Shattered (A Bad Boy Romance Novel)

by Natalie Baird

  “Hold still,” grunted one of the men, pinning my shoulders hard against the sidewalk.

  I cast my eyes desperately around the street, searching for someone, anyone who could help me. How could this be happening to me, out in the open for everyone to see? I thought of all the people tucked away in their apartments all around us. Could they hear my cries? Did anyone care about what was happening to me, right outside their homes?

  “Please,” I cried, “Just let me go. You don’t want to do this.”

  I watched as the fourth man stumbled back toward me, his head bloodied where it had hit the brick wall. There was no way that I could overpower even one of these men on my own, let alone four. They were staring down at me like I was a slab of steak bleeding on a platter. There wasn’t an ounce of empathy to be found in their faces, not a trace of guilt or shame at the atrocious thing they were about to do to me. The man directly on top of me grinned drunkenly and waved his friends away a step.

  “Gimme some room, guys,” he slurred, reaching for his belt. He undid the buckle with a sloppy motion and licked his lips. “Help me get her into the alley, would you? I can’t wait to tear into that sweet—”

  His words were cut off as a heavy boot collided with his mouth. The man’s teeth shattered spectacularly as he fell off me, crumbling onto the sidewalk. With his bulky weight lifted off me, I scrambled away as fast as I could. In my panic and fear, I could hardly keep my limbs moving in the right direction. I dove into the shadowy alley before me, hiding myself in the darkness. Chest heaving, heart pounding, I willed myself to peer back toward the men who’d attacked me. I peeked around the corner just in time to see a huge figure send a staggering kick directly into the gut of the man who’d been straddling me not moments before. The creep was curled up on the sidewalk, grunting as the heavy boot fall caught him in the ribs. For a wild moment, I thought that one of the men had turned on the others—but that broad back, those rippling shoulders, that perfectly balanced collection of muscles beating my attacker into oblivion had not been there before.

  The unknown fighter rolled the felled man into the gutter with his foot and straightened up to face the others. As he turned toward the remaining three, the dim street lamp illuminated his face in profile. In my shadowy hiding place, I felt my jaw fall open. I’d never seen anyone like him in my life—I thought, madly, that he must be some sort of super hero, risen from the pages of a comic book somewhere. No honest-to-goodness man could possibly be so perfect. He was a solid 6’ 3”, and looked to be built entirely of thick, hard muscle. As he stared down the men who had tried to hurt me, he looked absolutely bulletproof. His razor sharp jaw was set, and a pair of endless, dark eyes glared down a shapely, aquiline nose at the drunken buffoons before him.

  Where the hell had he come from? The street had been completely empty not a moment ago. But now here he was, standing over the groaning heap that had been pinning me to the sidewalk. The three remaining drunks were staring at him, uncomprehending. My hero took a deep breath, his fists tightly clenched.

  “I’m going to give you three seconds to collect what’s left of your friend and get out of here,” he growled. His voice was like rich dark chocolate and black coffee. It was smoky, low, and absolutely irresistible.

  “You mother fucker!” cried one of the men, “What did you do to him?”

  “Three,” my savior said.

  “You think you can take all of us on?” said another drunk, trying to cover the wariness in his voice with a bellowing laugh.

  “Two,” said the fighter.

  “OK, tough guy,” said the man whose head was bleeding, “Let’s see what you’ve—

  “One,” grunted the unknown hero. As I watched with bated breath, he collected himself into a powerful, low stance and sprung toward the three drunken men. His muscles moved like a perfectly tuned machine, like water. In one sweeping motion, he kicked out the legs of the already bleeding man. The drunk’s head came crashing back down onto the sidewalk, a look of shock plastered on his face. This time, he stayed down on the ground.

  My fighter planted his foot and squared off against another man who was flailing towards him. With a windup that could only be described as graceful, my savior brought his heavy fist up under the man’s jaw, catching his advance and sending him reeling away to stumble against his fallen friend in the gutter. The final man let out a ludicrous battle cry and tried to come at the fighter from behind. The hero collected the drunk in an effortless motion, rolled the man over his back, and slammed him forcefully onto the sidewalk. He straightened up and surveyed his work, brushing his hands against his perfectly-fitted jeans.

