Our Broken Pieces (The Pieces Series Book 1) Read online

  Our Broken Pieces

  ∞∞∞

  Copyright 2020 Monica Clayton

  Published by M.E. Clayton

  All Rights Reserved

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The entire content is a product of the author’s imagination and all names, places, businesses, and incidences are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), places or occurrences, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner, whatsoever, without the express written consent from the author, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Formatting: Smashwords

  Cover: Adobe Stock

  Warning: This book contains sexual situations and other adult themes. Recommended for 18 years of age and over.

  Table of Contents

  ∞∞∞

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1. Mystic

  2. Gage

  3. Mystic

  4. Gage

  5. Mystic

  6. Gage

  7. Mystic

  8. Gage

  9. Mystic

  10. Gage

  11. Mystic

  12. Gage

  13. Mystic

  14. Gage

  15. Mystic

  16. Gage

  17. Mystic

  18. Gage

  19. Mystic

  20. Gage

  21. Mystic

  22. Gage

  23. Mystic

  24. Gage

  25. Mystic

  26. Gage

  27. Mystic

  28. Gage

  29. Mystic

  30. Gage

  31. Mystic

  32. Gage

  33. Mystic

  34. Gage

  35. Mystic

  36. Gage

  37. Mystic

  38. Gage

  39. Mystic

  40. Gage

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Books

  Contact Me

  Author’s Note

  ∞∞∞

  Just a couple of things before I let you go and get your read on. While I am doing my best to work with better editing and proofreading software, all my books are solo, independent works. I write my books, proofread my books, edit my books, create the covers, etc. I have one beta who gives me feedback on my stories, but other than that, all my books are independent projects.

  That being said, I apologize, in advance, for the typos, grammar inconsistencies, or any other mistakes I may make. Since writing is strictly a hobby for me, I haven’t looked into commitments in regard to publishers, editors, etc. My hope is that my stories are enjoyable enough that a few mistakes, here and there, can be overlooked. However, if you’re a stickler for grammar, my books are probably not for you.

  Also, I am an avid reader-I mean an AVID reader. I love to read above any other hobby. However, the only downside to my reading obsession is when I fall in love with a series, but I have to wait for the additional books to come out. And because I feel that disappointment down to my soul, when I started publishing my works, I vowed to publish all books in my series all at once. No waiting here…LOL. Now, the exception to that will be if enough readers request additional stories based off the standalone, such as in Facing the Enemy. At that point, if I decide to move forward with a requested series, I will make sure all additional books are available all at once. As much as this is a hobby for me, I am writing these books for all of you, as well as myself.

  Thank you, for everything!

  Acknowledgements

  ∞∞∞

  I always thank my husband, because he constantly needs to be thanked, in my opinion. It’s not an exaggeration to say my husband is probably one of the best people in the world. A great husband, father, G-pop, and all-around human being, I never forget just how lucky I am.

  Of course, it goes without saying, my children are my biggest cheerleaders and, despite of all the mistakes I’ve made as a parent, they continue to love me unconditionally. And it’s the sweetest thing to see how overboard they go with making sure I stay healthy and safe.

  My sister is another person in my life I am thankful to still have. We’ve been through a lot this past year, but we got through it together. I am very grateful to have a sibling relationship that is strong and full of love, and she really is a great sister.

  As always, there’s my beta, Kam. Not only is she my beta, she’s one of my best friends. Once you get her as a friend, her support and loyalty are unwavering. I cannot imagine being on this journey of creating stories and writing without her.

  Then there are the people who support me with so much enthusiasm, it’s contagious: Joe, Kim, Heather, Esela, Myron, Desiree, and every Tuesday.

  I also have to thank the following people because they’ve just been too sweet to me since I began this hobby. Everyone says they have the best fans, but mine are truly the best.

  Sansa Bibliophile

  Hannah Schreiber Tighe

  Margarita Trevino Balli Coale

  Gwen DeJongh

  Amy Jorgensen

  Mary Cerda

  Ashley Stockton

  Adriana Noriega

  Laty Vue

  Hana A Boyce

  Deanna Jadie Stapleton

  Rasha El Safty

  Rita Leonard

  Banke Oylelowo

  Maria Johnson-Thompson

  I cannot thank you enough for the encouragement and help you readers have given me along the way! Love, love, love you!!

  Dedication

  ∞∞∞

  For my husband-

  My Nicholas, Chase, Julian, Kane,

  Marcus,

  Damien, Will,

  Theo,

  Ramsey, Liam, Deke, Ace,

  Callum,

  Mason, Aiden, Gabriel, Michael,

  Kade,

  Nixon, Lincoln, Jackson,

  Talon,

  Phoenix, Ciro, Luca, Nico, Francisco,

  Gage, Lorcan, Grayson

  Duke, Ford, Raiden, Duke, Alistair,

  Styx, Sterling,

  and Sayer

  all rolled into one.

