Complicated Parts: Book 1 of the Complicated Parts Duet

by Ashley Jade

  My God. I never knew a person could cry so hard. So severely.

  It's like she's sobbing from the very depths of her soul. Falling apart piece by broken piece right in front of me.

  Not only is it one of the most personal things I've ever witnessed. It's the saddest and most gut-wrenching.

  I despise the things it does to me.

  Her breathing speeds up, coming in short tattered bursts. I need to figure out a way to calm her down before she passes out.

  I cup her face with my free hand. “I won my first poker game when I was twelve.” I wait for her to look at me before I go on. “My father had a few of his old football teammates over one night, and even though he told me I wasn't allowed in the room with them, I snuck in anyway.”

  I run my thumb over her jawbone and she sucks in a breath. “He decided to teach me a lesson for disobeying him, so he made me sit down and play. If I won, I'd get whatever I wanted. But if I lost, I'd be grounded and confined to my room for the rest of the summer.”

  Her eyes widen, and I continue. “The stakes were pretty steep, but to everyone's shock, including mine, I ended up winning. It was the first time I ever beat him at anything. The first time I ever truly felt like I won in life.”

  I reach into my pocket and take out the small blue disk. “This was one of the chips from the winning pot that night. I took it when he wasn't looking, and since then, I've always considered it my lucky poker chip. I know most people will say there's no such thing as luck and that it's nothing more than an illusion, but I believe in it. I feel calmer and more in control of my life when I have it.”

  She gasps when I slide the chip inside the pocket of her jeans. “Illusions aren't always a bad thing, Kit. Sometimes it's your mind's way of saving you when reality keeps trying to break you. A way of giving you something to believe in when you don't have anything left.”

  I rest my hand on her hip. “Our reality sucks right now, and unfortunately for you, I don't know the first thing about comforting someone. But if you can pretend I'm not your mortal enemy and work with me, I'll do my best to get you through this. Deal?”

  She gives me a small nod. “Deal.”

  She looks like she wants to say something else but decides against it.

  “What?”

  “I...” She hesitates, looks down at her feet. “Breslin told me what happened to your father. I feel like I should apologize, but I know how horrible he—”

  “Kit.” My voice is low, lethal. “I don't want to talk about it.”

  “If you change your mind—”

  “I won't.”

  Not now. Not ever. Not with her or anyone else.

  That mouth of hers starts to protest again, but I pin her with an icy stare, issuing her a final warning.

  “Okay, fine. I'll drop it.”

  Her gaze swivels around. “How long do you think we're going to be in here?”

  “Not that long.” I look down the length of her body and tell my cock not to react. “Do you have your phone on you?”

  She shakes her head. “It's in the cafeteria. Probably dead by now.”

  She flinches, and I tamp down the urge to ask her why she never called me back.

  It's not like it matters anyway. Her reaction to me showing up was loud and clear.

  “Well, in that case, it could be hours. Maybe days.”

  It's a cheap shot. I know she's scared and my ego is bruised.

  Her eyes go big. “Days?”

  “Worst case scenario.”

  “What's the best case?”

  “We walk out of here in one piece,” I deadpan.

  She swallows. “Right.”

  When she starts to tremble, I feel like a dick. I told her I'd get her through this and I'm doing the opposite and making it worse. I need to put my sour grapes aside before she has another meltdown.

  “We'll be fine.”

  Her stare ping-pongs around. “I'm feeling a little claustrophobic.”

  I don't want to let go of her wrists because I don't trust her not to lunge for the button, so I tug down the zipper on her jacket. “Better?”

  “Not really.” She looks up. “Mind giving me my extremities back?”

  “That depends. Are you planning on punching me again?”

  “Do you think I would tell you if I was?”

  Can't argue with that logic. “Fair enough.”

  I release her and she wastes no time schlepping her jacket off her shoulders before reaching for the hem of her sweatshirt.

  Heat ripples down my back and settles in my cock when she pulls it over her head and I catch a sliver of her toned abdomen and belly button piercing.

  “Preston?”

  I'm so fixated on the hint of black ink peeking out above the waistband of her jeans, I almost don't hear her. “Yeah?”

  “What if he finds us?” She cranes her neck, looking at something behind me. “He could climb the elevator shaft and find a way in. It's not like it would be that hard, there are only two floors in this building, including the cafeteria. It happens all the time in movies.”

  I follow her frantic gaze to the blood on the floor and alter my stance, blocking her from looking at it. “He won't.”

  She clutches her throat. “How can you be so sure? He's clearly a psychotic murderer who—”

  I bring my finger to her lips, silencing her. “I won't let him kill you.”

  She pales. “You can't promise something like that. And why would you in the first place? We're not even friends. And you left L—” Emotion clogs her throat. “I don't want to die.”

  She's so vulnerable in this moment, so pliable. It chips away at the ice around my heart.

  “You're right, I can't promise you that. But what I can promise is, I'll do everything I can to make sure we make it out of here alive. Both of us.” I frame her face with my hands, forcing her to look at me. “It's me and you, angry girl. Until the end, got it?”

