Before I Die Read online

  Before I Die

  Copyright © 2020 Nikki Ash

  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 resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  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 publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Edited by: Emily A. Lawrence

  Cover design: All by Design

  Formatting: Champagne Design

  Cover photograph: DepositPhotos

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Playlist

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Nikki Ash

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Before I Die

  Young, Wild, & Free—Snoop Dog & Wiz Khalifa (feat. Bruno Mars)

  The Monster—Eminem (feat. Rihanna)

  Eyes on You—Chase Rice

  I’m the One—DJ Khaled (feat. Justin Bieber)

  Anything She Says—Mitchell Tenpenny (feat. Seaforth)

  Look What God Gave Her-Thomas Rhett

  Love Someone—Lukas Graham

  10,000 Hours—Dan + Shay & Justin Bieber

  If You Want Love—NF

  Lights Down Low—MAX (feat. Gnash)

  Tie Me Down—Gryffin & Elley Duhé

  Marry Me—Jason Derulo

  To Ashley, for not only spending countless hours plotting with me, but for being my friend.

  Nevaeh

  “Come on, Nevaeh,” my best friend whines as she pulls me along. The shoulders bumping into my small frame have me stumbling down the sidewalk as we walk toward The Warehouse. According to Blaire, it’s the happening place in Atlantic City, and everybody who’s anybody comes here.

  Blaire swears it’ll be an experience of a lifetime and, even though I gave her a hard time about coming here tonight, secretly her words have my adrenaline pumping. I’m both nervous and excited to be here. On one hand, I can’t wait to experience a club for the first time. I’ve seen them on shows and read about them in books, but I’ve never had the guts to experience one for myself. The bright lights, the thumping music, the sweaty bodies gyrating against one another.

  On the other hand, I’m freaking the heck out. Because… the bright lights, the thumping music, the sweaty bodies gyrating against one another isn’t who I am. Well, at least not the me everybody knows, and definitely not the me my mother expects me to be. On the inside, however, that small piece of me that has been hiding away my entire life is dying to get out and shake what my momma gave me. And that scares me to death. Because if my mom knew I was thinking about shaking anything, she’d probably lock me up and douse me in holy water before having the priest perform an exorcism on me.

  As we get closer, the bass of the music gets louder, telling me we’re almost to our destination. With every step I take, my heart beats a little harder and a whole lot faster against my chest. Even in the chill of the night, my palms begin to sweat. I’m in a constant battle, torn within myself. Two parts that make up one whole. The first half of me wants to please my parents, live my life according to the Bible and their expectations. The other half wants to be set loose and be let free to live my life according to me.

  To most people, this is just a night out. They’ll walk into the club and drink, dance, and have a good time. But for me, it’s more complicated than that. Something in me is screaming that when I walk through the doors of this club, there’ll be no turning back. I’ve lived my entire twenty-four years of life without giving into temptation, and I’m petrified that once I do this, I’ll no longer be able to live my life ignoring my baser instincts.

  It’s like when you’re little and you have your first taste of chocolate cake. Until you’ve tried it, you have no idea what you’ve been missing. But once you take that first bite, there’s no going back. You can’t un-try it or un-taste it. Your brain will always recognize and crave that sweet, chocolatey goodness. This newfound freedom is my chocolate cake. I’m already craving it, and I haven’t even tried it yet.

  Walking down the sidewalk, hand in hand with Blaire, I glance down at myself once more as I remember what I looked like when I stood in front of my floor-length mirror tonight before we left. Warm brown hair falling in waves around my face and down my back. Makeup done to perfection with just enough mascara to make my brown eyes pop, a pinch of blush to give my naturally tanned skin a soft glow, and a smidge of lip gloss to make my lips shine. Staring back at my reflection, I could see on my body a beautiful white off the shoulder, knee-length dress. The outfit complete with too tall but gorgeous white patent leather Christian Louboutin pumps I can barely walk in.

  What couldn’t be seen in that mirror, however, is that behind the flawless makeup my best friend insisted on putting on me, and under the sexy dress and heels she lent me, is a scared and insecure woman who has spent too many years hiding under God, inside the Bible, and behind her parents. What couldn’t be seen is that beyond all the makeup and expensive clothes is a woman fighting a losing battle. And I say losing, because the moment I walk into this club, I’m going to lose a piece of me, the part I have longed to lose but at the same time fear losing. The part my mom holds onto with a firm grip like it’s her lifeline. But to me, it’s a noose slowly tightening around my neck, threatening to choke the life out of me.

  “Now listen, Nevaeh,” Blaire says, slowing down to keep pace with me. “Once we get in there, you’re going to let go and enjoy your birthday.” She looks down at me struggling in my heels and throws her head back in laughter.

  “What? The last thing I need is to bust my butt on the sidewalk.”

  She laughs some more. “It’s freezing out here! I need to get my party on!”

  Cautiously, I pick up my pace, focusing on not falling. “Yeah, well, if I break my leg, I won’t be getting any partying on.”

