forged on.

  The pain was irrelevant—I wanted to get the job done. The raised scar I have today reminds me constantly of that dumbass decision.

  Now though, I have no choice in the matter. Which sucks, because I can’t ignore the feel of the cool metal as it scrapes against my wrists any longer. I glance over my shoulder in hopes that coming eye to eye with the blunt force is going to make it feel better.

  It doesn’t.

  The cuffs are so tight they are rubbing my wrists raw. Trying to ease the throbbing pain, I twist my hands.

  Wrong move.

  My skin long past welting bursts open and starts bleeding. Although I can’t see it, I can feel the warm liquid oozing down my hands, and if I really listen I can hear it dripping onto the wood floor beneath my feet.

  “First up is the State of Michigan versus Storm,” the bail commissioner announces into his microphone.

  The sound of his booming voice causes my head to snap in his direction and then to the empty place beside me. Sitting on the hard chair, I give another quick glance over my shoulder, but this time toward the back of the closed courtroom.

  Where the fuck is Todd?

  As the bail commissioner recites the docket number, I find myself cursing low under my breath. It’s quarter til eight in the morning and I haven’t seen my attorney in over twelve hours.

  Last night was long.

  Too long.

  After being wrongly accused and falsely arrested with the murders of both Eve Hepburn and Tory Worth, I was taken from my apartment to the police station. With the memory of my stint in juvie resurfacing, I fought the urge not to lose it—literally.

  Also emotionally combatting my fuck this attitude, for my own sake, I remained eerily silent while I was charged, processed, searched, photographed, and fingerprinted. Soon after, I was handed a light-blue jumpsuit and ordered to change. In it, I felt more like a mechanic than a convict, but I remembered that faded color all too well, and it was no grease-monkey suit. Always wondered why the uniforms weren’t orange, but never asked. Didn’t ask last night either.

  Escorted by two guards, the three of us got into an elevator. One floor down, we got out. The tiled corridor felt more like a basement—the sounds were muffled and the air damp. We passed a glass window that looked into a small room and then we stopped at an electronically-controlled door with a camera aimed at it. The lock clicked and I entered. Todd Carrington, my attorney, was already inside waiting for me and immediately started spewing legal mumbo jumbo I couldn’t bear to listen to. Not even five minutes later, some all-out bulletin was issued stationwide. They had a runner was all I had heard. This emergency brought the visit to an abrupt end and forced me into premature lock up.

  The isolation cell was simple: a bed, a toilet, and a sink. The walls were beige, the blanket on the bunk was green, the fixtures white. Isolated in detainment for more than twelve hours, I thought I might lose my mind. I felt twisted and turned worrying about Charlotte.

  I still do.

  Sweet, sexy Charlotte—a kitten and a lion.

  Mounds of dirty-blond hair.

  A beauty that is more than skin deep.

  My friend.

  My lover.

  Unexpected.

  How did she take the news about Tory?

  About me?

  The entire time I’ve been in lock up, I keep thinking about what Todd had said just before he left. “I’ll get you out quickly.”

  Quickly.

  I wanted quickly more than I wanted air to breathe.

  I need to see Charlotte. Get to her. Hold her. Touch her. Protect her. Make love to her.

  It has yet to happen.

  And it’s all I’ve been able to think about.

  Feeling knotted and useless, I found myself brewing over the situation. The facts. The murders. The known. The unknown. Nothing made sense. Why me? Why was I in here? I wanted to dig the deepest hole, climb the highest wall, bend the strongest bars to get out of here. Never had I wished to be invincible until those long hours spent alone.

  It wasn’t until early this morning that the cell door finally slid back. By then I was ready to hurl myself at whoever came into sight. My fingers felt like claws and my body was a live wire. I was ready to dig, scale, bend—everything and anything. When the guard saw me he grinned like a motherfucker. “Easy now,” he teased as if trying to jerk my chain, “I won’t be taking you to your bail hearing until you calm down.”

  Calm down!

  Was he fucking insane?

 
; He just stood there, at the entrance to my cell, and I knew I had no choice but to do as he said.

  With a deep breath, I forced the malice away.

  I knew I had to keep my cool.

  Still allowed no contact with anyone other than the transport cops, I was handcuffed and escorted out of the station, where I was stuffed into a waiting police car to take the short ride to the courthouse.

