by Piper Rayne
After Alexei sent me the address, I called the number listed with it and was finally able to speak to someone. He’s been fighting in Boston this entire time. I’ve no idea what they did to him, or what they had on him to keep him there, but I’m glad he’s safe.
He’s alive. That’s all that matters.
Darius looks up from the road with slight concern etched on his face. “Your brother’s going to be fine.”
“I know, I just…,” I sigh and close my eyes as another wave of nausea hits. His attention, as usual, brings about thoughts that make me blush. But then I feel the queasiness and whatever I was thinking, however important, just falls away. “Can we stop for a bathroom break at the next gas station?”
He frowns. His eyes stray over to me, lingering over my body before focusing back on the road. “Again? That’s the fourth time since we left the house. Are you pregnant or something?”
I take a breath and let all the strangeness of my condition show on my face. Darius’s expression becomes a mask of confusion for a split second, and then his eyes widen.
“You’re fucking kidding me... since when?”
I bite my lip. “Er, since about a month after we left The Pit, I think.”
He looks shocked but then Darius’s gaze turns soft. He reaches over, putting his palm on my stomach, stealing looks at me as he drives. “Do you know if…”
“It’s a boy, I’m sure of it.”
“Does your family know yet?”
I shake my head. “You’re the first.”
The smile on his face reaches his eyes. After a minute or two of silence, he speaks up. “How about Dylan, for a name?”
“Yes, I’d like that. Dylan would like that too.” The happiness inside of me has nowhere to go, making tears leak from my eyes.
I glance down at my stomach, still flat as a pancake. “Hello, Dylan “Archer” Reyes. I can’t wait to meet you.”
“Archer?” Darius’s brow raises.
My lips curl up into a smile. “To remember what didn’t break us, and ultimately made us stronger.”
Thank you for reading Shatter Me. If you would like to know what happens to Nadine, or Alexei and Elias, watch out for future books in my Broken Romance Series at
malloryfoxauthor.com
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About the Author
Mallory Fox is addicted to tatted up anti-heroes, chocolate covered pretzels, and looking deep into heart-melting, big blue eyes... the canine kind.
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She loves to write deliciously dark romance with wicked, twisty plots about enemies to lovers, sweet revenge, and all kinds of emotional-rollercoaster redemption. Mallory currently lives in London with her bean-shaped dog and the rest of her non-furry family.
Check out more from Mallory and sign away your soul away at malloryfoxauthor.com
The Rescue
by McKenna James
The Rescue
Who knew Las Vegas was more than flash, money, and sin?
Not me. Not until I cross over to the other side of town and fall in love with a girl and a dog.
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I’m not looking for anything more than the return of my lost wallet when I walk into the animal shelter where Lake works.
When she takes me on a tour, I’m quickly won over by a puppy named Elvis—though it’s hard to know which set of big brown eyes tugs at me the most.
I can’t say no to the licker-y little furball, especially if adopting him means I’ll get to spend more time with Lake.
My transition to dog owner is going to be a bumpy ride, and I’ll need Lake’s help.
And before I know it, I’ll be asking myself, “Who’s rescuing who here?”
COPYRIGHT© 2020 The Rescue by McKenna James
All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
1
LAKE
Thunderstorms in Las Vegas are a rarity, but they do and can happen. I'm sure there's some wealthy high roller on the strip right now that's raking in their winnings from betting on the weather. It's Vegas, so I really wouldn't be surprised if it's true. People around these parts have made bets on even stranger things. My mind personally isn't on the money, though. Right now, my main concern is getting to the shelter to check on my babies.
I show up at the shelter, and the first thing that hits me is the familiar scent of wet dog. I take excellent care of the animals, bathing them at least once a week to avoid another flea mishap like last summer, but the smell never goes away.
I find Scooter first. Or rather, he finds me. He comes running up to me in the playroom, hopping up on his hind legs while pawing at my knees. I bend down to scratch the Russell Terrier behind the ear. He continues to yap, his short tail wagging wildly behind him.
"There you are, baby. Where are the others?"
It takes me another second or two to locate Elvis, a mutt with sandy brown hair. I haven't been able to pinpoint what breed of dog he is. In the end, it doesn't matter. He's lovable and adorable, and it doesn't matter what breed he is. I find Elvis lying in his dog bed, curled up into a tiny little circle. He raises his head to acknowledge me before resuming his nap. The thunder doesn't bother an old boy like him. Unfortunately, not all of the dogs feel the same way.
Gaga, the gray Pitbull that I brought in off the streets less than a week ago, cowers in the corner with her tail tucked between her legs. She's a small little thing, which might explain the shivering. But I also understand her skittish nature. I don't have all the details, but I know that her previous owners didn't take the best care of her. I found her undernourished, incredibly jumpy, and suffering from a broken paw. I approached her slowly, careful not to startle her in her already fragile state.