  She wraps her fingers around my wrists, holding me in place. “You make it sound like we're some kind of dynamic duo.”

  I grin. “Who says we're not?”

  She snorts. “If that's the case, I think you need a better sidekick. I'm kind of a pussy when it comes to dying.”

  “I gave you my lucky poker chip, remember? So, if by some freak chance he finds us, you'll be okay.”

  She smiles and even though her eyes are puffy and that black shit is smearing her cheeks, I'm awestruck by how gorgeous she is.

  “You really believe in that thing, huh?”

  “I'm a gambler, Kit. Superstition is our religion, casinos are our churches, and Lady Luck is the God we worship.”

  The corner of her mouth tugs up. “I think you mean Goddess, given Lady Luck is a female and all.”

  I smirk. “That she is. Makes getting down on my knees to pray a whole lot of fun.”

  She makes a face. “Wow, even in the face of danger you still find time to be a perv.”

  “Priorities, baby.”

  She scowls. “Don't call me baby.”

  There she is.

  She crosses her arms with a huff and the logo on her t-shirt catches my attention. It's a hideous goat drinking coffee. “What's the deal with the ugly goat?”

  She looks down. “That's not a goat, it's a llama. And he's not ugly.” The offensive bite in her tone is adorable. “I work at the Java Llama Cafe.”

  “You have a job?” There's no point in hiding my surprise. “I thought your parents were billionaires and you got an allowance every month.”

  She jabs a finger in my chest. “Okay, first—that was rude. And second—yes, I have a job.”

  “Why? It's not like you need the money.”

  “I went with Breslin when she applied. Figured it couldn't hurt.” She shrugs. “Plus, I hear it looks good on resumes. I'd like to do something more than shop my life away after I graduate. Especially since my Nanna keeps insisting on these—” She waves a hand. “Never mind, it's not important.”

 
; The fact that she won't tell me proves otherwise. “What's not?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Why would I tell you when I said it's not important?”

  “I'm allergic to seafood.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

  “I just told you something that's not important. Your turn.”

  “Well, that's kind of important—”

  “Why?” I blatantly run my gaze from her small and perky tits down to the curve of her hips and back again. “You planning on taking me out to dinner, Bishop?”

  “Sure.” Her eyes narrow. “How does an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet sound?”

  “Like something you'd really enjoy.”

  Her mouth drops open in shock, and then she bursts into laughter. Not just ordinary laughter either. She tosses her head back and clutches her stomach, her small frame convulsing.

  The girl laughs just like she cries...with every part of her.

  I want to point out that it was more of an amusing retort than it was funny, but the sight of her looking so carefree steals my breath.

  She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “You're a jackass, but I needed that.” Her expression goes slack. “You really want to know?”

  I nod.

  “My Nanna makes me go on dates with guys for money.”

  “What?” I roar, causing her to jump.

  Grandmothers are supposed to give you ugly sweaters and butterscotch candy, not pimp you out.

  Then again, from what Kit told me, her grandmother is a real piece of work.

  Anger rolls through me and all I can think about is finding that old geezer and giving her a piece of my mind.

  Making her granddaughter sleep with men for money. That's some fucked-up shit.

  “I think I understand why you told me your parents were rich now. Man, everything makes so much sense. No wonder you're a lesbian.”

  Her brows furrow in confusion, but I hold up a hand. I don't want to judge her, but she needs to know she's better than this.

  “Look, I know the money's good. And clearly you're very talented, given your expensive car and other perks. But you don't have to suck dick—”

  “You think I'm a prostitute?” she screeches.

  I blink. “Is that a trick question?”

  Just how far down the rabbit hole is she?

  She groans. “I don't have sex with them, you ass. I told you, I go on dates. In turn, she gives me my monthly allotment from my parents. I can't believe you thought I was a hooker.”

  My shoulders rise in a shrug. “In my defense, I've never been on a date that didn't at least end in a hand job.”

  “Right, well, there's none of that going on. The guys she chooses are sweet and respectable for the most part. Usually we just grab fast food and hang out.” She chews on her thumbnail. “It's a pretty simple arrangement. I go on a date with a guy of her choosing, I get my allowance. It's only once a month, so it's really not a big deal.”

  “Except it is. Because she's forcing you to do something by manipulating you with your parents' money.”

  She sinks against the wall. “I know. I guess I keep hoping she'll eventually get it. Give up trying to change me and accept me for who I am.”

  “Is the money really that important?” When she gives me a look, I say, “No judgment here. Trust me, no one understands what a powerful aphrodisiac money is more than I do.”

  “It's not about the money. I mean it is, but not because of monetary greed. The money is all I have left of them.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “And whenever she threatens to cut me off, I get scared. Like if I'm not careful, everything they left will slip right through my fingers and it will be like losing them twice.”

  On some level, I can understand that. Although different reasons and circumstances entirely, the result is still the same.

  She's not getting the money she rightfully deserves either, because someone else is in control of it.

  People who deserve it far less than we do.

  It's like a glimpse of what I can look forward to in the future.

