Spare Parts (Dark Romance) (Parts of Me Book 1)

by J A Wynters

  Spare Parts

  Parts of Me Series, Book 1

  J. A. Wynters

  “Spare Parts: Copyright © 2019 by J. A. Wynters

  All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof, may NOT be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photocopying, recording or other mechanical methods, without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non- commercial uses permitted by copy-right law.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Spare Parts, Parts of Me series, Book 1

  Editing by: Sarah Villanueva at Dear Jane Editing

  Cover design: Jo- Anne Walker

  Interior Formatting: Dawn Lucous, Yours Truly Book Services

  “This one is for Dawn,

  true by name, true by nature. You spread light and joy where ever you go.”

  Contents

  Author Warning

  Prologue

  PART I

  PART II

  PART III

  PART IV

  PART V

  PART VI

  PART VII

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by J. A. Wynters

  Fixed Parts, Parts of Me series, Book 2

  Author Warning

  You are about to start a long journey spanning FIVE books. If you buy this ticket and board this freight train, prepare for it to be a long and bumpy ride as we delve into all the uncomfortable parts of life. These may trigger some readers so be sure you want to get on. These books will end on cliffhangers, have twists and turns and this train is sure to be derailed as it enters a long dark tunnel of depravity.

  YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

  Adult themes, strong language, graphic scenes. Enter at your own risk.

  Prologue

  Love is pain.

  It’s your bludgeoned soul and weeping heart that’s left crushed to a pulp.

  But love—brutal as it is—fills you up and keeps you going, even through the darkest of times. Because as much as love hurts, it’s also a balm. It’s a source of comfort and warmth, the place you want to rest your weary head at the end of each day.

  This is a story of such love, the story of when I almost died.

  How do you follow up that statement?

  Well, I guess you go right to the beginning—the beginning of the end.

  All the days that lead to the day.

  The day she came crashing into my life, and nothing would ever be the same.

  So how far back should I go? How deep should we delve? How much glue and tape would you like to rip away until we get to the bottom of this broken thing that I’ve been reduced to? How far into the void would you like to jump? The further in you get, the darker it becomes; and I am not promising you a light at the end of this tunnel. I won’t even promise to hold your hand as you fall further and further into the abyss. But whether you see me or not, I’ll always be there.

  Let’s begin.

  PART I

  I’m waiting for Alice, and she’s sure to be late.

  Alice hasn’t been on time to anything in her entire life, not even her birth. The way she tells it, her mother carried her for an extra week before the doctors finally cut her out. I can't say I blame her. Maybe she knew what life had in store and she was prepared to avoid it at all costs. I guarantee that she won't be on time for her death either. She's already cheated the bastard three times, and those are just the times I’m aware of . I wouldn't be surprised if there’s more I don't know about—probably best that way anyway.

  This coffee is bitter, and the plastic lid leaves a shit aftertaste in my mouth. For overpriced coffee, I expected better; I’m not sure why, when life has been one disappointment after another. At least there’s a bit of sun today. It slices through the cold air and fizzles on my face. This bench is fucking uncomfortable, the aged wood is uneven and digs into my back. I have to keep reminding myself why I am here. I have to pretend to care. I have to latch on to that feeling, any feeling, before it vanishes like all the other emotions I’ve had these past months. Since it happened…

  My care factor had plummeted to below zero and was now in minus numbers. Critical mass strain. Explosion imminent.

  I know you want to know why; we will get to that, I promise. But here's what I’ll tell you now.

  Life hasn’t been easy. Despite what you may think of me at the end, remember that I worked for everything I had.

  Everything.

  Every tear shed and sweat wiped, every spit polish and step forward, every aching muscle and clenched fist, they were all a battle. They were all a fight for survival, a fight to get out of bed each day and face the next—where there was mostly emptiness.

  Alice is now ten minutes late. I bet you she will be at least another hour. Maybe we can get through this whole thing before she gets here.

  See, I know my mother.

  I don’t have mommy issues, at least none I care to analyse too deeply. Like I’ve said before, Alice isn’t dead but she is mostly gone. My childhood was spent looking after the one person that was meant to be looking after me.

  So yeah, I hold some resentment—a grudge even. But these days we talk once a month, and she hasn’t asked for money in over a year, which I think is some kind of record. She’s getting some token at the end of the month, something about being sober a while. I want to be happy for her, I do. But, the anger overshadows everything. I may forgive her one day, I might not.

  For now, I still buy her a cup of coffee and a doughnut on the last Friday of each month. She was meant to meet me at ten. To be honest, I’m never really sure if she’ll come. I’ll give her the hour and then go. Maybe she'll show up next month; maybe her body will wash up somewhere.

  On the occasions when she does show up, she tells me how well she is doing while she bites into the sweet, overcooked dough circle. Her teeth are black, and she’s lost a few on the bottom row. That gaping hole makes me shudder every fucking time.

