Torn Read online

  Also by Kim Karr

  Connected

  Torn

  Kim Karr

  Contents

  Also by Kim Karr

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Torn Playlist

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For my daughter . . .

  My hopes for you are that you grow up to be a

  strong and independent woman

  who finds her HEA

  Author’s Note

  Music means a great deal to me so I spent many hours searching for songs that reflect the content of this book. I hope that listening to these songs before you read each chapter will enhance your experience. Please visit my website, www.authorkimkarr.com, for song links to Spotify.

  Torn Playlist

  Prologue

  Counting Crows—“Colorblind”

  Counting Crows—“Mr. Jones”

  Chapter 1

  Christina Perri—“A Thousand Years”

  R.E.M.—“Losing My Religion”

  Rod Stewart—“Maggie May”

  Rod Stewart—“Hot Legs”

  Lifehouse—“You and Me”

  Chapter 2

  Daughtry—“Home”

  Chapter 3

  Seether—“Here and Now”

  Gavin DeGraw—“I’m in Love with a Girl”

  Chapter 4

  A Rocket to the Moon—“Like We Used To”

  Chapter 5

  Natalie Imbruglia—“Torn”

  Bruce Springsteen—“Born to Run”

  Chapter 6

  Chris Wallace—“Remember When (Push Rewind)”

  Chapter 7

  Secondhand Serenade—“Your Call”

  Chapter 8

  Breaking Benjamin—“Into the Nothing”

  Chapter 9

  Puddle of Mudd—“Blurry”

  Chapter 10

  The Goo Goo Dolls—“Rebel Beat”

  MC Hammer—“U Can’t Touch This”

  The Beach Boys—“California Girls”

  Kings of Leon—“Beach Side”

  Atlas Genius—“Electric”

  Atlas Genius—“Through the Glass”

  Dashboard Confessional—“Stolen”

  Chapter 11

  The Weeknd—“High For This”

  Chapter 12

  Kelly Clarkson—“Catch My Breath”

  Chapter 13

  My Darkest Days—“Come Undone”

  Chapter 14

  Muse—“Madness”

  Breaking Benjamin—“Into the Nothing”

  Imagine Dragons—“Radioactive”

  Pitbull ft. Christina Aguilera—“Feel This Moment”

  Chapter 15

  Gavin Rossdale—“Love Remains the Same”

  Chapter 16

  The Fray—“Never Say Never”

  Adam Lambert—“For Your Entertainment”

  David Guetta—“Little Bad Girl”

  fun.—“Some Nights”

  Ke$ha—“TiK ToK”

  Chapter 17

  Michelle Branch—“Everywhere”

  Chapter 18

  Linkin Park—“What I’ve Done”

  Chapter 19

  Sum 41—“Pieces”

  The Wanted—“I Found You”

  Chapter 20

  Foo Fighters—“Everlong”

  Billy Joel—“Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel)”

  Chapter 21

  Lifehouse—“All In”

  Chapter 22

  The Script—“Six Degrees of Separation”

  Chapter 23

  Evanescence—“The Change”

  Chapter 24

  Labrinth—“Beneath Your Beautiful”

  Zedd—“Clarity”

  Seether ft. Amy Lee—“Broken”

  Justin Timberlake—“Sexy Back”

  Chapter 25

  Theory of a Deadman—“All or Nothing”

  Chapter 26

  Keane—“Everybody’s Changing”

  Elton John—“Believe,” “Crocodile Rock,” “Bennie and the Jets”

  Chapter 27

  Kodaline—“All I Want”

  Chapter 28

  Eric Clapton—“Tears in Heaven”

  Chapter 29

  Matt Nathanson ft. Sugarland—“Run”

  Rihanna ft. Jay-Z—“Umbrella”

  Maroon 5—“Moves Like Jagger”

  Bon Jovi—“Wanted Dead or Alive”

  The Beatles—“Come Together”

  The Fray—“Never Say Never”

  Chapter 30

  Lenny Kravitz—“I Belong to You”

  Prologue

  Colorblind

  Close your eyes and you can imagine what it was like. Hot, sticky, crowded. Smoke, flashing screens, and lighters flickering. Fans screaming, laughing, clapping, and crying. Bodies pushing, shoving, trying to catch a glimpse. Everyone wanting to see the stage—the lights, the equipment, the musician himself.

  He was running back and forth singing, headbanging, and playing his guitar. The lyrics were jumbled. His movements out of sync. The sound of the bass thumped through the crowd so loud my body vibrated with every wrong note played. I just wanted it to end.