"It's okay, honey. You're safe with me. Do you feel like saying hi?"
The sweet girl very carefully approaches, sniffing at my outstretched hand. She licks the tip of my fingers by way of a shy greeting.
A clap of thunder rumbles through the air, and Gaga immediately shrinks back to her corner for safety. I feel bad for the girl, but at the same time, I can't blame her. All I can do is hope to give her a home until I find a family to place her with, one that will hopefully love her the way she deserves to be loved. I let her be for now. The last thing I want is to overwhelm her further.
Maeve, my one and only employee, enters the playroom with a small bag of dog food in her arms. She isn't dressed in our usual white polo shirt uniform. Instead, her hair is pulled back into a sleek high ponytail, she has on her flashiest dance clothes, and her eye makeup is dramatic and bold.
"You made it," she says, greeting me with a big smile. "Thank you so much. I know it was last minute."
I laugh. "Don't worry about it. You know I'm happy to help."
She grimaces. "Still, I feel bad. You haven't had a day off in two weeks. I feel selfish."
"You have an audition, Maeve. I'm not going to fault you for that. You've been waiting for a chance like this since forever."
Maeve sighs in relief. "Thanks, Lake. I owe you one."
"Swipe me something from one of those fancy hotel buf
fets, and we'll call it even."
She nods. "You got it, boss."
I tilt my chin in the direction of the dog food. "Is that the last of it?"
"Yeah. I put in the resupply order a week ago, but there was some sort of shipment delay. I'm worried this is all we're going to have left until it gets here."
This is a problem, but I don't let it read on my face. The shelter has always been difficult to keep afloat. We rely mostly on donations. Some might see a delayed shipment as a minor setback, hardly worth noticing, but I have tiny canine mouths to feed. They rely on me to keep them safe. I'm the one in charge of keeping a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, and helping to find them their forever homes.
I'm stretched thin as it is. Running a non-profit animal shelter doesn't exactly bring in a considerable income, and what little money I do have goes right back in to help the dogs. I work odd jobs on the weekend sometimes, mostly working as a freelance photographer, pulling in just enough to pay what few bills I have. I live on the margins, always within my means. I honestly don't mind living frugally, so long as I get to continue my work here.
These dogs are like family to me, and there's nothing I wouldn't do for family.
I have about thirty bucks in my bank account until I finish the shoot I have scheduled for tomorrow. It isn't a lot, but it'll have to do.
"Don't worry about it," I say. "I'll take care of it."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Get going. I don't want you to miss your big break. You better text me afterward to let me know how it went."
Maeve beams. "I definitely will."
"Break a leg. And drive carefully. People always seem to forget how to drive when the rains come."
Maeve laughs before making a quick exit.
I get to work. I fill the dog bowls full of food, change the water so that it's nice and fresh, and then get to brushing the dogs.
Scooter is incapable of sitting still long enough to complete the task, so I have to bribe him several times with treats. It's only semi-effective, but it's better than nothing. Elvis doesn't budge an inch while I brush him down, the epitome of a good boy. I take extra care with Gaga. She has a light coat, so she doesn't need a lot of work, but I'm hoping this will help her get used to human interaction. She's warmed up to me a lot these past few days, and I'm genuinely pleased with her progress.
When I'm finished, I have to lock up the shelter. I usually keep the dogs in their kennels in the back when no one's in the vicinity to keep an eye on them, but it's only those three, and they all get along. I don't see any harm in moving them from the playroom. Scooter needs the space to run around, Elvis looks too comfy to budge, and Gaga might not take too well to being cramped inside a crate. Besides, I don't intend to be gone for very long—just a quick trip to the nearest pet store and back again.
"Be good, you guys," I tell them before heading out into the rain.
I have to look over the receipt twice because damn. Who knew dog food could be so pricey? It took me longer than necessary to pick something out because the store didn't carry the brand I usually like. It's a surprisingly tedious task to go through all of the product ingredient lists. Anything with wheat, food dyes, or meat meal is an immediate no thanks.
I guess it's true what they say: good shit ain't cheap, and cheap shit ain't good.
I have about ten bucks and change left over, but I have plenty of leftovers in the fridge and all my bills squared away. Tomorrow's photoshoot —it's some sort of bachelorette party before the bride's big day— will line my pockets nicely. I just have to be patient. Until then, I don't mind getting by on day-old Chinese takeout.
On my way back to my car, a beat-up Honda Civic with a cracked rear window, I happen to spot something curious out of the corner of my eye. A wallet. It looks to have been abandoned, the top relatively dry considering the rain beating down over my head. I pick it up off the parking lot pavement and look around quickly. Maybe the owner is still nearby.
