Pieces Of One, Part 2 (The Dark Life Collection)

by Ricketts, SVC

  Pieces Of One, Part 2 (The Dark Life Collection)

  Copyright © 2013, 2014, 2015 by SVC Ricketts

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental (maybe).

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book 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.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express consent of the copyright owner. If you have downloaded this book illegally, you are a filthy, worthless piece of cr*p and deserve to be hung by your most sensitive body parts with dental floss.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Art by Judi Perkins/Concierge Literary Promotions

  Formatting by Champagne Formats

  First Edition: September 2015

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Warning

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Other Books by SVC Ricketts

  Acknowledgments

  This book is dedicated to those individuals that don’t know how strong they are until they are tested.

  To those that have courage to accept their flaws and keep taking steps forward.

  To all the women I know that inspire and support me every day.

  There is a special place in my heart for two in particular, Gayle and Michelle. My life would be incomplete without you. I love you to the moon and back!

  Advisory Note

  Book TWO in a three part dark suspense and contemporary romance series. Be warned: IT HAS A CLIFFHANGER ENDING!

  ** Due to explicit language, violence and sexual scenes, this is recommended for a mature audience, 18+. Read with extreme CAUTION. **

  LIVING THIS FRACTURED life has been mostly manageable—or at least in my opinion. But the lust driving my impetuousness is at war with any common sense. One piece of my brain is telling me to stop and get away from this man. Another is telling me I have to do this, but it’s only a ploy to solicit information for the DEA. Yet the piece that is screaming the loudest is a frenzy that has settled between my heart and my legs.

  I want this man. I don’t care that he is twenty or so years my senior. I don’t care that it’s because of Marvy that I am in this situation with him. I just fucking don’t care about anything else outside of tasting this man’s skin under my tongue. Wondering how he will touch me. If it will be different from Alex’s touch.

  Alex. Shit. Why did I have to go there?

  His messy, curly silken brown hair and hazel-green eyes flash in place of Bryson’s and I cast my eyes down. My face flushes with heated shame.

  With his strong index finger, Bryson tips my chin up. “Hey, don’t be embarrassed. I’m kind of hard to resist,” he says mistaking the cause for my cherry-colored cheeks.

  I let out a breathy chuckle, shaking my head. God, this man!

  My smile fades as I stare at him with deliberation. “Seriously Bryson, what are we going to do?” My libido now ice cold.

  A rap on the front door draws our attention, but I’m reluctant to let him leave the bedroom.

  He pulls my hands away from his–oh so firm–backside and grins. “Let’s get you checked out first.” Bryson kisses the top of my head and goes to the door.

  In steps one of Bryson’s guys, who he introduces as Christophre Hennessey. Then another man enters. Fascinated with the other man, the doctor, I barely hear Bryson talking.

  “Trista, this is Doctor Mason.”

  The man with black horn-rimmed glasses extends his tiny hand.

  My father taught me to shake hands with conviction, but I’m sure I will crush him if I greet Doctor Mason in my usual manner. I can’t describe my awe of the little man. He is not one that suffers from common dwarfism; his limbs and stature are proportionate with his body. The man is just shockingly small. I’ve never seen anything like it and I can’t help but marvel at his appearance. He must get this reaction a lot, yet he smiles warmly and asks me to sit.

  “Bryson, you and your man wait outside while I examine Ms. Dividir.”

  Bryson starts to speak, but is promptly cut off by a castrating look from Doctor Mason. Though the doctor is maybe an eighth of their weight, both Bryson and the bodyguard reluctantly leave the bedroom.

  With his attention back on me, Doctor Mason smiles triumphantly. “Ms. Dividir, did Mr. Seviride tell you that I am of royal decent?” Doctor Mason asks.

  Caught staring, I blush and lower my eyes. “I apologize for my rudeness, your highness.”

  “No offense taken. My homeland, a small territory in the Arabian Sea, was absorbed into India in 1954, and therefore I no longer hold title to any throne.”

  His tale distracts me from his poking and prodding as he inspects my bruises and cuts. He has a wonderful accented dialect and again, I find myself enthralled.

  “I still have a beautiful house there, but the enclaves have changed much. Being a part of a larger sum has its benefits, but my people did not see the shortcomings until it was too late. My older brother was exiled to Great Brittan for his out-spoken views. I suppose they did not see me as a formidable foe so they allowed my residency.”

  Doctor Mason begins wrapping my ribs, and it is only then that I realize he has bandaged my hands, used a skin sealing liquid on my cuts, and my pajama top is pulled up. When he notices my awareness that he is finished, he chuckles. “I’m good, aren’t I?” he asks with a wink.

  I giggle then take in a stiff breath when he pulls the wrap tight. “I hope Bryson is paying you well. That was amazingly efficient. You are quite charming, Doctor Mason.”

  “Thank you, I try. Does it hurt to breathe?”

  I shake my head in the negative.

  Bryson comes back into the room followed by…what was his name? I immediately pull my pajama top down to cover my goodies.

  “So Doc, how is she? Can she travel tomorrow?”

