by C. Luca
Copyright
Fragmented
Copyright© 2019 by C. Luca
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not meant to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any format without the permission of the author. The author acknowledges the trademarked status of products referred to in this book. Trademarks have been used without permission.
The author has asserted her rights under the Copyright Act of 1976 to be identified as the author of this book.
Photo credit: Shutterstock.com
A note from the author
Dear Reader,
I’m an author that thrives on being challenged, especially when I am trying to get into the head of my main character. I enjoy developing unique characters and writing them in a way that you, the reader, can care about and hopefully relate to.
That being said, I’ve decided to tackle Dissociative Identity Disorder in Fragmented. Yes, instead of one leading man, I have multiple. I’ve done immense research for this novel, and my opinion is that the mind is its own, and who we are—that’s up to us. Fragmented isn’t about someone with DID being integrated and being fixed. That isn’t the point of this book. The reality is that we all yearn to be accepted.
In Fragmented, you will find many characters that want to be loved for who they are. Whether these characters feel the need to change their lives or choose to live as they are, that’s what this novel is about. It’s all up to them, and I’m just the author writing their story. I hope you enjoy the journey and grow to embrace the characters as I have. Please also keep in mind that this is a work of fiction and the character’s experiences may differ from someone else’s real-life experience with DID.
Sincerely,
C. Luca
Contents
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
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
ONE
Knight
She must be new.
Had she been on stage the last time I was here at the club, I would have noticed her immediately. I lean back in my chair and track her every move with my eyes. Sure, she’s beautiful. They all are or they wouldn’t be here. But it isn’t her beauty that had caught my attention. It’s the song she’d chosen and the way she moves her body.
She hadn’t chosen the typical crap women tend to dance to. No, this song is harder rock and speaks of violence. Instead of gyrating around the pole like the other dancers, she owns the stage by simply dancing—her moves fluid but hitting every beat with a sharpness that fits the harshness of the song. Every time the chorus sings about a woman breaking the silence, sirens, and a man running from the violence, she arches her back and does this move that makes my dick harden.
I watch as she mimics a gun with her fingers and points it in the general direction of where I’m seated before lifting her finger to her lush lips, blowing on it as if it were a smoking gun. With a quick spin, and a curtain of dark hair, she saunters towards the opposite end of the stage to give the other men attention.
Well, damn.
She’s an intense dancer, and I’m betting she’s a pretty damn good fuck.
I’ve been to the club plenty of times in the past when I manage to ditch the handlers Nathan has on the payroll, and I’m aware that most of the dancers are prostitutes. I’ve had a few ‘private dances’ in the back that eased my needs without unwanted complications. I’d learned a long time ago that meeting women in the dance clubs is asking for trouble. This is easier.
The brunette’s set is over, and I rise to my feet and stride to the bar to request a private dance before someone else can request her. The thought of fucking her right after someone else had is a turn off. I’d rather be first; they can have her after I’ve had my fill.
The kind of private dance I want doesn’t come cheap, but I came prepared. Nathan Lancaster is loaded, and since I have his face, his license, his everything, I can do whatever the hell I want.
Soon, I’m in a private room, and as I patiently wait, my eyes drift around the small area. The size of the room can’t be much more than twelve by twelve. The walls are painted red, while the floor and sofa I’m seated on is black. A dark table is situated next to the sofa, and across the room is a small stereo with its speakers embedded into the ceiling above. Directly across from the sofa is an elevated five foot by five stage with a stripper pole.
The sofa I’m sitting on has probably seen its fair share of bodily fluid, but I’m not too bothered by this knowledge since I have no intention of using it. I want her against the wall, or maybe even against the pole up on that small stage. Hell, I just want to be inside her. I need to ease the tension building in my body before I have to go back and deal with Cameron and Griffin—the men hired to keep an eye on me and the others when Nathan isn’t in control. It always amuses me that Nathan thinks he controls us, because he’s delusional. I think out of all of us, I respect him the least.
Voices can be heard just outside the private room’s doorway, and I strain my ears to listen.
A muffled, masculine voice can be heard saying, “Get your ass in there and suck him off or spread your legs.”
“Please, I’m not feeling well,” a hushed feminine voice begins before she cries out in pain. “Fuck him or go back to the streets. Your choice,” the male voice says harshly. “Open, this’ll take the edge off.” I hear her murmur in protest, and then there’s a disturbing silence on the other side of the door.
The lust I was feeling moments earlier abruptly diminishes. I enjoy sex—when it’s consensual. The darkness that I try so hard to control surges inside me, and I draw in a deep breath and exhale. It’s always on the outskirts, waiting to be let out. I’m a violent man with a hair-trigger temper. Usually I contain it pretty well, unless someone is being treated unfairly. The one thing I can’t ignore is someone else’s pain.