  I love you.

  so·ci·o·path

  /ˈsōsēōˌpaTH/

  noun

  a person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behavior and a lack of conscience.

  psy·cho·path

  /ˈsīkəˌpaTH/

  noun

  a person suffering from chronic mental disorder with abnormal or violent social behavior.

  Psychopaths are born

  Sociopaths are made.

  Part

  ∞∞∞

  I

  Prologue

  The pain is like it always is. Unbearable.

  The tears are like they always are. Real.

  The desire is like it always is. Fiery.

  The bond is like it always is. Unbreakable.

  And the insanity of it all is like it always is. Consuming.

  With every thrust into my body, my heart be
ats just a little faster while my soul dies a little inside.

  How can a person feel so alive and as if they’re dying all at the same time?

  It’s a question I’ve been asking myself since I was fourteen. It’s also a question I’ve been trying to answer for just as long.

  So far, all I’ve managed to come up with was that I was weak, along with being...deranged.

  I mean, I had to be somewhat mentally dented to be here; to be doing what I was doing, right?

  Something had to be wrong with me. I knew that. I knew there was something...damaged somewhere in my mind, but, for the life of me, I couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

  I also learned that you didn’t have to come from a damaged home to be damaged. You can come from a happy home with both parents who loved each other, a brother who was in college to become a veterinarian, and a sister who was in college to become a medical research scientist, and still be...wrong.

  When you’re damaged, though, you almost wished for a traumatic childhood you could blame your proclivities on. People sympathize with the damaged if they have a good reason for being damaged. There are support groups and counselors and all sorts of outreach programs where you can go and feel like you’re getting help. Or, simply, like you’re not alone.

  But where do you go or who do you turn to when you don’t have a good reason for all the darkness that resides inside your head? Where does an eighteen-year-old high school senior that comes from a loving family go to for that kind of help?

  I had nowhere to go and no one to talk to, and so, I ran.

  I ran away from my thoughts. I ran away from my feelings. I ran away from the real me.

  I ran, and ran, until the day I got caught.

  Or, rather, until the day someone caught me.

  After years of confusion and shame, one boy noticed me and saw right through me until I had become a helpless outlet for his own personal demons. We were both fourteen the first time he grabbed me by the arm and had whispered in my ear, “I see you.”

  I remember being terrified, but...excited, too. I remember the hope that bloomed in my chest at the possibility that I’d finally found someone I could share myself with. Little had I known that, the boy I thought would become my confidant, would be the boy who would turn me into his prisoner.

  After a full year of torturous games, we had been only fifteen when I had first let him use me with no regard. I had caved to the darkness and had spilled all my wicked, depraved desires all over the floor at his feet. And for three years, he’s been picking them up, one by one, and toying with them however he saw fit.

  The pain was welcomed. The tears were genuine. The desire was brutal. The bond was unhealthy. And the insanity was the only thing that made it all bearable.

  My face was pressed up against the wall and my jeans were pushed down around my knees. My palms were flat against the wall, but I hadn’t bothered to use them to protect my face. I let the force of his will throw me up against the wall and I stayed there like a good little weakling as he yanked my pants down and slammed his length into my body.

  There should have been shame, and if I were normal, there would have been.

  I should have stopped him, and if I weren’t so fucked in the head, I would have.

  It had hurt, like it always did. And just like I always did, I welcomed it. I welcomed the punishing grip he had on my hips. I welcomed the brutal invasion that would leave me aching. I welcomed the maddening grunts expelled against my ear. I welcomed the crazed way he couldn’t control himself once he got his hands on me.

  I welcomed the insanity.

  Chapter 1

  Mystic~

  It was hard to escape the realities of adulthood when we were only six months away from graduating high school and the big, bad, real world was just looming on the horizon. Everywhere you went, everyone was talking about prom or graduation or college.

  There were also fresh tears spilling in random girls’ bathroom all throughout Washington High. Relationships were sinking faster than the Titanic all over the place. Everyone was ready to start their new lives off at college or the military or wherever their plans were taking them. However, there were still a few serious relationships that were promising to last through the transition from high school teenager to young adult.

  I prayed for those relationships.

  I really did.

  A wistful part of me wished for those relationships to work. I was rooting for them. I wanted them to have that rare story where they made it through all the pitfalls of adulthood. I wanted them to live into their eighties and still be together. The realistic part of me knew they’d need more than my simple prayers to make it, though.

  They were going to need a damn miracle.