  Blaire looks down again and giggles. “If I could, I would carry you. I’d say you should take your heels off, but God knows what’s on this sidewalk.” She scrunches her nose up in disgust.

  Ever since the first day of kindergarten, when Billy Cross pushed me down in the lunchroom, spilling my chocolate milk all over me, and Blaire came to my defense, stealing his chocolate milk in response, we’ve been attached at the hip—aside from the few years we went to separate colleges.

  After college, Blaire and I both took teaching jobs in our hometown of Pleasantville. While Blaire and I both applied to public and private schools, she ended up accepting a position at the public elementary school, while I ended up teaching third gr
ade at St. Juliana’s instead—after my mother guilted me into it. It’s not that I favored public over private. I just craved a break from my mom. And I knew if I accepted the position at the same church she works for, I would never get that break.

  After I gave in on the teaching position, I made the decision to move out of my parents’ house. My mom argued tooth and nail, but it had to be done. She got her way with my education and job, but I wasn’t budging on my living situation. I needed space to find myself, and I knew it couldn’t be done while living under my parents’ roof. It’s been two years since I moved out and, while I’ve done a lot of soul searching, I haven’t exactly found much—at least not anything worth mentioning.

  Our two-bedroom condo isn’t huge, but it’s homey and in a nice development fifteen minutes from Atlantic City and the beach. I love our home.

  “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this,” I admit excitedly once we make our way to the back of the line.

  Blaire shakes her head playfully, her light blond hair swooshing back and forth. It’s silky and pin straight and looks almost white from the sun. “I can’t believe it’s taken me two years to get you to go! We’re going to have so much fun.”

  Up until today, Blaire has been my only defiance against my mother. Growing up, she would get bored easily and think of ways to cause mischief, taking me along for the ride—hence our little birthday field trip to this club.

  My purse vibrates, and I pull my phone out. It’s a text from my brother letting me know he won’t be able to make it out for my birthday. It’s probably for the best since he would freak if he knew where Blaire ended up taking me. I had told him we were going out to dinner. In my defense, I had no idea Blaire’s real intentions.

  I shoot him back a text, letting him know it’s okay and I’ll see him soon.

  While my brother and I are close, our personalities and lives are like day and night. After he was kicked out of the private school we attended, he was sent to public school. Once he turned eighteen and graduated, he moved out, joined the police academy, and spent half his earnings getting tattoos all over his body—leaving me the only child living under our parents’ roof.

  Sometimes I think they’re trying to mold me into what they couldn’t mold my brother into and, out of fear of me rebelling like he did, they keep me on lockdown twice as hard. To be fair, it’s more my mom than my dad. He just doesn’t go against anything she says. He may wear the pants in their marriage, but she’s clearly the one in charge of the zipper. If you catch my drift…

  We make our way up the line and, once we’re granted access, walk down the dark hallway leading to the main floor. When we get to the end, the room opens, and the sight in front of me has me stopping in my tracks. Hypnotic music is pumping through the walls and speakers, and bright lights are shining down on the sleek bar top and dance floor. I smile to myself as I watch all the sweaty bodies grind on each other. This is just what I pictured a club would look like, and it’s exactly why I’ve stayed away. This place screams sex and sin and pleasure. All of which I have no business indulging in but secretly desire.

  “What do you think?” Blaire yells over the music.

  “I think it’s amazing!”

  Blaire grabs my hand, and we make our way to a somewhat less crowded area of the dance floor. Ariana Grande’s voice surrounds us as we get lost in the music and, for the first time, as I dance with my best friend, I almost feel free.

  We spend the next couple hours dancing and drinking, until I begin to feel a bit overheated. Then Blaire and I find a seat and people watch while we sip on our fruity drinks. My drink of choice is a blueberry martini while hers is a mojito.

  “I think I’m going to get another martini,” I shout over the loud music, pointing to my empty glass.

  “Remember, just because the drinks are sweet, doesn’t mean they aren’t loaded with alcohol,” Blaire warns.

  I laugh her off, but the minute I stand to get another drink, I feel lightheaded. My vision blurs slightly, making me dizzy, the strength of the alcohol hitting me all at once. At least I think it’s the alcohol.

  “Nevaeh! Sit down! The last thing we need is for you to pass out on your birthday.”

  I listen to Blaire and sit back down, realizing I probably should’ve finished the birthday dinner my mom made for us. The last thing I need is for her to find out I had to be taken to the hospital. I already got the third degree from her earlier when she and my dad came over with dinner to celebrate my birthday. Blaire let it slip we were going out tonight and my mom almost had a heart attack.

  “Nevaeh, you should be at home where it’s safe and temptation isn’t knocking on your door. Do you really think it’s wise to put yourself in a position that will lead to sinning?”

  I didn’t bother to argue. She would just ignore anything I said.

  “This isn’t the way you were raised,” she added.