  I gaped at the scene before me. Two of the drunks were laying in the gutter, a tangled collection of barely-moving limbs. One man was lying face down on the sidewalk, groaning pitifully. Another was slumped against a brick storefront, his eyes half-open, and his head lolling from side to side. And in the midst of all the bruised and sprained bodies stood the most gorgeous man I’d ever laid eyes on. He scanned the men grimly—I could tell that he took no pleasure from demolishing opponents of such poor quality as these.

  My heart was hammering against my ribcage like it was trying to escape from my chest. Even as the fear and shock subsided, I was finding it hard to breathe, and difficult to see straight. At first, I wondered if I’d hit my head too hard, but then I felt a new, amazing feeling welling up inside of me. A warm, needy pressure surged from my core to the tips of my fingers and toes. I wasn’t scared, I was unbelievably turned-on. And all of the sudden, hot desire was leveled squarely at this beautiful, mysterious savior who had come to my aid when I needed him the most.

  I gasped as the fighter swung his eyes toward my hiding place. He closed the space between us, lowering himself down on one knee and peering into the darkness of the alley. I was paralyzed in the shadows, stunned by his unearthly beautiful presence. His eyes scanned the narrow space and finally came to rest on my face. The full force of his gaze nearly sent me toppling back into the darkness, but I managed somehow to peer out at him. The grim, intense expression on his face wavered, and the tiniest suggestion of a smile twitched on his lips.

  “There you are,” he said. His rich voice sent a thrill through my very bones.

  “You...You saved me,” I managed to say.

  “That would seem to be the case,” he responded, offering me his hand. I brought my fingers trembling toward his and stifled a sigh as he took my hand with a firm, knowing grip. He pulled me up out of the shadows, supporting my entire weight on one arm. It wasn’t until I straightened up, or tried to, that the pain rippled through my body. I gritted my teeth as my back lit up in a blaze of hurt, and my limbs began to shake uncontrollably.

  “Jesus...” I moaned, clutching onto his arm.

  “Come on,” the fighter said, “Let’s get you home.”

  “I...I live just over there,” I said, nodding toward my apartment building.

  “You think I’m going to leave you on some doorstep?” he said, sounding almost offended. “You’re not fit to be alone right now. We’re going back to my place.”

  A spark of excitement shot through my pain like a firework in the night sky. Who was I to argue with the man who had just saved my life? “Is it far?” I asked. “I don’t know if I can walk—” My words fell away as the man tucked his arms under my arms and legs and drew me to his chest. He was cradling me against him as though I was weightless, and the sudden closeness of our faces...our lips, it nearly knocked me unconscious.

  “Hope you don’t mind if I give you a lift,” he said, the hint of a smile growing on his face.

  “N-not at all,” I spluttered.

  He turned and nudged one of the men out of the way with his boot, clearing a path for us. I glanced back at the four bruised bodies we were leaving in our wake. Minutes ago, those men had me pinned and powerless. Now they were sprawled messily across the sidewalk, four drunken sacks of fat spread out like bowling pins in the gutter. They were the powerless
ones now. I hoped they were experiencing even a fraction of the fear and shame they’d tried to inflict on me.

  The men fell out of my range of vision as the fighter carried my swiftly around the corner, weaving through back alleys and side streets. He moved through the city like he owned it, like he’d built it from scratch. There was an authority in his every motion that left me speechless. I pressed myself against the hard, sculpted panes of his chest, trying desperately to memorize the feeling of his arms around me.

  Despite what had just happened to me, despite the pain that was gnawing at every inch of my body, some deep part of me was rejoicing. To be close to this person, this mysterious savior, was a pleasure I’d never felt before in my life. I looked up at his stunning face and wondered who he could possibly be, this hero of mine.

  Chapter Two

  He drew up before a stately apartment building and placed me delicately back on my feet. “Can you make it inside?” he asked. “My doorman might be a bit alarmed if he spots me carrying a woman up to my apartment.”