  Nick Wilde had opened for the Counting Crows at the Hollywood Bowl. It was his second chance—and he blew it. The crowd was exhilarated at the start of his first song and he owned the stage but it didn’t last long. By the third song he was improvising, pulling notes, and forgetting words. He was lost in his own trance, soaked in alcohol, and no one could help him . . . not Xander, not my mother, and definitely not me. “Mr. Jones” started playing before he even finished his fourth song . . . and he never played onstage again.

  Music was his soul. Music was in all of our souls. When we were younger he taught us everything he could . . . how to play, to sing, the right way to command a stage. We knew every song by every artist. We traveled to concert after concert. Music was his life and it became ours.

  But he wasn’t happy just playing. He had a dream—he wanted to be famous. And somewhere along the way his dream became an obsession. I’ll give it to him, he got further than most do. By the age of nineteen he had been signed by a label and cut his first album. But after a disappointing run they released him. He spent the next fifteen years working the circuit—clubs, churches, weddings, birthday parties, as he waited for another big break. And then, just like that, he blew his golden opportunity.

  Everything in our life changed after that. The drinking got worse, Grandpa came around more to check on us, and Mom went back to work. Every day left another kink in his chain as he lived in his own world. I was sixteen when his plan A became my plan B and, just like him, at a young age, I cut my first album. But unlike him I had Xander. He wasn’t going to let me fail. The band’s album had a slow start but after a year of touring, it started to gain popularity.

  I remember the first time the Wild
e Ones graced a real stage. We were restless. We had been sitting around for hours waiting. When we were finally up we strutted confidently across the stage like we had in rehearsal, but, really, we were nervous as hell. The lights were much brighter and the audience so much bigger than we were used to. When the guys started to play, soft, barely audible words flew out of my mouth so fast I forgot to breathe. The band was drowning me out and I knew it. Looking around, I adjusted the microphone height and took in the crowd. They were cheering me on with such enthusiasm that my voice finally soared over them. It was the same voice I’d grown up with, the one my dad had fostered. It was raw and present and soulful, and, in that moment, my music came alive. The crowd went crazy and just like that my life changed again.

  Xander struck while the iron was hot. He arranged to go on tour. That was the beginning of the end for me. We started out small. Smaller venues, shitty hotels, crappy food, and a lot of drinking. We opened for band after band and the relationships I made . . . they kept me going, that and being up on that stage doing what I loved . . . it kept me going, wanting to make my dad proud . . . yeah, that, too.

  But touring was a constant infringement on my personal space. I hated the cramped quarters, lack of privacy, constant strict schedule, never being in the same city for more than two nights, people following you everywhere, people always wanting something from you. Even the girls throwing themselves at you got old. It was the longest year of my life, but I did it for him because somewhere along the way his dream morphed into mine. What I came to realize was that his dream wasn’t mine—my dad thought being on tour meant you had made it. His dream was about being famous. Mine is about the music.

  As the venues got bigger so did the crowds, the fanfare, and I could see how you could get lost in it, caught up in it—but I was determined not to end up like my father. He was addicted to the fame. I’m addicted to the creative process. I hope that difference between us is enough.

  The tour ended and we wrote, we played around LA, and as time passed life was good. But I had managed to put off cutting another album long enough. This time I was doing it for the band and for my brother and for me—because I love the music. Cutting the album—that’s the fun part. It’s the promoting I dreaded, at least until the day I saw her through the glass. The girl who inspired our song “Once in a Lifetime,” the girl Xander always referred to as my muse, the girl who stole my heart one night and then crushed it at the very same time.

  She was as beautiful as I remembered and with one glance she took my breath away. She walked my way, pulling a suitcase behind her, and my heart skipped a beat. I knew immediately she was the one sent to interview me and suddenly any negativity I had about doing press was gone. I couldn’t help but watch her. I wanted her unlike anyone I had ever wanted before. I had to stifle a laugh when her briefcase fell off the top of her suitcase and she glanced around to see who saw. I wanted to yell, “Only me and don’t worry because everything about you is sexy as fuck.”

  I rushed to grab the door for her, but she pushed it forward and fell into me—not that I minded in the least. I’d catch her over and over. There wasn’t a thing about her that I didn’t remember from the first time we met and even the awkwardness of the moment brought me to full attention. When her body pressed against mine, I knew in that instant . . . this time I wasn’t letting her get away so easily. I’d go on a thousand tours to have her in my life—there was just something about her, a light in her eyes that made everything wrong feel right. And just like my dad, I got a second chance—it was her. But unlike him, I wasn’t going to blow it.

  When she extended her hand and said, “Hello, I’m Dahlia London from Sound Music. I’m so sorry I’m late,” I knew she had to be mine.

