Phoebe: Book One of Broken Girls Series

by J. A. Hornbuckle

  Phoebe was dead asleep but he couldn’t yet find his own rest.

  There were too many things his mind hadn’t found an answer to, and for Ryker, knowledge was power. For instance, why did she always have all the lights blazing in her apartment even when they were gone? True, she turned off all but the nightlights in her bedroom before they had sex, but left all the others burning, something she’d done the other time they’d been together.

  Was she afraid of the dark?

  And, if so, why?

  He’d asked her, teased her about it a couple of times but never received a satisfactory answer.

  Anymore than he’d given her when she asked why his mom’s house didn’t have pictures of him beyond his early high school years. Although he’d been proud to explain why his father’s photo held pride of place, votive candles and all. He’d even taken the time to tell her how his mother kissed her fingers and pressed them to a corner of the frame every morning, every time she left or returned and before she went to bed.

  The softness in Phoebe’s face at his recounting of his madre’s love for his papa was something he’d always remember and made him think of Max’s words about how Phoebe looked at him.

  His fucking brothers!

  Madre de Dios, but they got under his skin.

  Always meddling when they weren’t welcome, getting their nose up in his shit when they had no clue about the man he’d grown to be. And to call his girl some piece of pussy he was banging? He should’ve taken them outside then and there to beat them senseless. They had no right to consider her just his play piece. He wasn’t like them, dipping their wicks into any feminine hole who didn’t say no. Ryker wasn’t that kind of guy never had been and didn’t think he ever would be.

  While both Max and Cruz nailed every halfway decent girl in the barrio, Ryker had been more circumspect, wanting a real connection with a girl before having sex with her. Which was why he’d only had two sexual experiences before he was sent to juvie. Both done in the backseat of Cruz’s piece of shit Chevy.

  And neither of those experiences came anywhere near to what he’d found with Phoebe.

  But that was probably because he hadn’t known what to do to make it good for the girls he’d chosen to share sex with.

  He had juvie to thank for his knowledge and bedroom skills because sex was almost all the boys in his unit talked about. And their talks weren’t of the overview variety.

  No.

  Instructions in making your girl come, for getting her off in a myriad of ways were given in almost clinical, though earthy detail. And if visuals were needed, then access to porn sites on the facility’s internet was included in the teachings. However, there were two major rules for watching porn while incarcerated whether in juvie or in the big house. Ryker had learned them both from Benny, one of his bunkmates back in his younger years.

  “Listen, Holmes,” the boy from Oregon explained, a blonde-haired, white kid who acted and sounded more Hispanic than any other Latino Ryker knew. “The guards don’t give a goddamn if you watch that shit, girl on guy, girl on girl or even guy on guy. But ain’t no way they’ll put up with any kiddy porn since most of ‘em have brats at home. An esse gets caught watching that fucking stuff, there’ll be a midnight beat-down he’ll remember for the rest of his life, comprende?”

  Ryker also recalled the second part of the rules-for-watching-porn as well. “And I don’t give a rat’s ass how horny you get watching some of that nasty stuff, don’t you ever, as in evah whip your junk out in order to flog your log while at the terminal. Don’t do in the head neither, ‘cause that’ll get you attention you don’t fucking want or need, man. You see somethin’ that floats your boat, makes your one-eyed iguana sit up and take notice, then you wait until sleepy time and yank one off under the sheets. Anything else might give the other fuckups in here the idea you need some help with that action. You get me?”

  Ryker kept to the rules but remembered the teachings more. The ones about creating a slow, steady burn in your woman through deep kisses and soft touches. About the areas on her body that were sure to ignite with the right caress or tongue-swipe. And he’d employed them bit by bit in the few dates he’d shared with Phoebe, finding each to be true.

  The only thing his instructors forgot to mention was how getting his girl excited would yank his own libido into overdrive. That her soft fevered moans and cries made his dick want to explode at the earliest possible second. And how deliberately stopping in the middle of that wondrous shit could cause blue-balls so bad a man couldn’t walk upright.

