Phoenix Burn (From the Ashes Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Phoenix Burn

  From the Ashes #1

  Karina Espinosa

  Copyright © 2020 by Karina Espinosa

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by © Covers by Juan

  Edited by Stacy Sanford

  Copyright 2020 by Karina Espinosa

  ISBN-13: 9798680313800

  ASIN: B08GH7S5L4

  For my Family.

  Contents

  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

  About the Author

  Also by Karina Espinosa

  About the Author

  Prologue

  “He had a little dick,” Amber whispered to the group, causing us all to giggle like schoolgirls around the dinner table. “I mean, I didn’t have a ruler or anything, but you know …” She gave us a knowing look and we all nodded.

  It was girl’s night out, and if you thought guys were the only ones who talked about dicks, you were sorely mistaken.

  “It’s not about the size,” Maria cut into the laughter, “it’s about the motion of the ocean.” She made a wave with her hand.

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, until you’re stuck on a boat with no currents. Shut up, Maria.” We all burst out laughing and then ordered another round of drinks.

  “Easy for you to say,” Amber said, her eyes a blue green like the ocean. “You have the perfect boyfriend, Camila.”

  Having the perfect boyfriend wasn’t everything, and frankly, he really wasn’t all that perfect. He clipped his toenails in the living room and chewed with his mouth open. Gross. But no one saw the behind the scenes stuff. They just saw that he brought me flowers almost every week and had a smile that belonged on a Colgate commercial. Don’t get me wrong – I liked him … but calling him perfect was a stretch. We all had flaws, even me.

  “What do you guys have planned for this weekend?” I changed the subject. I didn’t want to talk about Ben—the perfect boyfriend. One would think if I was so unhappy, I would have broken up with the guy by now, but nope, still hadn’t grown the balls to do it. I’d probably end up marrying him out of pity and live miserably with an open-mouth chewer for the rest of my life. I shivered. Ew. Never mind. I resolved to find a way out of this relationship, pronto.

  Maria twirled her blonde hair. “I need to get my hair done. It’s starting to get curly again and my roots are showing.”

  I took a sip of my margarita. “I don’t know why you would get rid of your curls. I love mine,” I said as I shook out my chestnut hair like I was selling shampoo.

  She shrugged. “It’s just hard to manage.”

  Hard to manage, my ass.

  I chugged my drink, the alcohol going straight to my head, and blew out a breath, preparing myself for the ten-minute farewell tour I knew would follow when I told the girls I had to head out. I had a big day tomorrow at the office and I couldn’t stay out late.

  “Alright, ladies, it’s time for me to go,” I announced to a round of boos. Holding up my hand, I added, “Happy hour next Thursday?”

  “You know it!” Amber held up her drink, her eyes a little glassy. I was glad she hadn’t driven here tonight.

  I made my rounds and told the girls goodnight, then made my way to the front door of the Mexican restaurant where we met every Thursday, which was situated in downtown Los Angeles. There was a slight nip in the air, but the alcohol warmed my blood as I started walking toward the parking garage where I’d left my car. It was only a few blocks away and the night air would clear my head.

  In a pair of straight legged slacks, a blouse, my blazer folded over my arm, and my designer purse in hand, my heels click-clacked down the sidewalk. I hadn’t had too much to drink so I felt comfortable driving home, or else I would have called an Uber. I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose and hurried along the darkened street to the garage.

  I needed this girl’s night. If I had to deal with another mountain of monotonous paperwork, or Ben’s incessant toenail clipping—like, who the hell had that many freakin’ toenails to even clip?!—I would go insane. And not in the mental ward kind of way, but in the 2007 Britney Spears sort of way … and I don’t look good with a shaved head. What I really needed was a vacation, time to get away from everything and everyone, although I knew that was a pipe dream. I had a huge presentation tomorrow at work and my team hadn’t done a single thing to help, leaving almost all the work for me to do. They thought because I was the youngest one on the team, they could take advantage of me—and they were right. I was only twenty-six, while they were all middle-aged and going over the hill. To say I was stressed out about how tomorrow was going to play out was an understatement.

  As I worried about everything I needed to do, my cell phone rang and I dug it out of my purse. When I saw my sister’s name on the screen, I answered immediately.

  “Hey, Carmen, is everything okay?” I said as I continued to walk down the sidewalk.

  She snorted. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

  I sighed heavily. “Well, you’re calling me late at night, so I thought it was an emergency, jackass. What do you want?”

  Carmen chuckled through the phone line and I couldn’t even be mad at my little sister. “I’m just playing mediator. Mom called me and told me about the fight you guys had. Just talk to her, Cami—”

  “No, Car. You don’t know what it’s about, so stay out of it.”

