Shatter

by Lola Taylor

  Shatter

  a novel

  © 2015 Lola Taylor

  Cover designed by Kitten of Deranged Doctor Design.

  Interior design and formatting by JT Formatting

  Copy edited by Faith of The Atwater Group.

  Proofread by Susie of Red Adept Editing

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  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 use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Other Books by Lola Taylor

  About the Author

  THE APARTMENT WAS a piece of shit. Anyone could see that.

  But to Amy, it felt like seven hundred square feet of awesome.

  It was new. Not “new, new.” Nothing in this place screamed “updated!” It was “new” in the sense that she blissfully didn’t recognize a damned thing in here: from the ramshackle, bright-green shag carpet, to the peeling, flowery wallpaper from the seventies. Every leaky faucet, every spiderweb-covered nook—hell, even the old, dusty sofa that the last occupant had neglected to move—was alien to her.

  And that was what made it so wonderful. Here, she could truly forget about all the heartaches, lies, and bullshit that had come before now. She was officially rebooting her life, and she was going to enjoy every damned minute of it.

  With a lightness in her step that had been absent for years, she grabbed her first box of belongings and hauled it into her new digs.

  Yeah, that whole thing about the apartment being cleaned before she moved in totally hadn’t happened. Dust puffed up in the wake of her steps as she set her stuff down on the countertop, which also was covered in a light sheen of the gray fluff. Her sister would die in here. She was, literally, allergic to everything: cats, dogs, people. They’d both inherited some of their aloofness with the real world from their hopelessly starry-eyed, creativity-imbued mother.

  Amy wished she could book a one-way ticket to La-La Land. She’d totally live there if she could.

  Wishful thinking. She eyed the rectangular room. The kitchen, if you could even call it that, sat off in one corner; a bar overlooked the living room. A dining hovel—she called it a “hovel” because it wasn’t nearly big enough to be considered a room—adjoined the kitchen. The only way it was marked off was by a block of mismatched tiles.

  Classy.

  At the opposite end of the living room was a small bathroom—with the emphasis on small—and a bedroom that reminded her of her college cell, er, “dorm.” The weirdest thing about the apartment was that the bedroom had a concrete floor. That’s right—concrete. Like a jail.

  And yet, she stupidly grinned from ear to ear.

  Who cared if it wasn’t the most glamorous apartment in the city? It was hers, dammit, and she was going to own it. Starting with ripping down this dingy-ass wallpaper and slapping up some bright-yellow paint.

  No more reminders of her past. No more wallowing in self-pity, and regret, and “God, why was I so stupid?”

  If people could win an Academy Award for being a dumbass, she’d have stolen the vote. Her bestie, Becca, told her, “It’s okay, doll, people make mistakes when they’re in love.”

  But love didn’t just make people blind—it made them dumb.

  She gritted her teeth as determination lit a fire deep inside her.

  She wouldn’t fail at this. She could be on her own and enjoy it again.

  Just as much as she had before all that crazy shit happened two years ago. The thought of it made her shiver, made her glance over her shoulder twice.

  She was alone. There was something strangely comforting in that.

  Her shoulders relaxed. See? Things are already getting back to normal.

  She’d dreamed of a life where she wouldn’t be afraid of her own shadow. She’d been there once, long before she’d met Michael, but she couldn’t remember much of her pre-Michael life. Like her art, her life had gone through phases: pre-Michael, Michael, and post-Michael.

  Post-Michael had been a bitch for about a year. Then she’d hit her stride and something miraculous had started to happen—she’d begun to grow, slowly stitching her life back together. One morning, she woke up earlier, and didn’t wallow in bed all day. One trip to the grocery store, one smile at a stranger.

  The first night she wasn’t afraid to sleep in a dark room alone. Granted, she’d had a nightlight, but still. It was progress.

  And the warm glow inside her told her things were only going to get better.

  The apartment was a turning point in her life. She could feel the pull of destiny, almost as if it were a tangible force.

  Her life was about to change, and it was going to be epic.

  It took all afternoon to haul her stuff in, mainly because she was doing it alone. Her sister and mom lived in another state, and Becca was still at the school, sorting out some drama involving her little brother, though Becca was supposed to meet her later to work out.