  The thing that really gets me is how her eyes light up each time she sees me. My skin crawls and itches, and I feel dirty. I want her to stop talking and her eyes to stop roaming my face, and I want to wipe her pride away with my fist.

  What the hell is she so proud of? That I managed to survive her? That I managed to make something of myself despite her? Despite the midnight calls from hospitals and early morning beatings on my door begging for money? Despite the times she stole my savings or days I didn’t eat.

  There is so much damage—so much scar tissue to scratch and dig under—I don’t have the capacity to deal with it, with her, with any of this shit.

  I dig some motor oil from underneath my fingernails. My fingers miss the engine that I left waiting. This coffee is shit. Why did I take another sip? It’s bitter and dark, just like my moods have been.

  Well, as I predicted, she’s not here yet.

  I wish I’d cancelled this month. I have a full day today, and I really want to get my hands back on that engine. See, there is something pure about working with your hands. It’s a sure remedy to help you get your mind off things. The harder you stretch or pull or toil and the more you clench or push, the further your mind sinks. All you see is that task before you, the challenge of metal and chrome and oil. It’s a kind of peace that’s difficult to acquire and hold onto. I wish I was back at the garage, sinking in hard
labour.

  Thing is, I don’t actually need to work. Not anymore. But once you get the smell of grease under your skin, it’s hard to wash off.

  An engine is both complex and simple. Each part has a function, a hole, and an attachment. Everything has a place and purpose. But to complete a build, you must know the engine inside and out. You must know where each part fits, or you’ll end up with something that looks complete on the outside but will never run smoothly. I should know. I am the engine my mother created. And the one person that was willing to try and take me apart just so she can put me back together? We’ll get to her soon enough.

  I’ve been fixing engines half my life. I guess you’ll need to know about that—if you’re going to stick around till the end?

  Life with Alice was not pleasant, or one that involved eating a lot or often. It did involve drugs and sex. One often paid for the other. So I’m guessing that’s how she met Tony, aka ‘The Hand’.

  It was just another day: stomach growling, cold bones, and dirty teeth. The cardboard box we slept in was crumbling around the edges, and the damp was beginning to crawl along the bottom and colour the insides black. The corroded plastic sheet no longer offered enough protection from the constant downpour. I always wondered if Alice felt the cold or if the numbness and fog she lived in made her immune to everything.

  We were going on an adventure.

  Alice always thought she was dragging me around Wonderland. What she never realised was that we never made it out of the rabbit hole. We just kept falling.

  On that particular day, our adventures took us to Tony’s. We had been there more than once. Alice and Tony had ‘business to discuss.’ I didn’t want to know.

  The very first time we walked into that place I was hit by the smell of motor oil and burnt coffee. I didn’t know my cars back then like I do now. All I remember are the colours, vivid and shiny, curved and rounded in their metallic shells. Men in stained clothes leaned over or were under the cars. Tools clanged and banged as they hit the cement floor. My feet were glued in place with my back to the wall. I was mesmerised, afraid to touch any of it—afraid that my particular brand of dirt and filth would stain these beautiful beasts.

  I scanned the rest of the shop and found two piggy eyes peering at me from a rounded pudgy face. From his raised office, Tony studied me then disappeared closing the curtains.

  On our fourth visit, I was approached by a man. He seemed to be built of muscles. Not the bulging, overbearing ones, but the inconspicuous ones that were built for endurance and stamina. He loomed over me in his fitted suit. He eyeballed me and offered his hand.

  “I’m Salvatore.”

  “Gabriel.” I stretched out a hand to shake his, but at the last second he pulled it away and ran it over his jet-black hair. Heat prickled my ears as a smile spread across his lips.

  “Follow me.” He turned on his heels and led me to a small kitchenette tucked away at the left-hand corner of the garage.

  My stomach churned and growled, probably because I was in a kitchen, but most likely because it had been a few days since I had last eaten.

  “Sit.” Salvatore shoved my shoulder and I fell into a white, plastic chair. It was too big, and a red, sticky substance attached itself to the back of my pants. The fabric hissed as I pulled my leg away. “Boss wanted you to have this.”

  Like a magician, Salvatore produced a sandwich and placed it in front of me. My mouth frothed and my stomach clenched. I sat staring at the bread, a slice of cheese mocked me from between the slices. My hands sprang to the bread and gripped the sandwich somewhere between a death grip and the most delicate touch I could muster. The first bite was heaven. A sharp tang of mild cheddar sliced through the dry, yeasty bread. I demolished the first half in seconds. I should have savoured it, but that’s like telling a cat to take it easy on the mouse it just caught.

  When you’re a kid you shouldn’t have to be sensible. It’s not built into your DNA. You should be asking for chocolate three meals a day, jumping off tall shit and hurting yourself on a regular basis. In my case, it was be sensible or die. I know it sounds dramatic, but it’s true. Spend ten minutes with Alice and you’ll get what I mean.