  Chapter 1

  A Thousand Years

  A glimmer of light catches my eye through the partially open curtains across the room as I wake. It must be dawn because the sky is turning various shades of pink, red, and orange. Before I know it, the sky blazes with color; it’s as if it’s on fire—just like my body, but I push my pain aside. It’s a glorious new day. And I’m here to share it with him. I look at the gorgeous lines of his body slumped over in the chair next to my hospital bed. He’s asleep, but not very soundly. I study him, taking in his strong jaw, sculpted nose, and toned body. But it’s his soul, his playfulness, and his amazing personality that made me fall in love with him. He’s so much more than I could ever have asked for—he’s my soul mate in every sense of the word.

  Carefully removing my hand from his, I try hard not to wake him. Then I slowly ease myself up from the bed and make my way to the bathroom. When I return, the sun has fully risen and so has he. He’s staring out the window with the curtains now completely open. I sweep him with my eyes so that I can appreciate every little thing—at just over six feet he’s glorious. Strong shoulders, a lean waist, abs that seem to flex with his every movement. Arms crossed, his head cocked just so, his T-shirt tucked into his jeans haphazardly, and his stance so straight and sure. The soft bluish-gray sky of the early morning is almost as breathtaking as the sight of him.

  Trying to see what he’s looking at, I only notice the fluffy clouds drifting by. They appear so white against the morning sky; they make me start to smile. But I know that’s not what he’s seeing right now, when a bluejay flies by and he turns around I want to erase the pain I see in his sorrowful expression and sad green eyes.

  I don’t want to dwell on the events of yesterday’s incident, but he seems to be preoccupied with it. His mood has been somber ever since it happened. He calls it an attack—I prefer incident. After all, I’m here alive and merely bruised. I’m not going to waste my time thinking about one bad day—I’d rather celebrate the good things in each new day. But he blames himself. I haven’t been able to convince him that if anyone was to blame it’s me. Then again, a random act of violence couldn’t have been prevented and, thankfully, I’m all right. I just want to leave the hospital and go home.

  Grabbing my clothes from the chair, I throw them on the bed. I’m standing in front of him on the cold linoleum floor in nothing but a hospital gown. I make a twirling motion with my finger impatiently. “Do you mind turning around?”

  Sighing, he runs his hands through his already-messy hair. “I’m not turning around. I want to help you. Seeing what he did to you can’t make me feel any worse. Believe me.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat and try to gather the right words to respond, and help put his mind at ease. “River, it was not your fault. Some perverted animal, looking to get his kicks by attacking women, that isn’t your fault.”

  He can’t hide his shudder from my eyes. “Dahlia, it wasn’t a fucking incident. You were attacked. If I had been with you it wouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have been sleeping. It’s really just that simple.”

  I stand there shocked by his tone, even though I know he doesn’t mean to be so harsh. “No, it’s not just that simple . . . ,” I start to argue, but he cuts me off.

  His shoulders sag. He promptly diverts his eyes to the ground and shoves his hands in his jeans pockets. “I’m sorry, Dahlia. I don’t mean to yell. I just can’t stand that you got hurt. It kills me to see you like this, to know what could have happened to you. It just kills me.”

  We’ve had this conversation twice already. I already know my reassurances will go nowhere. So I repeat myself and contemplate making my way to the duffel bag lying next to the chair to get my socks and shoes and then go into the bathroom to change. But I plead one more time, “River, please turn around.”

  He’s standing in front of me with only the bed between us but for some reason it feels like we’re miles apart. He doesn’t move toward me, but I can see the overwhelming emotion in his face and in his eyes. He’s hurting. I can also hear it in his voice and his sorrow not only makes me sad, it tears at my heart.

  I’ve never been shy around him. I just know that I’m covered in bruises and I want so badly to spare him the heartache of seein
g me this way.

  “No, let me help you,” he whispers. His tone is barely audible.

  With a deep sigh I resign myself to his plea and pointing near the chair I ask, “Can you please hand me that?”

  Grabbing my bag, he sets it on the bed.

  As I untie the ugly green gown and slide it down my arms, he watches me. But not in an Oh, I want to see you naked kind of way, more like an Oh God, I might be sick way.

  The gown puddles on the floor and I stand there completely naked in front of him. I watch as he looks at me. He scans my body from head to toe before his eyes drift back up to meet mine and he swallows.

  In an attempt to lighten the mood, I pick up the hospital gown and playfully toss it at him. “Your turn to play dress-up.”

  His lips finally turn up in a semblance of a smile, but his eyes are still filled with sadness. “I think I’ll pass this time, if you don’t mind,” he says, holding the gown up to him. “Green isn’t my color.”