  My parents were going through financial hardships and my mom refused my repeated offers of help. It pissed me off. She was letting her pride get in the way, and if she continued down that path, they were going to lose the house. We got into a fight and said some things to each other we probably didn’t mean, but even so, I wasn’t ready to talk to her. I was still mad, whereas she was just being stubborn.

  “At least talk to Dad, Cami. Please,” she murmured.

  I was quiet for a moment before I relented. “Fine. I’ll call tomorrow.” We said our goodbyes and instead of feeling relieved, I just felt more stressed out than before.

  I entered the parking garage and took the elevator to the roof where I’d left my car. The best part about parking on the roof was that it afforded a magnificent view of the city of L.A. in all its glittering, star-studded glamour. Another bonus was that I hated searching for parking, and there was always space on the roof. Plus, it was less likely my car would get dinged.

  After the elevator made its sluggish ascent, I stepped onto the roof and the wind whipped my hair around in my face. Holding my curls back so I could see, I dug around in my purse for my keys but couldn’t find them. I stopped right behind the trunk of my car and pulled open my purse to really get a good look inside. I had so much junk, it was like a damn Walmart in there. I added another to-do item to my mental checklist. Clean out purse.

  In hindsight, I should have been more prepared. More alert. But when nothing truly bad ever happened to you, you were never ready for it. You were too trusting.

  I heard the boots behind me but didn’t turn around until they were pr
actically upon me. By then I was on one knee on the ground, pulling things out of my purse, still searching for my car keys. When I peered over my shoulder, I saw him.

  The beginning of my end.

  He was tall and dark haired, with a trimmed beard and icy blue eyes that were illuminated by the parking deck’s unflattering fluorescent lighting. He wore dark blue jeans and a black zip-up hoodie with the hood pulled down, but the part that got my attention was the gun in his right hand.

  I left my blazer and the random items from my purse on the ground, but stood up slowly, with my purse in hand. I’d never been robbed before, but this didn’t feel like how I saw it in the movies. I could easily identify him to the police. Unless … he didn’t plan on letting me live.

  My hands started to tremble as I clutched my purse in front of me. “You can have everything,” I said. “I won’t fight you, and I won’t go to the police.” With shaky hands, I started to hand over my purse.

  Instead of taking the offered item, he lifted the gun and aimed it straight at my face. I think I let out a scream, but by then I couldn’t hear very well. There was no one up there, we were all alone on the roof of a parking garage, past midnight. My ears were stopped up as if I’d just gotten off a plane, and everything was deathly quiet. My gaze zoomed in on the muzzle of the gun.

  A split second later, everything changed.

  The man pulled the trigger and shot me square in the forehead. Everything went dark.

  1

  Six Months Later

  These shorts were so damn tight. Every time I walked, I gave myself a wedgie. How anyone would willfully subject themselves to this was beyond me, but then again, there I was in a crop top tank, booty shorts, and heels so high that if I broke my neck, I swore I was filing for workers’ compensation.

  I’d put up with this nonsense for three weeks and had nothing to show for it other than a scattered sleep schedule and possible bunions on my feet. I’d spent the last three weeks working at NightCrawlers as a Shot Girl and had never felt more undervalued in my life. Don’t get me wrong – there was nothing wrong with the profession – the girls were nice, but this just wasn’t my lane.

  Now, you may be wondering, If you hate it so much, why are you doing it? Simple. I’m supposed to be dead.

  Like, dead dead. Shot in the forehead, executioner style. But fate had other plans for me. Plans I was still trying to figure out.

  I died six months ago. Camila Cortez no longer existed. The night I died, I was left on the parking deck roof in a pool of my own blood with my things scattered all over the place. When I awoke, I was still there and the bullet that had been lodged in my forehead was lying next to me as if it had popped out. Someone obviously wanted me dead, because I wasn’t robbed. They didn’t even bother to make it look like a robbery.

  Now, the fact I was still alive was my first clue that something was seriously wrong, but add that little tidbit along with the knowledge that someone wanted me dead, and even I knew it meant something far worse. So instead of going home and putting everyone else I cared about in danger, I ran. And I’d been missing ever since.

  Have you ever tried to rob yourself? Because that shit was hard as hell. When I left the parking garage that night, I knew I couldn’t take my car or any of my belongings. After grabbing whatever cash I had in my purse, I hauled ass. I won’t even get into how hard it was to try to break into my apartment, but once I finally did, I confiscated my stash of emergency money and went on the run.

  The first few weeks were the hardest of my life. I was homeless, living on the street. My paranoia skyrocketed to the point where I was scared of my own shadow. Every man in a hoodie reminded me of my killer, and my sleep was scattered and disturbed. The lack of sleep made me hallucinate a lot of weird shit, but I couldn’t rest until I felt safe somewhere. I was jumping from shelter to shelter when I remembered someone who could get me a new identity. That was when I became Octavia Cruz.