  “All rise, the Honorable Judge Joshua Patterson,” calls the bail commissioner and I focus on why I’m here.

  To be freed—to get the fuck out.

  I slowly rise from behind the table on unusually weak knees and watch the older black-robed man enter the room to take his position. The judge’s dais is made from sleek dark wood and topped with a panel of gold electroplate. The American flag on one side and the blue state flag on the other flank the dais. Behind it is a bronze seal of the State of Michigan.

  On the judge’s desk sits a pile of folders and a wooden gavel. “Good morning,” he says to the assistant district attorney at the table adjacent to mine.

  “Good morning, Your Honor,” the ADA replies.

  “Please sit down.” Judge Patterson takes a seat in his tall leather chair, glances at the top folder, and then at me. “Mr. Storm, it appears your counsel has not yet arrived. I am rescheduling this arraignment for Monday morning—” he says while he places my paperwork to the side.

  “No!” I interrupt.

  “Mr. Storm, that tone is—” he starts to say sternly. Before he can finish, I hear a door swing open and turn. It’s Todd and he’s rushing in to take his seat beside me.

  “Where have you been?” I snap quietly.

  “The fuckers at the station are going to be hearing from me. They didn’t notify me of the bail hearing until you were already on your way. I got here as fast as I could,” he whispers.

  “Good morning, counselor. Nice of you to make it,” the judge greets with sarcasm in his tone.

  Todd nods. “Good morning, Your Honor. I’m sorry I’m late.”

  Diverting his eyes first to the bail commissioner, the judge gives him a slight nod and then glances down at this desk. He appears to be allowing the arraignment to proceed and begins the process of shifting my paperwork back in place.

  “Have you talked to Jake? How is Charlotte? Did he explain everything to her?” I fire my questions at Todd quietly, my worry over her too much to contain any longer.

  The courtroom is closed so I know she’s not in here. A fact I am both thankful and resentful over at the same time. It’s the selfish part of me that longs to see her blue eyes, feel her soft pink lips against mine, hear the sweet tone of her voice, wrap my arms around her and make her world just a little more right. Yet, the realist in me knows it’s better she’s not here, because not only would seeing me like this break her heart, it would break mine too.

  Todd looks over at me, and something in the way his eyes shift triggers a cause for concern.

  My heart starts to pound. “What is it?”

  This time I get a shake of the head. “I’ll talk to you after the bail hearing.”

  “Tell me now,” I insist.

  “Everyone rise,” demands a voice from the front of the room.

  “Tell me,” I hiss.

  “Quiet in the courtroom.” The order comes from that very same voice.

  Then to assure the command is followed, the judge bangs his gavel.

  The noise is loud and draws my attention to him. Subsequent to the sound, the courtroom falls abruptly silent and I’m forced to do the same.

  The bail commissioner’s voice silences the courtroom. “The State of Michigan vs. Jasper Storm.”

  No one in the courtroom says a word.

  Suddenly, sweat coats my brow. The reality that this is real hits me like a brick wall. I’m being accused of two murders that I absolutely did not commit. And in this broken city of Detroit, innocence isn’t what matters, but rather demonstrating to the people that justice has been served. It’s right here, right now, that a shiver crawls under my skin and stays there.

  The judge looks toward Todd in anticipation. For some reason, the great defense attorney seems nervous.

  Finally, Todd clears his throat and rises. “May it please the court,” he says, “Attorney Todd Carrington representing defendant Jasper Storm.”

  With a nod, the judge turns toward the prosecutor’s table. “Is the State of Michigan opposing bail in this matter?”

  The assistant district attorney gathers his papers.

  When Todd sits down, I nudge him. “What is wrong with you?”

  He draws in a breath. “This judge is a real hardass. I’ve only lost one case in my career and it was in his courtroom,” he whispers. “I just can’t fucking believe of all the judges, this is who we end up with.”

  Fuck me right now.

  The ADA stands. I look his way. He is glaring at me when he loudly announces, “The State is opposing bail on several grounds.”

  My heart comes to a squealing stop and my head darts in Todd’s direction.

  Todd looks taken aback, which is not a good thing. That shiver that is under my skin escapes.