  Ugh, couldn’t she count the five flights of stairs she’d climbed over and over as a workout? The independence rah-rah train was grand until times like this, when you realized how fabulous movers would have been. If she could have afforded them, that is. Thanks to utilities deposits, plus the deposit and first month’s rent she owed on this place, her bank account was pretty parched for cash.

  Tired but not wanting to waste any time, she spritzed the wallpaper and peeled it off before she sanded the walls down and thoroughly cleaned them. She didn’t even want to think about all the black crap that came off on the towels.

&nb
sp; Yeah, this place definitely hadn’t been cleaned. It broke her heart in a way, dumb as it sounded. Nobody had cared enough about this apartment to spruce it up. It was abandoned, just like she’d been after the incident that had nearly destroyed her. People tended to avoid negative things, and she’d been positively toxic. When she’d eventually tired of gargling her own negative thoughts and self-destructive behavior, she’d caved and seen a therapist on her mother’s tab.

  It had helped in more ways than one, mainly because she had someone to talk to. It was so much easier to spill your guts to a stranger than to your best friend, because you didn’t give a damn what they thought. Besides, this stranger was paid to be nonjudgmental. Win-win.

  Amy had already picked out the paint for the walls the afternoon she’d signed the lease, and got busy outlining the walls in green tape and throwing down massive drapes so the paint wouldn’t get on the floor. She turned on the little stereo she’d brought to a local rock station. Rolling up her sleeves, she slapped on some fresh rubber gloves, grabbed the roller brush, and went to town.

  For a few blissful minutes, she allowed herself to forget how she’d ended up here. It was just her, her paint high, and the sound of her voice belting out the lyrics to one 80s rock tune after another.

  She’d almost forgotten where she was, when the radio abruptly snapped off. The silence slapped her back to her senses, seeming louder by its abrupt termination.

  Yelping, Amy whirled; paint slung all over the floor. She swore and brandished the brush handle in front of her like some kind of cheap silver staff. Blowing her bangs out of her eyes, she lifted her head—and stared.

  The man behind her kitchen counter was hot, at least from the torso up, because that’s all she could see. The black T-shirt clung to his chest, revealing carefully refined muscles she’d love to run her hands over just to see if they were really as hard as they looked. Veins threaded along each arm, both of which were also impressively chiseled. The guy obviously took working out seriously, unlike she did.

  She was a “work out only when I feel motivated” kind of girl, despite her best attempts at staying fit. This or that got in the way, mostly herself, and she’d just never stuck with it.

  If this gorgeous piece of man candy was at the gym, however, she might have to reconsider her routine. She could definitely find an excuse to get out of bed to look at that.

  The power cord for her radio dangled from his hand.

  Her eyes rose to his neck, and she slowly drank him in. If a man was delectable, she’d be eating him right up. Warmth rushed between her thighs, along with a dampness that soaked her panties. Sexual fantasies played out in her head, mainly where he said, “I’ve been waiting my entire life for a woman like you,” swept her up in his arms, and made love to her on the countertop.

  Holy shit, her hormones were out of control. It was a miracle she wasn’t panting.

  Then her eyes traveled up to his face.

  He was gorgeous in every sense of the word. From the straight set of his nose to the slight dimple in his chin, he was H-O-T. Stubble shadowed his jawline, somehow making his full, sensual lips seem more pronounced.

  Or maybe it was the flames that leapt in his eyes as he pinned her with an incinerating glare.

  It would have been hot if she hadn’t been so terrified. She gulped. Uh-oh.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if counting down. When he opened his eyes, a startling blue she could see from ten feet away, he looked no less pissed off.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed.

  THE WOMAN STARED at him, her mouth snapping shut. She went from astonished to angry in a split second. With a flash of silver, she waved the roller brush at him. “Stay back. I’m warning you.”

  He raised a brow. WTF? Had he missed “mentally unstable” on her apartment application? “Or you’ll what?” he said dryly.

  “I’ll…” The threat dried up on her tongue as that spark in her eyes flickered with doubt. With renewed determination, her gaze snapped up to his. She narrowed her eyes and gave him what he supposed was her “big girl” voice. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my apartment?”

  He glared at her and firmly shoved down the fact her assertiveness had sent a wave of heat through him. She was probably a tiger in bed.

  He imagined her running her long, hot-pink nails down his back, whimpering with pleasure and crying his name as he thrust—

  Whoa, boy.

