Complicated Parts: Book 1 of the Complicated Parts Duet

by Ashley Jade

  Evidently far enough because not only is this street not well lit at all, it looks rundown.

  Shit. I must be off the Strip. Another round of the spins hits me, and I hold out my arm, bracing myself against the side of a building that’s positively not open for any kind of business. Same can be said for everything in the near vicinity given how eerily quiet it is. This is my own fault for not paying attention. Fortunately, I have my phone with me, so I’ll call an Uber. I’m sure they encounter this kind of thing all the time, so they’ll have no problem figuring out where I am and bringing me back to the hotel.

  I just need the twirling in my head to stop for two seconds so I can fish my phone out. Easy peasy.

  I don’t want to let go of the building because it’s the only thing keeping me upright, so I reach inside my purse with my free hand. I do a mental fist bump when I locate the sleek object. As soon as I go to take it out, however; something or rather, someone, pummels into me and I lose my bearings and fall.

  “Thanks a lot, asshole.”

  The asshole in question doesn’t hear me because he’s running faster than the wind, all while carrying what appears to be a duffle bag of some sort. But who knows, it’s dark out and my brain is having what feels like an underwater rave party with my neurons despite my insistence that they take it elsewhere. Not to mention all the alcohol I can feel swooshing around in my belly and filtering out through my veins.

  I’m in worse shape than I thought. In fact, this pavement is looking like a mighty good place to crash right about now.

  I shake my head, cursing myself when it elicits another round of spins. Shucking the gravel off my hands and knees, I watch Forrest continue his sprint and rise from the ground.

  Only to be walloped by another person the second I stand. Fuck a duck, I’m not made of glass. Surely, they can see me. Rude nincompoops.

  “Seriously? Does anyone have any manners anymore?”

  This guy ignores me and continues running. Same as the first one did. A second later, another dude whizzes by, narrowly missing me.

  Good lord, I wasn’t aware Vegas had so many marathon runners training at two in the morning.

  The first guy is still ahead but not by much because the guy raging bolts like a cannon. Then he grips the back of the first guy’s shirt and they both tumble down.

  Serves them right. I look around to make sure the stampede is over before I stand again.

  I pull out my phone once more, but furious yelling snags my attention and when I look at the men, my stomach drops.

  The two guys are teaming up and throwing punches at the first guy who’s protecting his duffle bag with his life. Granted he’s big, and he’s holding his own just fine with his one free hand, but two guys against one isn’t a fair fight.

  Stay out of it, Kit.

  A scream burns in my throat when I see one of them pull out a gun. The guy being attacked doesn’t realize it though, because he’s too busy fighting off the other guy who keeps trying to pry the bag from his grip.

  I don’t know what’s so important in that stupid bag, but it’s not worth dying for.

  “Hey,” I scream, hoping I’ll startle them enough to scatter, but they’re too far away to hear me.

  Don’t go over there, Kit.

  My feet start moving on their own accord and while my brain is chastising me for becoming the girl in a horror movie who’s too stupid to live, my heart is thudding with panic as flashbacks of the shooting slice through me like a sizzling knife through butter.

  The people who lost their lives will always live on in my guilty conscience, and I will eternally blame myself and wish I could have done something to prevent it.

  Maybe this time I can.

  Despite the whoosh in my head growing worse, I manage to locate my phone, preparing to call the police. “Give him the bag, he has a gun!”

  Two things happen at that moment.

  One—the guy with the gun says something in what sounds like Russian right before he points it at me.

  And two—a second later, the duffle bag lands at the gunman’s feet with a heavy thud.

  “It’s yours, Niko. Now, put the fucking gun down and go.”

  The deep rumble of his voice roots me to the spot. I know that voice better than I know my own. It’s the voice that haunts me, plagues me, and twists my insides up so tightly I can’t breathe due to the swell of anger that strangles me whenever he crosses my mind.

  It’s the voice of the man who saved me in a school cafeteria…and then turned right around and killed me in the most brutal way.

  Straight through my heart.

  I shake my head, desperate to hold on to some form of logic. It can’t be him. It’s not him.

  I look up at the same time the men start to leave, or at least I think they do. My heart is thrashing so hard it reverberates through my ears and my vision is blurry, causing everything to be out of focus…

  Except for him.