  I know my brother will gladly give me some of our father's money, that's not the issue. The issue is that it will come with his own contingencies and I'll be at his mercy. A lap dog to the rich and powerful NFL star.

  Screw that noise.

  I've already spent my life being controlled by a man I hate, and I'll be damned if I'm going to sit back and let it happen again. No matter who it is.

  Kit shouldn't stand for it either. The money will be all hers in another four years. She should tell her grandmother to go get fucked and live her own life.

  “Why do you put up with it? I know the money is your tie to them, I get it. But do you really think your parents would want you to accept the way she treats you?”

  “I'd like to think they wouldn't but...” Her voice trails off and she bows her head.

  “But what?”

  Her eyes are glassy when she looks at me. “The more time that passes, the more things I forget about them. Like the sound of my dad's voice. Or what my mom's hands looked like.” She sniffs. “I'm fortunate I have a video and pictures to help me remember those things...but lately, I'm starting to forget the things that can't be captured. The things I won't get back. Like how soft my mom's skin was. Or how precisely she applied her lipstick.” Her voice cracks like crystal. “The way my dad used to hum to himself while he was coding on his computer. Or the robot skit he did whenever I'd wander into his office.”

  She folds her arms around herself. “I'm beginning to think my uncle was right that night.”

  The heartbroken look on her face makes my chest ache. “About what?”

  “Remember when I told you I came home early from the Caribbean because I got into a fight with my Nanna?”

  “I do.”

  It was only a few days ago. Although now that I think about it, it feels longer.

  Is that how it is when you meet someone who's supposed to be a permanent fixture in your life? Like actual time doesn't apply to your relationship because you feel like you've known them forever?

  She wrinkles her nose. “Well, the reason we fought was because he showed up.”

  “Shit.”

  She gives me a tight nod. “I know. I haven't seen him in years, not since they pulled my parents out of the river, and he had the nerve to show up at my grandmother's condo like a king greeting his peasants. On the anniversary of my parents' death no less.”

  She balls her fists. “Turns out she invited him. Meanwhile, he couldn't even be bothered to come to their funeral.” She makes a noise in the back of her throat. “Which is probably a good thing because I'm pretty sure I would have spit on him and caused a scene.”

  Her lips pinch. “Needless to say, I lost my shit during dinner that night and ripped him a new one. I threw my drink in his face and threatened to stab him with a steak knife if he didn't crawl back under the rock he came from like the snake he is.”

  Pride swells in my chest and I smile. “Atta girl.”

  She doesn't return my smile. Instead, her shoulders hunch and her gaze draws inward. “She told me to leave. She chose him, just like I knew she always would.” A breath shudders out of her. “As I was packing my bags, he cornered me in my room.”

  Instantly, I'm on alert. Like a guard dog ready to attack. “Did he hurt you?”

  I'm all but foaming at the mouth, ready to draw and quarter the motherfucker like they did in the old days.

  “No,” she says softly. “Not physically anyway.”

  Dread coils my gut as I watch her try to get a handle on her emotions. “He told me I was crazy for thinking he had something to do with their deaths, and that I was just looking for someone to blame because I was angry. And to further drive his point home, he brought up the pilot...and the pictures.”

  When I give her a questioning look, embarrassment floods her features. “I...um. I had a lot of issues when I was younger. I would flip out for no reason in school—at
tack my peers, teachers. Basically anyone and everyone for no real reason. And when I wasn't doing that, I was drawing pictures of the pilot. Violent and disturbing pictures. Pictures that scared people.” She clears her throat. “My personality did a complete one-eighty. I was no longer the happy and cheerful little girl that I used to be.”

  My urge to defend her is instinctual. “Who could blame you?”

  “That was pretty much everyone's standpoint for the first few years. Until my behavior became worse and I was kicked out of school. After that, I had a private teacher and my grandmother put me into therapy. My therapist informed us both that it wasn't normal for me to still be so triggered about what happened, and my unhealthy obsession with seeing the pilot suffer...was just that...unhealthy. I was put on a few mind-numbing medications that caused me not to feel anything, good or bad, and eventually—I stopped arguing with people and stopped drawing pictures. I was allowed back in school by the time high school started.”

  Her words punch a hole through my chest and I wait for her to continue.

  “My uncle brought all of that up when he cornered me. He told me it was proof I was mentally unstable and making things up in my head. He said I needed to get over it and move on because it happened so long ago. That there was no reason for me to still be mourning my parents when it's not like I even knew them to begin with.”

  She curls her arms around her waist. “I can't help but think that maybe he's right. Maybe I am crazy. And maybe, I never really knew my parents in the first place. How could I? They died when I was eight. I turned twenty-one last month. They've been dead for more than half my life. And now that my memories are fading and I barely have any, it's almost like they never existed at all.”

  She tucks her chin down and covers her face with her hands like she's trying to shield herself from a dangerous storm.

  It breaks my goddamn heart.

  “Kit.” I don't recognize my voice. There's a note of warmth in it that I've never heard before.

  She looks at me through her fingers and our gazes clash.

  Everything inside me stirs, sends me spiraling into unchartered territory.