I inhale deeply, remaining still. As much as I would like to step outside into the hall and repeatedly slam the man’s head against the wall until he’s begging for mercy, I won’t. Bashing his head in won’t accomplish a damned thing except my spending the night in jail.
By the time the room’s door opens, I have no intention of having sex with the dancer. I study her intently as she closes the door for privacy before sauntering over to me. Up close, she’s a stunning sight. Her hair is long and dark—almost black. It cascades down her back like silk, and my fingers twitch as I curl them into fists. If we were going to have sex, I’d bury my fists in her hair and swallow her cries as I fuck her to oblivion—but we’re not going to, and I need to control my shit.
Her facial features are delicate with sweeping eyebrows hovering over long lashes framing pale green eyes that almost appear gray. Her nose is narrow, her cheekbones hig
h, and her lips lush and curved. Those are lips made for wrapping around a dick—preferably mine.
My eyes drop as I take in the body that I was hoping to thoroughly use tonight. She’s wearing a black, faux leather bra that pushes her breasts up to tantalize the crowd. I know from her earlier set, she’s more a small C with little, dark pink nipples. A miniscule thong covers the bare mound between her legs that she’d flashed on stage, while a garter belt clings to her shapely hips and holds up thigh high stockings. Knee-high boots complete the look.
Under normal circumstances, I’d be unzipping my pants and showing her where to put her lips. But the sight of her glazed eyes warns me she’s high on something, and her right wrist looks red—as if someone had gripped it with the intention to hurt her.
My blood begins to simmer in my veins.
She’s being forced into prostitution, and it makes me furious and ill at the same time. Were the others willing? Fuck. Had I paid for someone’s body when she wasn’t the one giving it away?
I’m torn from my thoughts as the dancer gracefully straddles my lap, her expression full of seduction as she runs her small hands over my chest. It feels good having her touch me. She leans in, her lips close to mine. “Tell me what you want. Music? A dance first?” she asks, her voice breathless and sexy as hell. There’s also a hint of an accent lurking in the depths.
The barely covered flesh between her thighs is pressing against the fly of my jeans, and my dick has taken notice. I ignore how good she feels and meet her glassy gaze. “Just a dance,” I grit out.
Her eyebrows pull together as if she’s struggling to understand me. “Dance first?”
“Just a dance,” I clarify.
She reluctantly, and yet gracefully, eases off my lap to move to the stereo—flashing her bare ass thanks to the thong.
This is goddamn torture.
She flips a switch, and throbbing music begins to fill the room. When she moves towards me again, I shake my head and curtly nod towards the pole. I can’t have her near me, or I’m going to want to change my mind, and that is not happening. If we ever fuck, it’ll be on her terms, not mine.
She looks momentarily puzzled by my refusal for a lap dance, but then she does as I request and makes her way onto the small stage. As she begins to dance, the situation becomes increasingly worse. Whatever she’s on is making her feel good, and as she dances, she runs her hands over her body, her head tilting as her lips part. Heat rises to her cheeks, and I can see her nipples pressing against the fabric of her bra.
I shoot to my feet, calling a halt to the dance when she’s preparing to take her bra off. I don’t want to see her naked again. Not in the small quarters of this room, and not like this. And if this goes any further, I’m pretty certain she’ll get herself off while I watch. The asshole deep within me wants me to shut the hell up, because if I don’t touch her, there’s no harm in it. I ignore the urge.
She stands on stage, a look of confusion and disappointment on her face.
I cross the room to her, and thanks to the elevated platform, I have to peer upwards since she’s about a head taller than me. “Meet me out back in thirty minutes,” I tell her, careful to keep my tone light and undemanding. She can’t stay here. The next customer won’t care that she’s drugged out of her mind. If I leave her here, it’ll haunt me for a long time to come, and I have enough darkness inside me. I don’t need more. Her manager—pimp—whatever the fuck he is to her—won’t allow her to leave with me, so she has to do it on her own without being seen.
I can see the automatic denial forming on her lips. “I can’t—”
“I’ll pay you one grand to meet me out back,” I cut in. “If you come with me for the night, I’ll double that,” I add, hoping the large amount will entice her enough even in her drugged state.
She looks tempted. That kind of money could really help her get away from this place. Her teeth sink into her lower lip as she hesitates. “We’re not allowed to leave…” she says, though her voice trails off as if she’s not certain whether she’s actually turning me down or not.
“No one needs to know,” I say, keeping my tone steady. “Just slip out back as soon as you’re able to. I’ll be waiting. And don’t tell anyone,” I warn. She shouldn’t even be considering my request since I could easily be someone with depraved intentions, but she’s too high to consider the consequences.