  The judge clears his throat in surprise as well. “Assistant District Attorney Phillip Klein, please state your reasoning.”

  Klein is second-generation politics. A true urban politician. To be honest, his harsh stance catches me off guard. We’ve met. Chatted. Discussed Detroit and its failing economy in detail. And he knows my vision will bring this city one step closer to recovery. We’re on the same fucking side.

  Facing the judge, Klein proceeds. “Not only were the crimes, specifically the murders of two innocent victims, premeditated, but they were also vicious in nature.”

  Somehow I refrain from shouting out, “I didn’t do it.”

  “Furthermore, we have reason to believe this defendant is a flight risk.”

  A flight risk?

  Is he for real?

  He continues. “And therefore, we recommend that no amount of bail should be considered.”

  Yeah, so go figure—another hardass looking for a soapbox to make his stand.

  I’m so fucked.

  Dread coils deep within me.

  The judge nods, makes some notes, and then directs his attention my way. “Mr. Storm, since you have already obtained legal counsel, I am assuming you have been informed of your constitutional rights. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” I answer in a shaky voice.

  “Counselor, do you wish to enter a plea on behalf of your client at this time?”

  Todd confidently answers, “Yes, Your Honor, I would. My client is clearly not guilty and hence enters a plea of not guilty.”

  “Objection!” the ADA calls out.

  The judge gives him a disturbed look. “This isn’t a trial, Mr. Klein.”

  “Sorry, Your Honor but evidence clearly shows that . . .”

  My gaze lands on the state flag and the memories of standing in this very position thirteen years ago are hard to bear. Sentenced. Put away. Sent away. Locked away. It all happened so fast. And now it’s happening again. I focus on the flag and try to suppress my past from haunting me. I focus on the blue shield where the sun rises over a lake.

  On the man with a raised hand who is holding a gun. Both depictions meant to represent peace and the ability to defend your rights.

  Funny, I don’t feel any of that peace now, and I didn’t years ago when I was in this very same position either, especially when the judge sentenced me to 365 days in a juvenile detention center as a lesson to all other youths who were on the street stealing cars.

  Back then I was used as an example to others.

  Is that happening all over again?

  As Klein argues why I don’t deserve bail and Todd counters, not for the first time since arriving in this hellhole do I start to feel like I might just be found guilty of crimes I didn’t commit. Yet, this is the first time I believe it. That there’s a real chance I might n
ot get out of this unscathed.

  And with that harsh reality becoming more and more realistic with every passing second, I decide it’s best to shut everyone who cares about me out of my life. If I don’t, they might get even more hurt and tarnished because of their connection to me than they already have been.

  I need to go this one alone.

  My best friends, Will Fleming, Jake Crown, and Drew Kates, don’t need me to be successful. They have what it takes to bring the Storm to the production line on their own. And at this point, keeping their distance is the only way that is going to happen.

  And as for Charlotte Lane, the little girl who lived next door to me, the one who grew into a woman I can’t get out of my head—she was fine without me in her life before and she’ll be fine without me once again.

  She’s all bright light, and I’m all darkness.

  She’s an angel, and I’m the devil she doesn’t need to get into bed with.

  My heart feels like it’s shrinking into a withering ball. But right now there’s a big, fat scarlet letter on my chest and I can’t allow those closest to me to go through the torment all of this is going to bring.

  It isn’t fair to them.

  Voices rising snaps my attention back to the courtroom. There’s shouting. Cursing. The argument between Todd and the ADA is taking an aggressive turn.

  “Order in the court,” the judge demands.

  With a lump the size of the state of Michigan in my throat, my gaze darts to him.

  The judge takes a hard look at me, and I know what he is about to say isn’t going to be good.

  Just as he is about to speak, a man in plain clothes comes flying through the door. I know him. The cleaner. He’s one of Alex Harper’s entourage. Alex is the mayor, my friend, my foe. The guy is shouting, “Your Honor, I need to talk to you right away. It’s an emergency.”

  With a hard glance in his direction, the judge raises his hand and with a finger he summons him forward. “This better be good, Mr. Goodman.”

  Goodman, that’s the twat’s name.

  A ‘yes’ man. Does whatever Alex needs done. I call him the cleaner because he’s always cleaning up the rumors of the mayor’s infidelity. What is he doing here?