  Sitting at the same lunch table I always sat at, I listened to my best friend, Margot, prattle on about her upcoming birthday party. While I already turned eighteen a couple of months ago, Margot was hitting the big one-eight this weekend, and she had a huge party planned with damn near the entire school invited.

  I smiled across the picnic table at my friend because I could feel her enthusiasm and it was contagious. I hadn’t had a party for my eighteenth birthday, but I wasn’t popular like Margot was. I was a book nerd with a few casual friends, and I was okay with that. The less people you knew, the safer all your secrets were.

  “I’m so excited,” Margot rushed on. “It’s going to be so much fun.” My smile widened. “And can you believe my mom agreed to let it be unchaperoned?” Margot’s parents were divorced, and her father was absent from her life, so she grew up with a mother who walked the tightrope of parent and friend.

  “I’m just wondering how you’re going to be able to fit the entire school in your house,” I joked. I wasn’t kidding at Margot’s popularity. She was a Washington High Tigers cheerleader and she knew everyone. Take whatever stereotype idea you have of cheerleaders and erase it from your mind, though, because Margot was the opposite.

  Margot was stunning with her dark red hair, bright green eyes, and her athletic build, but those were the only clichés you could lay at her cheerleading feet. She wasn’t snobby or entitled or condescending. She wasn’t a jock-whore or conceited. She was none of those things.

  No.

  Margot was nice to everyone and was smart as a whip. She stopped and said hi to everyone and she never tolerated nastiness or bullying. Margot Cross was genuinely liked by everyone and I couldn’t imagine anyone not going to her birthday party.

  “That’s what the backyard is for,” she laughed. “Besides, you’re exaggerating just a bit, Missy.” Margot was the only person who called me Missy, and I loved her for it.

  While my parents were the best and my home life was happy and blessed, I still wracked my brain wondering where the hell my parents came up with the names for me and my sister and brother. They weren’t hippies or druggies. They had no good reason for naming me Mystic, my sister Destiny, or my brother Alaric. Drugs. Drugs would have been a good reason, but that wasn’t the case. My mother claimed that she had wanted our names to mean something, but with the exception of Alaric-which meant all-powerful ruler-mine and Destiny’s names were stripper names, much to my mother’s denial and our dismay.

  Sure, Destiny’s name was synonymous with fate and had meaning, but it was also a name plastered on a locker in the back room of a strip club.

  And Mystic just sounded ridiculous. I had spent all my life trying to get people to call me Missy instead, but my mother refused, and my father wasn’t going to sleep on the couch for calling me Missy. Alaric and Destiny refused because they weren’t going to be the only ones suffering through life with ridiculous names, so that left Margot.

  “Well, no matter, I’m sure it’s going to be a great party, Mar,” I replied.

  She arched a perfectly plucked brow as she said, “By the way, I forgot to tell you, guess who asked me to prom?”

  I almost rolled my eyes. It was a safe bet that every single guy at Washington High has pr
obably asked her to prom already or was going to. “Who?” I asked out of curiosity. If she was mentioning a random invite, there had to be a reason.

  “Chance McQueen,” she replied, causing my stomach to roll.

  I did my best to act casual as I picked up a french fry from my lunch tray and popped it in my mouth. It bought me a few precious seconds, but I would swear Mar could see my heart trying to beat out of my chest. I swallowed my fry and asked, “Really?”

  Margot’s smile was all teeth. “He caught me after cheerleading practice to tell me he was coming to my party, and then he just asked me to prom. Kind of out of the blue,” she said, shrugging a shoulder.

  Margot’s party Saturday night was going to kick off the first party since we got back from Christmas break, and while I had nothing against parties, knowing Chance was going to be there had me wishing I could bow out. There was also the fact that he had asked her to prom. Why would he suddenly do that after all these years?

  I prayed my face was impassive. “What did you say?”

  Her grin was telling. “I said yes,” she squealed. “I said yes, Mys.”

  She said yes.

  Margot was going to prom with Chance McQueen and that probably meant they were going to start hanging out more now.

  I willed my voice to sound steady and casual. “I didn’t know you liked him?”

  She shrugged a shoulder again before saying, “Come on, Mys. You can’t deny the guy is gorgeous. Plus, he’s the best wide receiver on the football team. And he’s just...fucking hot, Mys.” She pretended to fan herself. “The boy is red-hot sexy.”

  She wasn’t lying.

  Chance McQueen was gorgeous in the only way guys with blonde hair and blue eyes could be. He was tall, strong, athletic, charming, and just good-goddamn-looking. He was Hollywood good-looking. He was All-American good-looking. And there have been plenty of times I’ve passed the guy when he was fresh from football practice, dirty and sweaty, and I’d tripped on my own two feet, staring at him.