by Shayne Ford
BROKEN
LOVE IS WAR SERIES
SHAYNE FORD
Copyright © 2018 by Shayne Ford
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, organizations and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features mentioned in this book are the property of their respective owners and have been used without permission and in an editorial fashion only, with no implied endorsement.
The publication/use of these trademarks is not associated with, approved of or sponsored by the trademarks owners.
This book is for entertainment purposes only. The author and publisher disclaim any and all responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly in relation to this book.
This book is intended for mature audiences only.
Written by Shayne Ford
www.shayneford.com
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Cover design by Shayne Ford
The image on the cover is a licensed stock photo, and it is used for illustrative purposes, any person who may be depicted on, is a model.
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This is to you, my dedicated, loyal readers who share my passion for deep, emotional stories. Because of you, I love these books even more.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Also by SHAYNE FORD
About the Author
Prologue
Love is war.
Love is blood.
Love is broken will.
Love is deceit.
There are no winners, Tess.
Only conquerors.
1
TESS
The winter is nothing next to the blizzard spinning inside me.
I rush home, glancing over my shoulder several times, making sure that no one follows me. The street is deserted, the sidewalks and trees buried under a thick layer of snow.
I run up the stairs, unlock the door and burst inside, boiling with fury. I’m mad at me and that man and this whole story.
My coat lands on the closest chair as I walk into my office. I snatch the laptop from my desk, crash onto the sofa and yank it open.
Irritated, I type in that web address, and then the password. A blank page greets me with a short message.
This page hasn’t been updated in a while.
I close the window and navigate straight to that forum. The online tracking tells me that there are a few visitors online. I look for the thread where we exchanged a few words, locate his avatar and type a direct message to him.
Me: Who are you?
The flower in his avatar looks like a cold, blind eye. I stare at it for a few long moments before I glance at the time. It’s almost eleven o’clock.
Fuck him.
I barely finish my thought when his reply arrives.
Random Thoughts: Who do you think I am?
Me: Are you him?
Random Thoughts: Who’s him?
The glaring irony lining his words makes my teeth grind.
Me: Tell me. Are you him?
I wait. And wait.
Me: Have you sent me the flowers?
There’s silence again.
My blood spasms in my veins.
Me: What do you want from me?
Five minutes pass by, and no answer comes my way.
The number of online visitors hasn’t changed all this time.
Ugh!!
I slam the laptop shut.
My phone rings, bringing a clipped scream to my lips.
I slide my finger across the screen.
“Hey, Viola,” I say, panting.
“Are you running or something?”
“No.”
“Are you home?”
“Yes.”
“Have you talked to Allan?”
I lean back against the couch.
“No. I called him, but he doesn’t answer. It’s too late anyway. He’s probably asleep.”
“How was the appointment with Dr. Jimenez?”
I run my fingers through my hair.
“The same old story...” I mutter absently. “Perhaps, I should try another physician, one who can find something wrong with me,” I say sarcastically.
She pauses for a moment. I hear the sound of the TV in the background.
“Listen, that’s precisely why I called.”
“To give me a diagnostic?” I sneer and then laugh softly.
She starts to chuckle as well, the atmosphere de-tensing.
“I haven’t studied psychiatry yet,” she says, humor threading through her voice. “Seriously, now. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.”
“You don’t?” I ask, genuinely surprised.
“Nah-huh.”
“Well, then... You are in contradiction to everyone else.”
“Just because they share the same opinion doesn’t mean they’re right.”
“What can I say? Thank you... I guess. But that doesn’t change much for me. I’m still caught in this mess.”
“Yeah, about that... I was thinking about Allan. I understand that he is upset and whatnot, but I don’t think his grievance is solely connected to that man. He could’ve stayed home and talked to you if he truly wanted to solve this problem. You two could’ve gone to couple therapy to get professional help. Or you could’ve taken some time off. You know... Go somewhere, spend some quality time together, and rekindle everything. But that’s not what happened. He overreacted to something that in the end didn’t amount to much. He made a big fuss because of that man. Big fucking deal. He only knew about him because you told him about him. The fact that you tried to find out who he was doesn’t mean a damn thing. And then he used the lock and his feelings about changing it without his knowledge as a pretext to leave and not come back home until he returns from his business trip. I’m sorry. But not wanting to talk to you after all this time smells fishy to me. Genuine anger is short-fused. It never lasts that long. Normally, you would want to talk things out. To me it looks like some sort of retribution or a maneuver to stay away from you for some reason that escapes me.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps your marriage isn’t the paradise that you thought it was. Maybe there are other problems between you two, and this whole story helped them to surface. I don’t know how to say this without hurting your feelings, but I don’t think he loves you that much.”