  God, if he didn’t cool it soon, he was going to get hard. “I’m the building manager,” he said flatly, trying to hide his arousal. “I was coming to welcome you to the neighborhood and give you more information on the area, since you’re new.”

  She blinked. “Oh.” She tucked the brush behind her back and composed herself, blushing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to think. I thought maybe you were—”

  “A burglar?” he added with more than a dollop of sarcasm.

  Her face went pale, and he mentally swore.

  Wrong thing to say. She’d mentioned on her application about being an assault victim and having a restraining order out on someone. Apparently, the douche had taken out a restraining order on her after receiving his own. The one he’d taken out on her was eventually dropped once the court figured out he was just being a tool, but the one she’d placed on him had stuck. She’d written how the one he’d taken out on her had popped up on a background check before, so she liked to mention it up front.

  He appreciated her honesty, which made him feel more like a dick for scaring her. He cleared his throat, stepped around the counter and extended his hand. “Scott Meyers.”

  “Amy Miles,” she said meekly. Her firm grip surprised him; her delicate hands held an unexpected amount of crunch-power.

  He handed her the packet he’d nearly squashed in a death grip when he walked in and saw the walls. “Here are some of the basics, as well as a copy of your lease and all the ground rules.” He gave the drying paint a withering look. “I underlined number ten on page five about not painting the walls.”

  Her face turned a deeper shade of red. It was striking against her blond hair, which was obviously dyed. The hair color didn’t look cheap or fake on her, though, unlike a lot of the women he saw around this area. Her hair looked… cute. Sexy, even. “Sorry,” she said, “it’s just the first time I’ve really been out anywhere on my own, and I thought since I signed the lease and paid the deposit and everything, we were allowed to paint.”

  “Did you buy the apartment?”

  She stared at him. “No.”

  “Then you can’t paint.” He started to walk off. “It’s sixty dollars an hour for my crew to come in and paint it back to neutral tones.”

  Her mouth flopped open in outrage as she gaped at him. “Neutral tones my ass! Did you even see that hideous wallpaper that was up here?”

  “Oh, yeah, you’re right.” He gave her a thin smile. “Replacing wallpaper is a bit cheaper, about forty an hour. I’ll add it on to your next month’s bill.” Almost as an afterthought, he reached down and placed the lids on the open paint and primer cans.

  Yellow. She had painted half the walls fucking canary, cheery yellow. If there was any color on God’s green earth that deserved a slow, painful death, it was yellow.

  But for some reason, he didn’t seem to mind it so much on her pretty little head.

  Even when she looked as if she was about to run him through with her roller brush handle. “What do you think you’re doing?” she screeched as he hauled up the cans.

  “Confiscating these before you do any more damage,” he called over his shoulder.

  Thundering footsteps vibrated the floor, and a moment later, he was jerked backward as she grabbed hold of a can and dug in her heels. “Like hell, you are,” she said through clenched teeth. “Do you have any idea how much that paint cost? Sherwin-Williams is not cheap!”

  “I don’t care.” He stared her down. Decorum be damned. He knew
he was supposed to be professional and all, but honestly, sometimes the only way to deal with crazy was to dish up a little bit of crazy yourself. He yanked back, which only made her growl at him.

  She growled at him, like a damned animal. Holy shit, she would definitely be a tiger in bed. Heat rushed through him, and blood pumped straight to his steadily growing erection.

  “Give it back.” She seethed.

  His jaw ticked. If he wasn’t holding back, he would probably hurt her. But he didn’t want to. She seemed strong and fiery and yet perfectly breakable. Something in her eyes told him that, something that spoke volumes of the dark shit she’d been through.

  He couldn’t go there, wouldn’t be the man who dredged that up for her. He could be an ass sometimes, but he wasn’t a total asshole.

  So, he held on without really trying, and said firmly, “No.”

  She stopped struggling and looked at him.

  Scott stared down at the sassy blond. Her smartass attitude wasn’t what surprised him. As building manager for the past year, he’d seen and heard a lot of crazy shit. “Interesting” didn’t begin to cover some of the whack-jobs who had slipped under the radar and onto his turf. So, although dealing with crazies didn’t catch him off guard, it was the rigidity in his sex that did.

  It had been over an entire year since he’d felt an inkling of desire for the fairer sex. Over a whole year. That had to be some kind of record for any man who claimed to be heterosexual.

  Now that she’d magically made his cock give a damn, he couldn’t help but drink in her other features.