  But after his second date with Phoebe he’d figured out how to quickly rip one off in his pre-date shower, easing things before it got that bad. Not that he hadn’t repeatedly raced from her place to his mom’s house, so ready to come all it took was three hard tugs and he was spilling himself into a tissue behind the locked door of his room.

  Now, though. Now he had his girl naked, asleep and underneath him after helping her find her bliss as well as his own.

  And he had one last condom in order to offer a repeat performance at dawn’s early light.

  With that thought, Ryker snuggled back into her sleeping form, his face in her hair, hand filled with her heavy boob, legs entwined and his now half-hard cock pressed against her generous ass as he found his own sleep.

  Chapter Ten

  Abe had been at our kitchen table for years, sipping back coffee with Diane peacefully at his side, watching the group of us grow up, giving advice, which the lot of us tended to discount. But we more than liked having him around even outside of the Surly Snowman as he checked ID’s and basically made his call on who to allow in and who to keep out.

  With his chin lifted in acceptance, Vonnie, Tonya and I prepared to pass by one-by-one, taking a moment to touch our lips to his cheek, the one pointed upward our way, which took on more than a bit of color after the first of us performed the ritual. But true to form, Abe blustered and grumbled, which at that moment had to do with our attire. “You girls are showing a freakin’ lot of skin.”

  Vonnie leaned forward, her lips to his cheek, the hot pink-stain of her lipstick firmly marking her territory before she sashayed through the inner doors of the Surly. “No more than usual,” she called over her shoulder, ass swinging from right to left as she strutted inside.

  “Diane helped me pick this dress,” I offered quietly as I bent down to plant my lips against his forehead. “So you can’t complain.”

  It wasn’t that Abe was short, not by any stretch of the imagination. It was more that he very rarely dragged his butt-cheeks off the stool outside of the Surly, giving rest to his injured leg, earned in the military, as he withstood the onslaught of the girl-women who’d grown up around him and who felt the need to thank him just for being Abe and in their lives.

  “I so fuckin’ can,” he yelled, as I caught the edge of the door Vonnie left open in her wake. “Behave, Pheebs, yeah? And if you can’t, just tell one of my boys. They’ll come get me post-haste.”

  Glancing back, much like Vonnie had done, I saw his face pointed toward me as Tonya moved to kiss his nose. With his weathered skin crinkled into a typical scowl but covered in the different shades of lipstick I and my ‘sisters’ peppered his face with, it was hard to take him seriously. But I nodded just the same before rolling my eyes and entering the bar’s foyer before pressing through the second set of glass doors.

  My eyes roamed, searching for the others only to find Beta and Maizie waving from one of the far corners of the tables set along the farthest wall. Three small tables pushed together and surrounded by lots of chairs only partially filled by the two of them, Diane and Carmen and even recently, since I watched her rounded butt hit one, Vonnie.

  I waved back only hoping they saw me over the teaming mass crowding into the fore-area that comprised the Surly. We’d chosen the female-friendly bar as the best place to have our girls night out since, at least before nine, it was quieter than most of the other places in town, allowing us t
o talk in relative solitude before the university crowd—needing alcohol, loud music and a dance floor—hits the scene.

  I wove and ducked, side-stepping all the other patrons as I made my way to the table

  Looking around the faces of those around it, and of those not yet seated, my heart swelled at the women crowding around our three miniscule tables. Where blood ties didn’t hold much weight (at least not as much as the connection of our hearts), Diane had created a family between us, no matter what damage our littler selves had experienced before each of us arrived at her house.

  She was a treasure, and showed it by allowing and coaching each of us in order to learn how to be happy in our unique, individualistic way. And how to handle the hard times, too. Oftentimes reminding us, a person couldn’t experience a good life without hitting some speed-bumps along the way.

  The fact was, Diane took on a bunch of us, her broken girls and created a family. One that was still tight even after we’d aged out of her care and gone onto grown up lives.