“Okay,” she says, making up her mind.
I hold out a hand, offering to help her down from the stage. Her small hand slips into mine, and as she steps down, she stumbles slightly in her tall boots. I steady her and then reach up, swiping my thumb along her bottom lip, smearing her lipstick. Her lips promptly open, her tongue darting out between her white teeth.
Christ.
I yank my thumb from her lip before she can lick it, and I draw in a quick breath and try to pull together my sanity. Her body sways into mine as her eyes focus on my lips.
Very firmly, I take her shoulders and ease her a good foot away from me. “When he asks, you danced and gave me head,” I tell her.
She slowly nods as her eyes drop to my crotch. That tongue darts out again, and I can see the dirty intentions forming in her gaze.
I actually take a full step away from her. “As soon as you can,” I repeat, hoping she won’t be requested for any ‘private’ dances before I can get her out of here. “Go hole up in the bathroom and tell someone you just need a little time to settle your stomach.”
Her eyes roam over my face, and she licks her lips again. “Okay.”
Time to go.
I turn and exit the room, deliberately adjusting the fly of my jeans as I walk down the hall to leave. It’s not just for show to give the illusion that she’d just serviced me. That woman is hot as hell, and I’m still in disbelief that instead of fucking her, I’m trying to save her tight little ass.
Five minutes later, I’m seated in the car I’d driven to the club, patiently waiting behind the building as I keep an eye on the back exit. There’s a good chance she won’t show, but I’m hoping she will. I’ve done everything I can to give her an opportunity to get away from this place, and if I have to leave without her, at least I’ll know I tried.
While I wait, I scrub my hands over my face. If I take her home with me, it’s going to turn into a shit show, but it has to be done. She needs a chance to take a different path in life. Besides, I’ve been bored lately, and she’ll ease it. It’s not like I’m breaking any laws. She’s coming willingly. Sort of.
Twenty minutes haven’t even passed when I see the exit door slowly open, and a head peek out. It’s her.
I start the car’s engine and pull closer to the building. She looks uncertain until I lower the driver’s side window so that she can see it’s me.
“Get in,” I offer.
She immediately leaves the shelter of the doorway, and the door swings shut behind her as she walks to the passenger side of the car. I lean over and push open the door. Once she climbs in, she closes the door and automatically reaches for the seatbelt. “Two thousand, right?” she asks, needing verification that the deal hasn’t changed.
“Two grand,” I confirm, noting that she’s still wearing the faux leather costume and nothing else.
She nods her agreement, and I pull away from the building and head for the parking lot’s exit. As I drive away from the club, I find that she’s not much of a talker. I like that. Mindless chit chat drives me nuts. I can’t stand a woman that assumes silence needs to be filled.
Eventually, we reach the gated community in the hills, and I use the button on the visor to open the gate that leads into the private community. It’s late, so there’s no guard working—which is for the best considering my barely clad passenger.
When we reach the estate, I cruise up the winding drive and use the second controller on the visor so I can pull into the lower level garage beneath the large, modern mansion. I’m hoping I can get the woman to a guest room before I have any run-ins with Came
ron or Griffin.
After climbing out of the car, I stride around to the passenger side and help her out. Her eyes are big as she looks around the sizable, seven-car garage. She looks at the gleaming sports cars in their designated slots, and the two motorcycles that are mine. It’s a damn good thing I’d taken a car tonight instead of one of the bikes. Driving through the streets of Los Angeles with a stripper clinging to me would have gained attention and likely ended up in the tabloids.
“Let’s go,” I tell her, urging her towards the elevator.
Her heels make soft clicking sounds on the pavement, and once inside the elevator, I press the first level. She remains quiet beside me, and now that we’re standing beside one another, I estimate her height to be about five foot six when she’s barefoot. The four inches those stiletto boots give her brings the crown of her head level with my nose. Without, I’m certain she’ll be even with my shoulder.
The elevator doors slide open, and I usher her into the hallway. As shit luck would have it, Cameron is striding towards us. His hazel eyes nearly pop out of his head when he sees my guest.
The woman at my side actually takes a step back when she spies Cameron. I immediately press a hand against her waist, feeling her bare skin on the small of her back as I try to indicate that everything is fine. I give Cameron a hard look, not appreciating that he seems to be scaring her. “We’ll talk later,” I say, my tone flat. I’ve never gotten along with Cameron or Griffin. They annoy the shit out of me, and I have no intention of actually explaining my actions to him.
The look he gives me warns that we’re going to do more than talk, but I ignore him and escort the woman forward. We make our way down the hall, and she looks behind us every few seconds to see if Cameron’s going to follow us. I have no idea what she’s thinking, but at least she’s not trying to seduce me. Yet.
I’m sure it’s coming.