Shadowboxer Read online

  Shadowboxer

  After a tough childhood and a brief and bruising career as a boxer, Jordan McAddie isn’t sure she has anything left to offer in a relationship. Desperately trying to make a difference, she focuses on becoming a social worker and helping street kids find their way. But someone is targeting her kids, luring them to an underground political group whose protests are becoming increasingly more provocative and dangerous.

  When Ali Clarke – Jordan’s first love and first broken heart – walks back into her life and becomes intertwined with the youth boxing program, Jordan is torn between past and present. Dedicated to keeping her kids safe, Jordan fights old fears that she will never be good enough, while trying to believe she might have a future with Ali.

  Praise for Jessica L. Webb

  Troop 18

  “Troop 18 is the third in the Dr. Kate Morrison series and is another winner…The story is a fascinating mystery that had me stumped and I loved how it was told in a very understated way with so much going on under the surface.”—Kitty Kat’s Book Review Blog

  “Jessica Webb, you are so good! I love a book that makes you feel, even if it hurts.”—The Romantic Reader

  Lambda Literary Award Winner Pathogen

  “Where did Jessica Webb come from? This is the second Dr. Kate Morrison book, the first is Trigger, and it was amazing. A reader should really read them in order, because they are both fantastic. I would sign up today to read the next ten books Webb writes.”—Amanda’s Reviews

  Trigger

  “The book reads very well and is full of heart pounding, adrenaline racing moments. I have zero clue if human bombs can be actually made, but Webb 100% sold me on the possibility through her story. I was held captive throughout the book, desperately needing to know how this was all resolved…This book has action out the wazoo, but it doesn’t stop there. Mystery, intrigue, and a fantastic couple are in full force as well.”—The Romantic Reader

  “[A] really clever, intricate, and extremely well developed story line that has conspiracies, betrayals, and enough excitement to whet any reader’s appetite. I cannot commend this book highly enough.”—Inked Rainbow Reads

  Lambda Literary Award Finalist Repercussions

  “[A]lthough this is such an action-packed book, Webb still balanced it with some romance in such a way that the chemistry leaps off the pages in this intense, steamy kind of way. Webb is someone you can count on for accuracy and realism in her books, which I love because it makes it so much easier to fall into the story and forget the world around you. Her dialogue is well written and sounds conversationalist. She has a fast pace, good writing style, developed characters, plenty of action, and an exciting plot.”—Artistic Bent

  “I loved this book! The author has balanced suspense and romance perfectly. The plot is edge-of-your-seat exciting. The writing immerses the reader. The action is plentiful with lots of twists and turns and there are some very interesting, creative ideas within the book.”—Melina Bickard, Librarian (Waterloo Library, London)

  “Repercussions by Jessica L. Webb is nothing short of phenomenal. This book is everything you want and more. It is one delicious story, with amazing characters and an exciting plot…I could go on for days about how freaking fantastic this one is. All of Webb’s books are home runs, but somehow, someway, she took it to the next level with Repercussions. This book is going to hook you on by the first chapter. A roller coaster ride of awesomeness is awaiting you with this book.”—The Romantic Reader

  “Jessica L. Webb can write a psychological thriller like no other in lesfic. This is her fourth book, and every time she manages to deliver an amazing story…She’s one of a few authors that I trust she’s going to take me on an imaginative and entertaining journey. Ms. Webb delivers again a pair of multilayered and authentic main characters with amazing chemistry and a plot with enough twist and turns to keep the reader turning pages.”—Lez Review

  Shadowboxer

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Shadowboxer

  © 2018 By Jessica L. Webb. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13:978-1-63555-268-3

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: September 2018

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

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Jerry L. Wheeler

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Melody Pond

  By the Author

  Dr. Kate Morrison Thriller series

  Trigger

  Pathogen

  Troop 18

  Repercussions

  Shadowboxer

  Acknowledgments

  A big thank you to my beta readers—Jen; Meredith; Katie; my parents, Ron and Val; and my sister, Rebecca. Thanks to my entire extended wacky family for being proud of me. Thanks to my readers, who lift me up with their reviews and comments and emails. Thanks to everyone at Bold Strokes Books for everything you do to get our books out into the world.

  Special thanks to Katie for helping with the title and the cover.

  Finally, thank you to my editor, Jerry. This partnership means a lot to me. Thank you for being you.

  For my wife, Jen. For making the shadows less scary.

  And for all of us who have ever felt like we’re not enough.

  We are. We got this.