  Blaire rolled her eyes but wisely kept her mouth shut.

  “You need to focus on your teachings and prayers,” she continued.

  I know my mom loves me, but sometimes I wonder if her love is only for the woman she wants me to be. If I stopped being that woman, would she still love me? She says she loves my brother even though he didn’t follow the path she wished for him, but at the same time, she’s constantly using his choices as an example of what not to do. She swears she accepts him for who he is, yet she’s always judging him and coming up with reasons not to see him. And if I’m honest, that bothers me. Growing up in a church, we were taught not to judge, yet so many religious folks do just that. Makes me wonder if my mother’s love really is as unconditional as she pretends it is.

  “I’m going to grab us a couple of waters,” Blaire announces. I nod and watch her walk away. On her way to the bar, several guys try to stop her, most likely asking her to dance. She shakes her head and continues on her way. I’m sure her reluctance has something to do with the guy she’s been seeing the last couple of months. She swears they aren’t serious, but the hearts in her eyes when she talks about Victor tells a completely different story.

  She makes her way back over with two bottles of water and sets them on the table. “Are you having a good birthday?” she asks, taking a sip of her water.

  Grabbing the other bottle, I twist the top open. “I am,” I say with a smile before I guzzle down half the bottle of water, suddenly feeling parched. Blaire gives me a look that lets me know she’s aware there’s a ‘but’ coming.

  “But,” she says for me.

  “I just… I feel guilty,” I confess, hating that I allow my mom into my head and my thoughts.

  Blaire rolls her eyes and takes another sip of her water. “There’s nothing to feel guilty about, Nevaeh. You’re having a drink and dancing. You aren’t screwing anyone on the dance floor!”

  I know she’s right. I’m not doing anything wrong, but it doesn’t stop the guilt from seeping through the cracks any less. I drink the rest of my bottled water as I watch the people around me dance, flirt, and have a good time. To these people, this is the norm. A night out at a club. No big deal. But for me, it’s so much more than that.

  My mind goes to my List of things I want to do before I die.

  Go to a club

  It’s on my list because for me, this is a huge deal, and it makes me extremely giddy on the inside, knowing when I get home later, I’ll get to check another item off my list. Especially since it doesn’t happen often. I have another item on the list: Get drunk. But as lightheaded as I’m feeling right now, I don’t think I’ll make it through another drink. On the other hand, maybe how I’m feeling is because I’m already drunk.

  Feeling the sudden urge to pee, I tell Blaire I have to use the ladies’ room.

  She glances up from her phone, and the look in her eyes tells me she’s texting with Victor. If I were a betting woman, I would say it won’t be long before they take their relationship to the next level.

  “Do you want me to go with you?” Blaire a
sks.

  “No, I’m good. I’ll be right back.”

  I trip getting off the stool, but luckily catch myself, gripping onto the side of the table. I start to laugh at my drunken clumsiness—realizing I can check that item off my list after all—when Blaire giggles and snorts out her drink. “Maybe I should get you another water.”

  “Yes, please!”

  Heading toward the front, I go in search of any sign that indicates there’s a restroom somewhere in this huge place, now fully understanding why it’s called The Warehouse. It’s a huge rectangular-shaped building with minimum décor, focusing on the bar and dance floors. The walls are made of sheet metal, adding to the industrial feel. It’s simple yet still draws you in. Just as I finally spot a sign with an arrow pointing down the hallway, I hear my name being called.

  “Nevaeh,” a deep voice calls my name for the second time. I look to where the voice is coming from and see the source is my ex-boyfriend of two years, Gerald, who has an exotic-looking woman hanging off his arm. She’s slim and perky in all the right places with bright-red hair that looks like it’s from that hair commercial on the television. We’ve only been broken up for less than six months and he’s already with someone else. I guess I’m easy to replace.

  As I stand frozen in my spot, watching Gerald and Miss Perfect walk over to me, I’m seriously wishing I’d had Blaire tag along to the bathroom. One look at this woman and I can tell she exudes more sex appeal and confidence in her pinky than I do in my entire body.

  As they approach me, I notice they look like complete opposites. Gerald’s spiky jet-black hair to her red, his ruggedness to her sexiness, yet they look like they’re made for each other. Gerald has that same cocky stride he’s always had, like it’s his world and we’re all just living in it. But the weird thing is, even with all that swagger, our relationship seemed to lack all the passion.

  I kept hoping to feel something more, to feel the spark I’ve read about in romance novels or see in movies—you know the spark…the one that lights up the woman’s body and heart at the same time, giving her butterflies that don’t just flutter in her belly but attack—but I never did. Gerald used to blame me. He would say it’s because I wouldn’t have sex with him. But even if I wasn’t waiting until marriage to have sex, I couldn’t see myself even wanting to be with him. If there’s no spark out of the bedroom, how can I expect there to be a spark in the bedroom? I don’t for a second believe two people who lack chemistry with their clothes on, will suddenly spark a flame once their clothes come off.