  From there, everything changed. With the money I had, I was able to snag a rundown studio apartment to live in, and since I had a new identity, I could get a job. After a few months, I was able to afford to buy a used car. Everything about me changed—not just my name. My hair was now a deep red, and I put keratin in my hair to loosen my curls into waves. I got contacts so I no longer needed glasses, and I’d gained a few pounds. What could I say? I was an emotional eater.

  I couldn’t legally be declared dead for five years without a body, but my family wouldn’t want to anyway. They hadn’t given up on searching for me. Fortunately for me, the case had gone cold and the police were no longer looking for Camila Cortez.

  I hated doing this to my family. It was the hardest part of my plan. But until I found my murderer, I had to remain dead. And the bigger question that I still hadn’t answered was how the hell did I survive? I’d been freaking out about that one for six months. I’d thrown around every theory from being bitten by radioactive spiders to possibly being from the fictional planet Krypton. Yeah, since your girl was bullet proof, it obviously meant I was a freakin’ superhero, but I decided not to test out that theory again. It may have been a one-time deal and I wasn’t ready to die … again. In the meantime …

  “Octavia!” one of the Shot Girls called out. “They want us on the floor!”

  “Coming!” I yelled, hurriedly getting ready in the dressing room and caking on my stage makeup. As I rummaged through my makeup bag filled with cheap cosmetics, I found a flower—a black dahlia.

  For the last month I’d been finding them in random places, but I had no idea where they came from. At first I didn’t know what it was, because it looked like a large daisy or a blooming peony that was dark red, almost black, but when I looked it up online, I learned it was a flower called a black dahlia. I didn’t know if one of the girls at the club was leaving it for me, but it was starting to get creepy. I shivered and stuffed everything back inside my bag, then pulled up my new red hair into a ponytail.

  I stepped out into the deafening nightclub and my eyes were assaulted by the strobe lights going wild enough to give someone a seizure. Working in dirty nightclubs was nothing compared to living on the streets, so this was a cake walk.

  I grabbed two bottles from the bar and headed into the fray of partiers with my fake smile and enthusiasm dialed up to ten. Each night, my body tensed at the sight of so many strangers—my killer possibly being one of them.

  “Who wants some shots?” I shouted and everyone cheered. Particularly the guys.

  I stepped onto the stage with the DJ as he played the song “Shots” by LMFAO and Lil Jon and barely refrained from rolling my eyes. How cliché.

  The guys lined up and rested the back of their head between my breasts, opening their mouths in front of me as I poured alcohol into their waiting mouths. Each shot was five dollars, and they’d slip the five-dollar bills into whatever tight crevice they could find on my clothes. I went from being a financial consultant … to this. If my father could see me now, he’d blow a gasket. This was what my four-year degree got me.

  Jesus take the wheel.

  The night wore on the same as they had the last three weeks – one big party in a sea of nameless faces. You might be wondering why I was doing this when I could have, I don’t know, continued to drive Uber like I’d originally been doing to lay low and make a few bucks, but this was part of the plan. The guy who helped me get a new identity was also helping me find my killer, even though he didn’t know who I actually was … it was complicated. And according to him, a man for hire that matched the description of my murderer frequented NightCrawlers, a seedy club in East L.A., so there I was, waiting to bust him.

  I’d daydreamed a vast array of scenarios for what I’d do when I saw the bastard. Everything from calling the police and telling them he’d been holding me hostage for six months, to sticking a screwdriver through his eye. Yeah, sometimes my thoughts got a little violent.

  Except it’s been three freakin’ weeks and I still haven’t seen the
bastard. I was starting to wonder if my friend’s intel was accurate. So far, all I’d done was get guys drunk, slap grabby hands away for getting too frisky, and mentally freak out anytime I saw someone in a hoodie.

  I pushed my way to the bar to get new bottles when I felt a cold hand slither its way around my bare lower back on its way further down. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  Spinning around, I came face-to-face with the sleazy manager of the club and smacked his hand away from me. “Can I help you?” I said dryly. He had a habit of getting handsy, but unlike the other girls, I didn’t let him get away with it.

  Roberto had black hair slicked back with too much gel, an excessive amount of gold jewelry, and smelled like he bathed in CK1. He looked like someone’s pimp, but I was going to make sure he didn’t think he was mine.

  “Octavia, baby, I have some special guests up in the VIP area.” He gave me a lingering smile that made me want to take like, five showers. “Go with Shelly and provide them with bottle service. And when you’re done … come see me in my office.” His eyes drifted to my breasts.

  I snorted. “Sure thing,” I said sarcastically, and as I brushed past him to leave, I stabbed the heel of my shoe on his foot. “Oops, sorry.”

  He held in his scream, his face going tight as he clutched his foot. I supposed those heels were good for something.

  I headed to the end of the bar where Shelly was waiting for me with her arms filled with high-end bottles of liquor and sparklers. I helped her carry them across the nightclub to the VIP area.