  Chapter One

  Jordan—Six

  Six years old and it’s a warm time. Jory kicks the legs of her chair and hums a song they learned in school about God and all his creatures. Mama hums a different song, and Jory stops to listen, her legs still thumping, thumping, thumping. She’s cooking supper, Mama is, onions on the stove, something with apples and sausages. Mama is smiling, and Jory almost remembers a time Mama didn’t. A cold time when Mama never got up and Daddy cursed such big words and limped and yelled and Steven hugged her and Jakey growled and brought them cold food. Jory shivered. Maybe a bad dream, that cold time, maybe not the for real world with the leaves changing colour outside, that big chlorophyll word Mrs. Keenley used today in class and laughed when everyone tried to say it. Mrs. Keenley has a good laugh. It makes Jory warm and makes her forget she might remember cold times. Jory loves her teacher in a secret, proud way in her heart.

  She loves her mama, too, and Jory looks up at her from under her dark eyelashes, so long and dark like her daddy’s. Her blue eyes were his, too. A gift, he tells her, the long sight and a long life. Steven has long sight, but not Jakey. Jory worries about Jakey, her biggest brother, nineteen and already working the docks. What about his long sight and long life? Mama laughed when Jory cried about it long ago. She’s too big to cry now, but then she cried and Mama said not to worry, all her babies were warriors like the Cressidys before them. She’d turned Jory’s arm over and showed her the veins in her wrists and arms and hands.

  “See?” she said. “Warrior blood.”

  “Let me see yours,” Jory cried, fascinated.

  Mama turned her arm over, and Jory did not see the faint tremor as she put her skinny arm next to her mama’s. She traced the dark blood veins t
hrough her wrist.

  “Warrior blood,” Jory whispered. “But less, Mama? I’ve got less because I’m one-half Cressidy and one-half McAddie?”

  “No,” Mama whispered. “That is the magic of warrior blood. All you need is a drop.”

  Jory stared now at her hands and kicked the legs of her chair as Mama hummed in the kitchen. Just a drop, and she had a half. She was just about to ask about warrior blood because Mama didn’t mind questions in warm times, when the back door opened too hard and hit the wall. Mama stiffened and Jory shivered. Daddy muttered a dark sound outside of warm time and clanked, clanked, clanked as he limped into the kitchen carrying a box.

  He looked like her warm time Daddy who had walked her to school that morning but wrong somehow, different, weighed down with that box. Jory could read, smartest in her class Mrs. Keenley had whispered to her, but the words on the box were not what frightened Jory. She remembered its shape. That sound of clinking bottles and the smell of them as they were stacked on the rotting front porch until Jakey, always so angry, carried them away.

  Jory stopped kicking her chair and bowed her head, dark curls hiding her face. She gripped her wrist and shut her eyes as Mama and Daddy’s words got louder and angrier and the smell of burning onions made her eyes tear and she sat so still and so still until Steven came home. He tugged her sleeve and pulled her out of the kitchen and hugged her against his skinny twelve-year-old body, one half-full just like her, and they stayed like that, pretending cold time had not just walked through their door.

  * * *

  Jordan hung up the phone in her cubicle, rubbed her dry eyes, and pushed her hand through her short-cropped curly dark hair. It had taken over an hour to find a foster home that would take a young teenager who needed an emergency placement. She’d finally found one, but after a late night of studying, an early class at Dalhousie University, eighteen phone calls, and endless bureaucratic paperwork, Jordan felt like she’d already fought a few rounds. And her day was nowhere near to shutting down. But you didn’t go into social services to have a regular schedule. Jordan took it as a good sign that even in moments like this, she didn’t question her drive to become a social worker. She’d get there. And she’d still have days like this.

  Her timing always ever so exact, her colleague Cay walked into their tiny, shared cubicle.

  “Show time, chicken.”

  Jordan grunted at the older woman and Cay laughed, her wrinkles dimpling and dancing across her broad, dark face.

  “Snap out of it, darling, and quick. We need the clean, tough, articulate Jordan Pauline McAddie to show up at the gym in an hour. Impress the hell out of these suits, and we might have a private avenue of funding instead of having to beg for scraps from Children and Youth Services. A whole twelve months of funding for your gym, your program, your kids.”

  “Ours, ours, and ours,” Jordan said as she stood up and grabbed her black leather jacket.

  JP’s Gym had been hers for the past four years, but she never really thought of it that way. She often wondered if the last of her earnings from her short boxing career should have gone somewhere else. Maybe she could have gotten a real apartment, not the slapped-together but homey space above the gym where she lived. But then the kids would come tumbling and swearing and swaggering into the gym for their evening practice, and Jordan would remember why she’d purchased this building and stressed over the monthly bills.

  Jordan checked the pockets of her jacket for her keys and wallet before tugging it on, feeling the newness of the leather as it settled on her shoulders. An indulgence, this jacket, given the steady level of debt accruing from her master’s studies and the fact that her car needed repair. She knew exactly how much food this jacket could have provided for the street kids she supported. She felt a little sick as she tugged it across her chest, smoothing it down over the plain black shirt she’d carefully chosen this morning along with dark grey pants that were not quite jeans but close enough. This was as close to an effort as the suits, as Cay called them, were going to get.

  Cay eyed the jacket critically, and Jordan tried not to fidget under the scrutiny.