  Doctor Mason purses his lips and scoffs. “No, she may not. I believe she only has bruised ribs, but I’d like to get them x-rayed to rule out any fractures. I’ve wrapped it just in case and please put ice on it. Sleeping will be difficult, but as counterintuitive as it sounds,” he gives me an empathetic head tilt, “try to sleep on the bruised side. It will help with the breathing.”

  “I’ve also sealed her cuts and the gash on the back of her head so she won’t need stitches.” Doctor Mason shakes his head and sternly wags a finger at Bryson. “But I will not clear her for travel for at least a week.”

  “A whole week?!” Bryson and I echo simultaneously.

  Swinging my head side-to-side, I speak first. “I can’t stay here for another day, let alone a week! People will be looking for me!” Doctor Mason raises an eyebrow, but working with Bryson, he must know not to question my statement. He continues packing up his medical items as if my panic went unheard.

  “Only take one of these once or twice a day, no more,” he says with sternness, handing me a bottle of white pills.
Directing the conversation to Bryson, he gives him the same tone, “I will call you when I set some time aside. More than likely in a few days, a morning hour before the clinic opens. Don’t be late.”

  I’m a bit intrigued at the way Doctor Mason is speaking to Bryson. His chiding intonation resembles that of a parent or superior. Bryson doesn’t look off-put by it either.

  Interesting.

  “Thank you, Doc,” Bryson replies, shaking the doctor’s miniature hand. “Henn, please show the doctor out. I need to rearrange our schedules.”

  Doctor Mason is practically speed-walking toward the door, giving me no chance to properly show my appreciation. “Thank you, Doctor Mason. It was nice meeting you,” I call out with a wave of my hand.

  Bryson is the last to leave, already on his phone speaking to someone. I need to remind him I can’t leave with him to Croatia, let alone stay here, hide out at his beach house for two weeks. Yes, my safety may depend on it, but my mom will have the Army Reserves out looking for me. Either she will or Kitta. They’re probably climbing the walls right now. The feds are probably looking for me too.

  Ah shit, what a mess.

  Wrapped up tighter than an overstuffed sausage, my movements are robotic and restricted when I attempt to get up from the bed. If it didn’t hurt to laugh, this would be hysterical. Odd that it hurts more now than it did before Doctor Mason examined me. Knowledge is power. I suppose that works both ways.

  I hobble toward Bryson’s voice carrying from somewhere upstairs. When I reach the top of the stairs I puff a few labored breaths, cling to the metal banister, and take a look around. At the end of the hall of the upper floor I notice a sitting area with ginormous, plushy, chairs that look like they could have been loveseats used in the movie, “The Incredible Shrinking Woman.”

  Mr. P would love to have that at his house, he loves Lili Tomlin.

  The chairs have cup holders in the arm rests and all face an undecorated white wall. Rich people are weird.

  Hey! Let’s hang out and have our drinks handy while we stare at a wall! I snicker, but Bryson’s voice brings me back to why I’m snooping around upstairs.

  “No, I am sorry. There has been a delay with your special order. The package won’t go out for another few weeks,” he says as I knock to get his attention. “Hvala vam na razumijevanju. Mi ćemo vas vidjeti za nekoliko tjedana.”

  It seems I’ve wandered into his Study or office. It’s very comfortable and welcoming in here. The walls are lined with books with the exception of a large window that overlooks the bluff. An oak desk the size of my twin bed blocks some of the view though. Bryson is casually sitting on the corner and motions me to come in. “Ha, ha! Da, da, ja ću donijeti slučaj Jefferson je za vas,” he laughs, shaking his head.

  Damn it! I wish he would speak English again. It’s rude to speak a foreign language in the company of non-Croatian speaking persons. Everyone knows that, don’t they?

  I speak multiple languages, but none of the words ring any bells so I can’t figure out what he’s talking about.

  Although I have no idea what he’s saying, the person on the other end must be a good friend by the way Bryson is joking with them. “Dva slučaja? Vi vozite teško jeftino, moj prijatelj. Vrlo dobro, smatram da je plaćanje za vaše neugodnosti. Imati dobru večer, Andrijica.”

  Preoccupying myself with the titles along the spines of the books, or at least I pretend to do instead of trying to eavesdrop, my eyebrow shoots up at the mention of the name. Andrijica is the guy he’s supposed to meet in Makarska. Perhaps I misunderstood and his friendly tone is a pacification. This Andrijica is the “business” acquaintance he mentioned before and I was under the impression that they were not friends.

  Less than a minute goes by before Bryson hangs up. There’s a feeling of wrongness in his sigh as he gets off the line getting my attention.

  Bryson makes another call, his expression and tone sharp. “Serefina, please arrange two cases of Jefferson’s sent to my suite.” He pauses while the other person speaks. “Yes, we will need to redraft the contracts. I’ll be working off-site for the next two weeks.” Again he pauses and looks up at me. “No, they will either take the meeting via video conference or reschedule. Just make it happen,” he snips. A ripple of frustration in his voice stirs my unease.

  I turn to see Bryson standing at the window staring out, but his focus is not on the scenery. Worry lines divide his brow with thought.