  “I’m OK,” I said, trying to fight through the pain. My hero opened the front door for me and ushered me into the lobby. I smiled at the doorman, who waved cheerfully back at us. The fighter drew me into a waiting elevator and pressed the button for the highest floor. The elevator car rose smoothly up through the building, and I leaned against the man to keep upright. The walls of the elevator were mirrored, letting me see exactly how banged up I looked. My hair fell in messy tendrils all over the place, my jeans had earned themselves a few new holes, and my arms were scratched and smudged. I looked a mess, but it could have been much worse—would have been, if not for the man beside me. The car drew to a stop at the top of the building, and I was surprised when the doors opened onto yet another door.

  “What the...?” I breathed, as the man fitted a key into the second door’s lock.

  “This is my floor,” he said, pushing the door open. I gasped as a sprawling penthouse apartment was revealed to my astonished eyes.

  “Your apartment is the entire floor?!” I exclaimed.

  “Well, yeah,” he said, helping me over the threshold and closing the door behind us. “What, yours isn’t?”

  I swung my gaze all around the apartment, struggling to take in the full expanse of it. This person had an entire house inside of a New York City apartment building. I didn’t even know that places like this existed outside of the movies. I spotted a staircase across the front room and let out an amazed laugh.

  “So you’re some kind of action hero, right?” I said, “Some Batman character, out saving damsels in distress in the middle of the night?”

  “Something like that,” he said. “Come with me, we’ll see what the damage is.”

  He helped me to the next room, a huge living space with soft leather couches and an enormous entertainment console. As I lowered myself onto the nearest couch, I let my imagination supply me with a picture of this man taking me right there on the leather. Of course, I could barely even scratch my nose in my condition, much less enjoy a romp with a powerful specimen like him. The man helped me settle into a reclined position, picking up my legs and placing them gently on the couch. For someone so muscled and forceful, his touch was delicate now. The tenderness in his touch was nearly as captivating as the sheer power he’d demonstrated in taking down my attackers. He was larger than life, this savior, too much to take in all at once.

  “OK,” he said, “Walk me through it. What happened with those assholes?”

  “I was leaving work,” I told him, trying not to drown in his bottomless eyes, “I’m a barista at Joe’s. They were standing outside of the bar across the way, I guess. After I closed up and left, they started following me. They came out of nowhere and boxed me in. I got my pepper spray out in time to get one of them, but that just egged them on. They got me on the ground and...”

  My voice caught in my throat, and I felt sudden tears stinging in my eyes. The terror I’d been holding at bay since the men had attacked me broke over me like a wave. I began to sob, fat tears running down my smudged cheeks. The ordeal had been too much for me to shake away so flippantly. If the fighter hadn’t come along, there was no telling what they would have done to me on the empty street. They could have raped me, killed me, left me bleeding on the sidewalk and gone about their merry ways. But they failed, and it was all thanks to this man who had saved me. He was crouched beside me, watching me work through the shock and fear without a trace of irritation or embarrassment. There was no surprise in those eyes of his—it made me think that he was very familiar with sorrow himself.

  “Listen,” he said to me, his voice soft, “You didn’t do anything wrong, do you understand me? You shouldn’t have been left alone so late at night. Your boss must be a real idiot.”

  “He is, that and more,” I said, laughing through my tears.

  “Some people might try to tell you that you were dressed the wrong way, shouldn’t have been asking for it, whatever,” he went on, “But that’s all a bunch of bullshit. What happened was those guys’ fault, not yours. And don’t let anyone tell you anything differently.”

  I nodded, wiping the tears away from my face. “Who are you?” I asked, in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

  “I’m Anderson,” he answered, “Anderson Cole.”

  “Hi, Anderson,” I said, savoring the taste of his name in my mouth, “I’m Kaela. Thanks for saving my ass.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said, letting an actual smile play across his full, firm lips. “Tell me what hurts. Does anything feel broken?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, trying to hold as still as I possibly could. I could feel a wet trickle of blood against the side of my face where it had been slammed into the sidewalk. One eye was sure to be black by morning. The skin on my back felt grated, as did my hands and knees. “I think I’m just a little beat up, is all.”