I see no one.
I get into the driver's seat of my car and close the door, preferring not to stand in the rain while I play detective.
It doesn't take a genius to know that this wallet is worth almost half my monthly rent. It's exquisitely made, the name Versace stamped across the front of it in gold font. The supple calf leather is embossed with an intricate Barocco pattern. Seeing no sign of an owner, I open the wallet to see if I can find some identification. The words ‘made in Italy' are printed on the inside fold. This is officially the fanciest thing that I've ever held in my hands.
What I find even more fascinating is just how much cash it holds.
I'm talking a lot of cash. There has to be at least a thousand dollars, all in the form of crisp hundreds.
Who carries around this kind of money?
Luckily, I find a driver's license amidst an impressive collection of black credit cards.
"Asher Morgan Chase," I read aloud.
The man's picture takes me by surprise. He doesn't strike me as an Asher. Dark eyes, dark hair, a jawline to die for. I've never been the kind of person to make assumptions about people, but it's hard not to wonder if Asher's some kind of mob boss. Who dresses in a fancy suit like that for their driver's license photo? He's got one of those haircuts with a fade that probably costs a couple hundred dollars to get professionally done. And those eyes…
Is he always this intense? Or was he trying to seduce the DMV clerk?
Why do my cheeks feel so warm?
His license has a local address, so at least I know I won't be tracking some tourist who could be a million miles away by now. A quick Google search on my phone pulls up some sort of directory to The Grandiose, one of the fancier hotel and casino establishments on the Strip. It doesn't look like the guy has a personal number anywhere, and it isn't exactly clear what his position is at the place, so I try the business' general line instead.
He looks tough. Maybe a security guard?
I'm patched through, not to a person, but some metallic robot directory system. It takes a few extra button presses before I'm finally able to leave a message. I give my name, the address to the shelter, and my phone number to be reached.
If this message ever gets through to the guy, that is.
I tuck the stranger's wallet away in the glove compartment of my car. Something this valuable really shouldn't be out in the open. I twist the keys in the ignition and listen as the car engine sputters to life. The thunder lets up a bit, but I'd prefer to be with the dogs to keep them company until the worst of the storm passes.
2
ASHER
This whole damn thing has been a waste of my time, and I say as much.
"I'm so sorry," my assistant snivels yet again. "I am. I could have sworn I put your wallet right back in my bag after I tipped the waitress for you."
"Clearly not," I state simply, adjusting the silver cuffs on my sleeves. "If anything's missing, it's coming straight out of your paycheck. Understand?"
Tod swallows. Poor kid looks like he's going to pass out. Or maybe vomit. Probably both.
"I… Well, sir, um…"
I wave a hand dismissively, my signal to please shut up and drive. I'm not going to make Todd pay me back. I can make up the contents of my wallet no problem. It's chump change to me. I just want to teach him a lesson in mindfulness. The demands of my job are stressful enough without having to worry about a personal assistant who half of the time doesn't know if he's coming or going.
I can't exactly fire him, though, what with Todd being my nephew and all. My sister all but dumped him on my doorstep, citing the need for work experience. There are only two people in the world that I have difficulty saying no to: my mother and my little sister.
Sarah owes me big time.
"We're here, Uncle Asher," Todd says as he pulls my Maserati into the gravel parking lot.
I frown at him in the reflection of the rearview mirror. "What did I say about calling me that?"
Todd sinks slig
htly. "Never during business hours."
"Keep the engine running. I'll only be a minute."
I step out of the car and immediately step in a puddle. I'm miffed about it, but I don't let it show. There go a perfectly lovely pair of red bottom shoes.
The animal shelter is a run-down place. From the outside, it doesn't even look like it's open for business. The painted sign above the front doors has faded from sun exposure years, its little dog logo barely visible unless up close. If it weren't for the flickering We're Open sign in the front window, I would have thought this place was abandoned.
I step through the doors, the bell above the frame jingling loudly to announce my arrival.
The place smells awful. Wet and dingy and very much like—
A dog comes rushing at me from around the corner, barking its little heart out like there's no tomorrow.
"Scooter!" a girl in the back yells. "No, bad boy! Come back here."
The Russell Terrier jumps up at me, yapping and snarling and misjudging our difference in size. Its right eye is grey from lack of sight, and its nose appears to be running. His coat is shaggy, loose strands of its hair winding up on my pants where he paws at me.
"Ah, shit," the girl says, quickly scooping the dog up. "Hi, I'm Lake. Scooter, come on. Please behave. I'm sorry. He's usually so friendly. I'm blaming the weather. It seems to be riling everybody up."
I've only been half-listening. I'm too stunned by her to take in everything she says. I recognize her voice from the voicemail she left on the company line.