  “You shouldn’t make concessions because of me, Bryson. I can’t stay here for two weeks anyway and I definitely can’t leave the country with you. My family and friends are probably sick with worry as it is. I’m sure my mom has called the police by now.”

  “They won’t find anything that could lead them here,” he says without missing a beat. “No one will. We’re safe here. We’ll stay until we leave for Croatia.”

  Exasperated, I make my way to him and yank his arm so he faces me. Talking to the window is only a small part of what’s pissing me off.

  “Have you not heard anything I’ve said? I cannot stay here and I will not go to Croatia with you.”

  He grips my biceps and lowers his face so that we are eye-to-eye. “Do you not understand the trouble we’re in? If they make the connection between Supak and you, you and your family are dead. I’m probably going to my death the second I land in Croatia. For the moment, they know nothing of Supak’s whereabouts. I told his cousin, he flew out last night. I lied to the head of the Croatian crime family for you! The least you can do is help me, help you, and stop bitching.”

  A rushed memory flashes and then is gone just as fast. I cringe because of it as well as Bryson’s clutch on my upper arms. Both elements quicken my breath. The edges of my vision blur into a darkening grey and my thoughts become airy, but just like the dissolved memory, I swiftly recover my clarity.

  The palms of my hands sting as I beat against Bryson’s chest. “Nooo! I don’t want to be here. I want to leave. I don’t want this. Please let me go!” I scream words that are so familiar yet I’ve never spoken them.

  Bryson must think I’m talking about being held captive here, but I am not. He wraps his arms around me for comfort, yet the effect is opposite. It stifles and traps me. Panic rises through my bones, pushing tears to my eyes. I gasp and fight for each breath like a fish stranded on land, desperate for oxygenated water. Bryson tightens his hold on me as I try to thrash free. My ribs scream in pain.

  Within a few seconds, exhaustion takes over and I relinquish the fight. “Please, please, please, please, please,” I whimper quietly to myself. “Please help me, Mercy.”

  BRYSON CALLED THE doctor back to give me a sedative since apparently, he couldn’t calm me down. When I woke from a dreamless sleep the following morning, I really didn’t remember much from the previous day. The constant nausea from the medication is a nuisance as well. The side-effects hamper my dexterity and clear thought. But on a good note, over the last few days, Bryson doesn’t seem weirded out around me so if I did transition, I must have at least acted like me.

  My fork clatters on the plate in front of me as I stab a cube of potato. The ocean air has fired up my metabolism and I find myself constantly hungry. The crunching final bite of my toast is the only sound heard between Bryson and myself again. The kitchen table is uncomfortably quiet this morning. As usual, Bryson sits reading emails on his laptop and drinking his coffee.

  “Can we go to the beach?”

  “Who is Mercy?”

  Our conjoined sentences jumble together, but his inquiry is clear as crystal.

  Pulling my lip between my teeth, I begin to gnaw on it. Shaking my head, I have no idea who Mercy is. “I said Marvy.”

  The reading glasses he wears makes him look even hotter, which is normally distracting but when he looks over them at me, I feel like a small child.

  “I don’t know any Mercy. I said Marvy,” I insist.

  He nods, though I know he doesn’t believe me, and goes back to typing an email.
>
  “How is it you can reach out to the world with no concerns about being traced and I can’t even send a quick text? You said they don’t know about me, what’s there to track?”

  Bryson pulls off the sexy glasses and rubs his eyes. “You’ve been seen with me. That’s all they need. They have money and reach. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had the entire police department under their thumb. So no, we cannot go to the beach.”

  I thunk my head on the table. “Uuugggghhhhh! My brain is melting. Teach me something.” He lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t look up. “I’m getting cabin fever, Brys. Netflix needs to get new movies and if I read one more book with a brooding, asshole Alpha and a door-mat heroine, I’m going to rip my eyes out. I think I need to switch to horror books.”

  “Firstly, don’t call me, Brys,” he quips. Condescending asshole that he is, he chuckles. “Secondly, what do you want me to teach you?”

  I brightly smile with my heart picking up its pace. I’m such a nerd.

  “What new tech are you working on? Are you working with AI?” I focus on a dot in the sky. “Maybe a new drone?”

  With each question, Bryson’s eyes expand with surprise. I’m dying to dive into those ice-blue globes and explore his mind. The strides in technology and each milestone achieved by Seviride Industries are his off-spring, I salivate to know more.

  Ideas are firing, so I ramble on, “Did you hear about the new biotech for burn victims?” My eyes twinkle. “There’s also talk about a new titanium alloy with biometrics for amputees! Ooohhh! Are you building a six-million dollar man?”

  When I decide to take a breath, I bounce in my chair with an eager, dorky grin. He though, is frozen and stares like I’ve got Medusa snakes hissing out of my head.

  I get this look a lot. People don’t see me as a techie. Most people don’t see me at all.

  “Well,” he starts slowly, “we are working on software that will work through an embedded wireless computer to mimic electrical impulses to build muscle for the physically impaired. It’s still in testing phase.”