  I slapped palms and bumped fists with my girls already seated around the table, but only after hugging Diane and Carmen before seating myself into a chair.

  Only to realize my dress for the evening, the one which Diane talked me into rode half-way up my thighs as my bottom came in contact with fake leather. However, it showed a lot more skin than I was used to showing in public. Or than I felt was appropriate given the venue, causing me to firmly shove my ribcage against the small tabletop, tucking my exposed legs underneath.

  I’d only worn it as homage to Diane and her sense of style, since she was the one who’d insisted in accompanying me on my first shopping foray with my very first paycheck from Grantham General. And she’d almost demanded I needed a little black dress in my arsenal, saying, “Every woman needs a LBD, sweet one. One that can excite and entice without giving anything away.”

  It wasn’t until the fourth store we visited that both of us decided; ‘it’ was the one for me.

  Simple, perfectly cut to both snuggle yet create space for my boobs and butt, with an a-lined hem hitting four inches above my knees, the only thing giving me pause was the large, gold zipper running up the front, beginning at my lower belly and ending at the uppermost reaches of my cleavage.

  It was bold. Brazen even. And I’d never worn it on any of my dates with Ryker, as if knowing we would never make it out of my apartment and to our planned destination if he saw me in it. When I’d put the knit dress on earlier, he’d been front and center in my mind, as I imagined him working that worrisome zipper down with nothing but his teeth.

  So I shouldn’t have been surprised by Diane’s clap of delight and her crow of how, “This is the dress for you, Pheebs.”

  At the time, I’d slid my hands down my hips, fulsomely exposed by the knit of the fabric, eyes trained at the much-shorter hem than I was used to. “You think?”

  Maybe it was because I found and bought a pair of ankle-boots, in black suede, that sported the same shade of gold, zippered opening as the knitted dress, that added credence to the hope I had blossoming in my heart. That I was an adult, in charge of her own life and moving on despite of the scars the younger-version of me was still working. Even though, when I’d taken both the dress and the shoes home, transferring them from bag to closet, I didn’t know when I would ever wear them.

  That night seemed like the perfect time to give the outfit a test drive when out with my girls, before wearing it for Ryker.

  Willa, one of the owners, arrived soon after Tonya was seated, bearing a tray overfull with drinks. “Martini, martini, whiskey sour, two-fingers of scotch with a water back, and three Hey-Juices, no ice,” she announced, setting each glass on the far table, her smile taking in each of us as she off-loaded her tray.

  “What’s a Hey-Juice?” I whispered to the person to my right who just happened to be Carmen, as the drinks were distributed. She was the closest of anyone from my tucked place behind the table.

  “Just what you, Tonya and Coco need in order to loosen up and get your party on,” my former case worker replied cryptically, pushing a glass my direction. “Okay, it’s nothing but spiced rum, peach rum, Bacardi, OJ and cranberry juice topped with maraschino cherries. Satisfied?”

  No, I wasn’t because she’d mentioned three different types of rum in one sentence when describing my drink. The glass sat poised in front of me, dripping sweat and, to my mind, filled with enough alcohol to level the inhabitants of four states, even as Beta half-stood from her chair by the wall and raised her martini glass as she flipped her almost waist-length, cinnamon-colored tresses over her shoulders. It was a move, involving both shoulder and head I’d never been able to master. And I’d been practicing in the hopes of copying it since I was nine years old.

  “Cheers to Girl’s Night!” Beta offered on a shout, one we all repeated, only a couple of beats away from hitting the mark of our voices raised in unity.

  As each of our glasses collided as they met middle portion of our tables, Coco stood and raised her glass high, chugging the ‘Hey Juice’ down in one lengthy, lengthy swallow. “Another round, bar-keep. Although this time make it tequila shots!”