  “It’s perfect, you know,” Cay said finally. “Stop hating yourself.”

  A mind reader, Cay.

  “Fuck off,” Jordan muttered, and Cay laughed.

  “I said articulate, not muttering and sullen. The kids have got that covered without your help.”

  Jordan laughed out loud as they walked through the sea of cubicles and offices that housed a myriad of social services. The community centre where Jordan ran some of the other teen programs was right next door. Jordan had worked here for seven years as a crisis and intake worker until Cay suggested she look into part-time studies at the local university. Her life was a balancing act with work and the gym and her studies. Jordan was busy. And for the most part, she was happy.

  Jordan waved at Tim and Kayla at the reception desk and felt her phone vibrate in her back pocket and she pulled it out. A text from Madi, one of Jordan’s kids. Former kids, Jordan reminded herself as she pulled up the text. Madi was twenty now.

  Where r u?

  Jordan shook her head as she thumbed out an answer.

  On our way. Patience, grasshopper.

  Jordan didn’t hear back. Interesting. She would have expected an expletive and emoticon-filled response. Madi’s silence was telling.

  “What is it?” Cay said. The day was already cold, and Jordan tugged her jacket across her chest again, preparing for the chilly ten-minute walk to the gym at the edge of downtown. Wind pulled at her hair, but she’d had it cut recently so it couldn’t do much damage to the short curls or the neatly shaved swath around her ears and neck.

  “Madi,” Jordan answered Cay. “She’s nervous.”

  Cay said nothing. She had her head down in her characteristic dash to whatever needed doing next. Jordan was momentarily suspicious Cay hadn’t taken the opportunity to rail at street kids having no home, no food, no hope. But they had a cell phone.

  “Why’s Madi nervous?” Jordan pushed.

  Cay stopped abruptly just before they reached the gym doors. Jordan could hear the bass from the warm-up music thumping from out here.

  “This wasn’t my idea,” Cay said.

  Jordan noted her friend’s unease and felt herself absorb the edges of it.

  “This meeting? I know that. Children and Youth Services were contacted about a donation. I’m assuming Campbell has something to do with it, since it’s politics,” Jordan said, referencing their big boss.

  Cay said nothing, just kept glancing from Jordan to the gym doors and back again.

  “Cay, spit it out.”

  “There was a meeting already. Campbell and this company.”

  Jordan still didn’t understand. “So?”

  Cay sighed. “And Madi.”

  Jordan felt the burn of anger start as a tremor in her hands.

  “What do you mean?” Jordan controlled her voice. She’d had a great deal of practice.

  “I don’t know the details. I overheard Campbell talking about a new avenue for funding involving Madi as a sort of poster child—” Cay put up a hand when Jordan growled. “Hang on. It involves top executives as part of an outreach or mentorship program. When I asked Campbell how Madi was pulled in, he told me to keep it to myself. Said he wasn’t going to let your overprotectiveness of an independent adult who was no longer a Crown ward get in the way.”

  The anger spread, gaining tension and momentum as it traveled up Jordan’s arms and across her biceps until it settled in a seething mass across her neck and shoulders. It was true, Madi was no longer part of the system, but it didn’t mean she didn’t need someone looking out for her.

  “Do you know if Madi’s agreed to anything?”

  Cay shook her head. “She hasn’t been around this week for me to ask.”

  Brilliant and tough and alternately raised by the system and the streets, Madigan Battiste was a poet whose small frame belied a voice an
d a message that could punch you in the gut so hard it would leave you breathless. Jordan smiled to herself. And Madi could punch, too. She checked her watch.

  “Let’s go find out what this is.”

  Cay put a hand out and tugged gently at Jordan’s sleeve. Some of the fire had returned to her eyes. “Don’t go looking for an opponent if there’s not one there.”

  Jordan grimaced. She hated that she still needed the same advice as her kids. “Yeah, yeah.”

  Cay rolled her eyes and opened the door, hissing, “Articulate, McAddie.”

  Jordan laughed and entered the gym.

  The space was wide and open with one ring along the back wall and workout and sparring stations spread throughout. It was ugly but clean. None of the equipment was new, but when Jordan pulled in a breath, the smell of cleanser balanced the smell of sweat. Nineties-era rap reverberated off the walls and the ceiling, the voices of kids high and excited as they warmed up, yelling along with Maestro Fresh-Wes to drop the needle. Jordan guessed it was Rupert’s turn to choose the warm-up music. Show up to train four days in a week, and your name went into a draw to choose the music. Only once had the music ever caused a fight. Surprisingly, it hadn’t been the Gregorian chanting that ended in violence.

  “Jordan! Jesus, finally.”

  Madi jumped up from a seat outside the change rooms. She was dressed in her characteristic head-to-toe black. Skinny jeans and a plain black tank top. Her pixie-like face was framed by long dark hair and flashing grey eyes.