  Halfway through that sandwich, I stopped cold. I held the food an inch from my face and forced my hands to pull away. Forced my stomach to accept that that‘s all it would be getting. Forced my mind to accept that, if we could just hold on a little longer, we could eat the rest later. Later.

  Later would be better.

  With agonised movements—sinew fighting muscle, bones fighting tendons—I inched the sandwich away from my mouth and tucked it into my pocket, wishing I had something to cover it in.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  I jumped in the seat, my heart leaping into my throat. In my food coma, I completely forgot about my guardian. I was so used to being invisible.

  “I’m… I’m… I’m saving it for later.” I focused on a glossy red spot on the floor.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m hungry.” My voice cracked and my ears burned, but my eyes remained on the drop of jam. My mind compartmentalising—humiliation to the side, task to the forefront. How to retrieve fallen jam: A swipe of the finger? A lick of the tongue? A wipe of the bread against the floor?

  A muted thud interrupted my thoughts, and I looked up at the source. Salvatore had slammed an almost full loaf of bread in front of me.

  I searched his face, looking for the usual looks—pity, empathy, maybe some compassion. But all I saw in his stormy, blue eyes was anger. “Eat the fucking sandwich, kid.” He stormed out of the kitchen.

  Food and heat became motivators to go to the garage. I started hanging around even when Alice didn’t take me. As usual, she would disappear. Sometimes for days.

  The men pretended like they didn’t see me, until one day someone needed a spanner, and a socket wrench and then maybe I could hold something or start a car, or pop a hood.

  Tony’s piggy eyes followed me around the shop. Maybe if I had met him earlier, I would have never come back. My path would have led to a gutter next to Alice. But hey, a gutter is still better than where I ended up.

  I can’t give you exact days or times. As a kid, time isn’t really important. You look forward to events, and you have an idea of when these events would be coming up. To most kids, this would mean a birthday or Christmas. You could ask how many months, then weeks, then days, and you would count down. The only real idea to hold on to is you slept and woke up, and that meant time had passed.

  In my case, I counted time by when I would eat, or when Alice would come back. Or when it would rain, or when it was cold or stopped being cold. I had no Christmases or Halloweens, there were no birthday parties or celebrations. Just survival.

  So, I can’t tell you how much time passed before the day Salvatore called me into the kitchen.

  Since that first day with the sandwich, I had free reign of that kitchen. All the men pretended like the extra loaf of bread and occasional chocolate were always there. So, when Salvatore guided me into a plastic chair, my stomach coiled and cold pins slithered beneath my skin. I scolded myself for eating the last of the bread. I should have saved it, not become complacent. My lip quivered, but Salvatore cut me off before I could start begging.

  “You like coming here kid?”

  “I… I…”

  “Do you want a job?”

  “A job?” I peeled my eyes away from my worn shoes and searched his face. His dark-blue eyes met mine. Salvatore was not a soft man. He was all hard lines and jagged edges. But he had a kindness in him that he chose to share with me. Maybe that’s why he stuck around so long. Maybe, in the end, it’s why I adopted him—because he adopted me first.

  He nodded.

  “What sort of job?”

  “Just running errands, helping the boys in the shop, and whatever the boss asks of you.”

  “Will I get money?” My fingertips twitched with the idea, I would be rich. Anyth
ing more than zero was already a step in the right direction.

  “No.”

  “Oh.” My disappointment was palatable.

  “But,” my body righted itself at the word, my ears pricked up, and I leaned forward in my chair clutching the table. “You will get a place to live and food. Everyday.”

  My mouth fell open as I tried to digest the idea of stability. My mouth dried up as if my eyes had sucked all the moisture from my body, and tears pooled behind my eyelids. “Every day?” I shook my head as if I hoped the idea would sink deeper, if I just believed it enough.

  “Come with me.” Salvatore’s face didn’t move, not a twitch or a tremor of any kind. His voice remained flat and unconcerned, but his eyes gave him away.

  I followed him out of the kitchen and along the wall of the workshop to the door on the right. It had always been sealed, and a fading sign that stated ‘Staff Only’ clung to it.

  Salvatore pushed the door open.

  The room was narrow. Two metal shelving units leaned against the wall, the over-stacked shelves strained and dipped with effort. A layer of blue dust covered every surface. We stepped deeper into the room. Dirt particles flew like fairies into the air and danced in the shaft of light coming from the window.

  Salvatore pushed open a second door. Peeking into the room, I saw a toilet and basin. Both were layered with dust and smelled like mildew that had saturated into the porcelain—pungent and sour.

  I stood rooted in place scanning the small room.

  “We’ll clean it up.” His stony voice boomed off the walls. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about cleaning the place or moving the shelves or wiping the toilet. I would have a roof and a heated place. Permanently. I wanted to run into his arms, to let him cradle me as I wept into his shirt. Instead, I nodded and wiped at my eyes.