A nervous laugh falls from my lips.
“That’s not true,” I say, nervously. “He’s hurt. I think he loves me enough,” I say, trying to defend him.
At the same time, I real
ize that I might just be in denial.
“I’m not saying that he doesn’t, but not enough apparently. Otherwise, he would’ve tried to talk to you, and figure this thing out. Instead, he went into self-preservation mode and put some distance between you two. All he cared was to protect himself.”
“I don’t think anyone else would’ve done things differently. Any man, I mean...” I say, sounding more and more frazzled.
“Yeah, maybe. But we don’t know that. Besides, I’ve seen men who were in love. They aren’t that much different than us women. They may internalize stuff more, but in the end, they do whatever they can to make things work out and clarify misunderstandings. Allan didn't even try to do that. He just bailed out. And now, more or less, he is giving you the silent treatment. That is not loving you. It’s affection for himself. He’s more concerned with his bruised ego than with how you feel inside.”
“He is concerned.”
“He left without talking to you.”
“He thought that we both needed some time apart.”
“He thought that you needed time by yourself to fix your problem.”
I wish I could argue with her.
“Anyway... It doesn’t matter,” I say, suddenly feeling drained.
“I think it does. If nothing else it should compel you not to feel all that guilt. It should also teach you that perhaps it’s not entirely your responsibility. Whatever point of your relationship you are in, you haven’t gotten there by yourself. The same way, whatever situation you are in with that mysterious stranger, it’s not solely your doing. I know you. How keen your perception is and how easily you notice all the little things that most people overlook or miss completely. I don’t think you imagine stuff or that your intuition is off. Things may not make sense looking from outside, but I’m sure there’s an explanation for this man’s behavior. It always is.”
I let out a long sigh.
“Even if it were, I can’t see it. And it may be that in his case I was completely wrong...” I say, my voice shot.
A small pause ensues.
“Why? What happened?” Viola asks after a moment.
“I just found out that he is married,” I say dryly, the words scraping my throat.
Another pause brings a block of silence.
“Okay...” she says unfazed after a few seconds. “So are you.”
“And your point is?”
“I’m pretty sure he knows you’re married.”
I miss her logic completely.
“And?”
“It hasn’t stopped him to come near you.”
I stay silent for a moment.
“And how does that make things right?”
“I’m not saying that it does. All I’m saying is that there may be things about him that you don’t know.”
“Yeah... Maybe.”
I stay quiet for a moment.
“Either way, I’m not so sure I can rely on my ‘so-called’ ability to perceive things.”
“What do you mean?” she asks puzzled.
I take a long breath and close my eyes for a moment.
“Well... It turns out that something is wrong with me after all.”
“Why would you say that?” she asks even more intrigued.
“I haven’t been well lately.”
“Physically?”
“No.”
I pause and weigh my words.
She stays silent.
“Something happened to me last Thursday. The night I ran into Mrs. Danes.”
Her silence fuels my tension.
“Please don’t tell mom,” I add.
“Okay...” she says softly.
“I’m not ready to share this with her. Besides, I don’t want to get her worried, and all worked up. It’s not as tragic as she thinks it is, but it’s important enough to scare me.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
A sigh rolls out of my chest before I speak again.
“That night I was out. Perhaps to take a breath of fresh air as I said before. I don’t know. I can’t tell for sure. The thing is... When I ran into Mrs. Danes I was coming from somewhere. But I can’t remember where I was coming from. Or why I was running. What made me jog home. I don’t remember Mrs. Danes either. Essentially, I had a blackout. The cut off time was when I got home, and the beginning point, a few hours earlier when I left to go out for a walk. Between these two points in time, I can’t remember anything. It’s a blank interval. Something could’ve happened to me in that period of time, but I have no recollection of it.”
I pause again. She has no comment for me.
“Today, I went to see Lara again. She said that I might have suffered an episode of psychogenic amnesia.”