  “Don’t try and act tough,” he said, “That’s my job. If something feels broken—”

  “It’s OK,” I said, “I think you left those guys in much worse shape than I am.”

  His look darkened. “I wouldn’t have done that if they’d backed off,” he said, “I didn’t want to do any of that, you know.”

  “I know,” I said, “I could see that.”

  “They should have just...Never mind,” he said, shaking the thought out of his mind.

  “Where did you come from?” I asked him, “It was like you fell from the sky or something.”

  “Nothing quite so dramatic, I’m afraid,” he said, “I was just, as they say, in the neighborhood. I was heading home from a gig and I heard you screaming.”

  “A gig?” I said, “Are you a musician or something?” He looked like a rock star to me, anyway.

  “Not exactly,” he said.

  “Some kind of performer?” I asked.

  “Yeah...” he said, “Yeah, you could say that. Hold still for a second, I’m going to get some stuff to clean you up.”

  My skin erupted with goose bumps as I imagined those strong hands of his soaping me up in the shower. I closed my eyes and let the fantasy land as Anderson fetched the first aid supplies. I couldn’t keep my mind away from thoughts of him. My body seemed to respond to him like a sunflower to the sun. I knew that wherever this man led, I would follow. I wouldn’t have a choice. He came back to me with a bowl of steaming water and a first-aid kit. Suddenly I realized why so many guys had sexy nurse fantasies of their own.

  “Can you sit up?” he asked.

  “I think so,” I said, struggling to do so.

  “You’re doing great,” he said, kneeling before me and dipping a washcloth into the water. He brought the cloth up to my face and began to clean away the blood that was already drying there. I drank in his face, so close to mine, so perfect. He was focused on his task, but the way that his hands lingered on my skin, brushed against me ever so gently, had me wondering if he was feeling the same pull that I was. We were quiet as he tended to my wou
nds, dabbing away the dirt and blood masterfully.

  “You’re good at this,” I said.

  “I’m used to it,” he replied.

  “Lots of injuries at your performances?” I asked, “Are you some kind of crazy performance artist who beats up his audience, or something?”

  “Nope,” he said, smiling, “Nothing like that.”

  “Then what is it you do to afford a place like this?” I pressed, leaning into his careful hands.

  “I fight,” he answered, looking at me squarely in the face. I could see that he was trying to gauge my reaction.

  “What do you mean, you fight?” I asked, “You mean like...professionally?”

  “Exactly,” he replied.

  “Like in those ultimate fighting things?” I went on, instantly regretting my choice of words. I sounded like a twelve-year-old.

  “Kind of like that,” he answered, “Though what I do is a little more intense than MMA.”

  “MMA?” I asked.

  “Mixed Martial Arts,” he clarified.

  “I thought that was the most intense thing ever,” I said.

  “Maybe the second most intense thing,” he responded. “Now hold still.”

  We lapsed back into silence as he cleaned up my legs. I racked my brain, trying to call up everything I knew about ultimate fighting and whatnot. My full knowledge of the subject did not take very long to collect. My mom hated any sort of violence, and would not allow even the suggestion of it into her home. We didn’t watch war movies, boxing and wrestling were banned from the TV, and any sort of physical violence was completely prohibited. Once, when I was eleven, I’d punched a male classmate in the mouth for saying that I looked like a toad. My mom had never been more furious with me than when I’d been sent home for fighting. Cursing, the occasional bad grade, and the very frequent bad boyfriend were tolerated, but violence was totally out of the question.

  What little I did know about UFC and the like I’d learned from the guys I’d gone out with. A couple were fans of watching the sport, and I peered at the matches every once in a while. It seemed like a brutal sort of thing, the fighting they did. I knew that professional wrestling could be staged, that those guys weren’t really supposed to get hurt most of the time. But these other matches were different. The guys fighting them looked like they were really out to do some damage. And Anderson had said that his fights were even worse than those I’d seen. What could possibly worse? I thought, insanely, that perhaps he was a mercenary, or an assassin...then I remembered that we weren’t, in fact, inside of a comic book.