  The other patrons in the bar applauded, probably because Beta’s voice from before, when she offered up the toast, was loud enough to raise the dead. And draw their attention to our corner of Surly’s. Glancing around the women at the pushed together tables, my gaze took in Carmen who was trying not to laugh out loud. Since she was close, I leaned in enough so she could hear me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She pulled back, studying as she frowned. All furled eyebrows and down-turned mouth, she responded. “For what?” She waved an arm outward at the other women seated around the three tiny tables. “Pheebs, you gotta get over yourself, girl. This is a celebration. Stop judging and just enjoy the ride, all right?”

  I blinked as she pushed the smaller, skinnier glass my way. I didn’t want to pick it up, but it seemed to be the consensus of the others that we quickly swallow the alcohol in our glasses. I choked though as the sharp heat hit my throat, coughing as I tried to clear its burn from my throat.

  A cold glass hit the palm I held on the table even as I’d twisted away after slamming the shot glass into the middle of the table. Bringing the sweating tumbler my way, I sniffed only to discover it contained water. Something pure and clean I hoped would counteract the shot from before.

  “God, you’re a lightweight,” Carmen whispered, her cheek close to mine.

  “I am,” I stuttered on a deep breath, readily admitting my failings regarding alcohol. “I can’t drink for shit.”

  She shot out an arm and looped it around the top of my chair. “So, you’re getting drunk with your girls, in a safe place that Abe protects, therefore, I gotta give it to you straight.”

  I righted myself within the tiny confines of the chair, yanking at the short hem of my otherwise beautiful dress into closer proximity of my knees even as I felt the alcohol hit my system.

  “Have you completed the paperwork for the restraining order against Davis yet?” Her voice, though not loud was harsh within the confines of our shared space.

  “No, but I need to.” Giving her a quick recap of the text I’d received, I watched Carmen’s dark brown eyes, ones usually so warm and accepting take on a wintry sheen. An emotion so cold, I felt the skin of my arm prickle in goose-bumps.

  Carmen leaned back even as she stared into my face. I thought she’d follow up with a lecture about my former caregiver, such as he was. Updating me with all he had done in the ensuing years, citing how he was a piece-of-scum, a dirt-bag, someone who absolutely didn’t deserve to experience life outside of prison. But I was surprised at her immediate response as well as her choice of subject after I’d run out of words. “You know that a restraining order isn’t about him, right? That it’s totally about you and making you feel safe.”

  Man, alive.

  “Is he really that bad?” Maybe it was the alcohol working in my syste
m, my brain working overtime that helped me give voice to the confusion I always felt whenever the subject of Davis household came up.

  She leaned even closer to me, her brown eyes never leaving mine. “Yes. He is.”

  I tried to process what she said with such firmness over the layers of the couple of drinks I’d imbibed, alcohol my body wasn’t used to in order to find a truth I could understand. Because I truly didn’t get why a man I didn’t remember wanted to make me pay for something he thought I’d done to him when I’d been nothing more than a small child.

  “He hasn’t attempted to contact you in any way?”

  I shook my head as I took another sip of water, wondering what she meant even as something occurred to me. “I’ve received a lot of hang-calls recently.”

  She nodded as if expecting that behavior.

  “I just chalked it up to some telemarketer who wasn’t checking the ‘no call’ list.” I took another sip of water as my hazy mind searched. “But when I was leaving work last week, I saw deep scratches etched into both sides of my car, like someone had used a key,” I confessed. “The insurance company told me it was only mischief, something teenagers with too much time on their hands tended to do. Luckily, my coverage includes getting them buffed or repainted.”

  At the time, with one thing happening after another over the course of a few of weeks, I had disregarded them, assigning each a specific reason (telemarketers, rowdy teens) never seeing a cohesiveness in the whole of it. But the look in Carmen’s eyes told me it was different.

  That it was more.

  And that more she was thinking had to do with Sloane Davis.

  “You think he’s been released and wants to hurt me.” My whisper shook, exposing the vulnerability I felt to my very soul at the thought of the foster-father I couldn’t remember, but whose very name scared me to hell and beyond, had me in his sights.