“Triggered by?”
“I can’t tell, and without any clues from me she doesn’t know either.”
“Is there anything she can do about it?”
I take a long breath.
“Yes. We’ve discussed several options. She suggested hypnosis amongst other things, but I’m in no hurry to do any of them. I’m waiting to see if that part of my memory comes back to me. In time, I could recollect what happened that night. Perhaps it all comes back to me.”
We share a moment of silence.
“So yeah...” I continue. “As you can see, I’m in no position to rely on my perception as my mind has become a little unreliable lately,” I say. “I don’t know what to say about that man. I don’t know if he wants anything from me or he just messes with me. It may be some sick game, or it may be nothing. Either way, the fact that he is married dispels a lot of beliefs that I held in regards to him. He is not who I imagined him to be. In the light of the discovery, I can only doubt myself even more. He can’t possibly have a reason to be near me, other than, as I said, some stupid game or a string of unfortunate coincidences,” I say, shifting my eyes to the window.
The snow keeps falling, slowly swirling in the air.
“You may be right, but you don’t know that for a fact,” she says. “He might hold the answer to everything that happens to you,” she mutters, her words echoing in mind for a while.
I must’ve slept for a few good hours.
Tucked under a warm cover, my back sunk into a soft pillow, I slowly open my eyes. It’s still dark outside.
The office window is open.
Open??
Panic jolts through me.
I jerk upright, my laptop sliding off the cover. I can’t believe I fell asleep with it on my lap again.
I pick it up and slide it onto the table when movement catches my eye.
A black and white clip runs on the screen. I get a glimpse of a man’s bare back and the sinuous motions of his body as he moves on top of a woman.
I spring up almost flipping the laptop to the floor again.
Biting a curse back, I pivot to the window. A gust of cold wind slips by me. My arms cover with goosebumps, my body shivering.
I crane my neck out and look up the street.
Fog cloaks the trees, painting the winter morning with a thousand shades of gray. Yellow light spills from the lampposts here and there.
From time to time, the wind blows harshly, sweeping the snow off the trees. The lights come on in my neighbors’ homes.
It’s not even 6 AM.
I pull the window shut and turn around. From the couch, I snatch my robe. I put it on and walk out my office, turning the lights on as I go.
I stop in the foyer and examine the door. It’s locked, no signs of forced entry. My gaze sweeps the floor. No puddles, footprints, anything to indicate the presence of someone else in my house.
Why would I have the window open?
I don’t remember leaving it open. Hand clasped on my hip, Running my fingers through my hair, I spin my mind, staring at the floor. A thought pops into my head, prompting me to sniff the air.
I can’t detect anything unusual.
Baffled, I stroll to the kitchen, aiming straight for the coffeemaker.
I bouquet of red camellias sits on the counter. Wrapped in swishy golden paper, tied with a curly red ribbon.
My lips move without words.
Oh. My. God.
He was here.
My mouth falls open as my knees start shaking, my eyes glued to the beautiful flowers.
Slowly, I erase the space between the counter and me, I lift them to my nostrils, and bury my face in them. The fresh smell mixes with the scent of his cologne.
I straighten and look at them, revelation-stricken.
He doesn’t even hide from me.
He wants me to know that he was here.
That he was the one who left the bouquet.
Distracted, I stare blankly at the flowers, slowly stroking them with my fingertips as I mutter quiet words.
“He pulls away from me and yet he doesn’t go away. He seems to vanish all the time and yet he always comes back. He’s permanently out there, watching me, following me, knowing everything I do, or feel, or think. Or even say. He knows my life better than I do. He’s telling me something, but what exactly is he saying...?”
My mind begins to spin, faster and faster, sifting through memories, flipping clipped moments and shadowed images, anything from the past that had to do with him. It mixes words, and thoughts, looking for something.
What is it looking for?
The answer.
Absently, I set the coffee machine and unwrap the flowers, sliding them into a round-shaped glass vase. My thoughts keep swirling, my mind sorting and searching, hunting for clues, the common thread that’s always there.
But what is it?
His face flashes in front of my eyes the way my mind has created it. An enigmatic smile, hypnotic eyes, and curled up lip. Sculpted cheekbones, and strong jaw. His hair, dark-brown, spiced with a few–– almost invisible, strands of silver.