  My head buzzes and there’s a weird hum in the air that seems to roll through my entire body. I stagger back, trying like hell to swim, but I can’t. I’m being swept away in the tide.

  I peel my gaze away, certain it must be a mistake. This guy looks different. Older. Solid. A little edgier…dangerous even. Nothing like the lean, preppy guy in suits who continues to prowl the dark corners of my mind like a burglar.

  I clutch my chest; my reality is so disorientated I can’t form cohesive thoughts. He’s saying something, I think it might be my name, but I can’t hear anything because the humming zigzagging through my head is getting worse. I try to walk away again, but my body doesn’t get the memo. I wobble instead and when I make the mistake of looking up—my worst fear is confirmed.

  Through the kaleidoscope made of the pieces of my broken heart—I see him. And this time there’s no mistake about it.

  Preston Holden is standing right in front of me.

  And he’s the last thing I see before my body gives out, everything fades to black…and I crash.

  Chapter 7

  “Kit.” I clap my hands, hoping the action will make her focus.

  Her bloodshot hazel orbs peer up at me in confusion and then in horror as she totters back.

  Before I have time to react, she falls faster than a stack of dominos. I manage to catch her right before she hits the ground.

  Great. This situation just went from bad to worse. Dealing with a passed-out chick is the last thing I need after losing Campanelli’s money to the Russians.

  A passed-out chick I haven’t seen in three years and two days, but who’s counting.

  “Bishop. Wake the fuck up.”

  Silence. I’m tempted to leave her here, but the poltergeist beating in my ribcage won’t let me. Instead, I check to make sure she’s still breathing before I throw her over my shoulder.

  Christ, I can’t believe the unstable girl in my arms is Kit Bishop.

  She almost got herself killed tonight. What the hell was she thinking?

  Scratch that—judging by her skimpy dress that leaves little to the imagination, and that glazed over look in her eyes before she collapsed, she wasn’t thinking at all. She’s too intoxicated. Presumably due to partying in Vegas.

  Which I suppose, explains why she was wandering around by herself at two in the morning. Kit’s not stupid. A bit naïve sure, but she’s far from an idiot. And she’s more than just drunk.

  “What are you on?”

  When I don’t get a response, I jerk my shoulder until she moves.

  “Bar.” She starts slipping away, so I nudge her again. “Alcohol.”

  “Yeah, no shit. Did you take drugs tonight?”

  “No—a little bit.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “What—”

  “The kind that makes me roll in really warm clouds.”

  Ecstasy. Those clouds of hers are warm because she’s overheating and most likely dehydrated. And if she scored E off some prick at a bar, there’s no telling what else was in it.
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  I feel around my pockets for my phone and curse as I recall that I tossed it before the game. Shit.

  Thinking fast, I look around for the one she was holding. As luck would have it, I don’t have to search far, because seconds later, a phone on the ground lights up and some Melissa Ethridge ringtone starts to play.

  When I bend down to pick it up, I see the name “BILF” flash across the screen. I have no idea who or what that is, but I don’t care. I press the ignore button so I can call a cab.

  “I’m dropping you off at the hospital.”

  She makes a whimpering sound. “No.”

  “Why?”

  She stirs. “My nanna—please, no hospital.”

  My jaw clenches as something deep inside my chest shifts.

  They say everyone has either an addiction, obsession, or weakness in this world. Something that can penetrate you down to the core and influence you in a way nothing else can.

  I have all three.

  One happens to be her.

  But she’s also the one thing I can never have—which means I need to get rid of her.

  “Tough shit, I’m not in the mood to take on a charity case tonight.”

  She squirms, trying to maneuver out of my grip. “Then leave me.” Her voice is slurred, nearly inaudible. “Everybody else does.”

  Nope, I’m not giving in. I can’t afford to…for a multitude of reasons. The most current one consisting of the fact that I’m going to have a psychotic mob boss on my case in a few hours.

  Her breathing softens, and she sags against me, settling in—like she knows I’m going to relent before I do.

  Like she knows she’s still in my veins, embedded in my marrow…no matter how much time has passed or how much things have changed.

  She’s still my constant. The last person I think about when I drag my sorry ass to bed after too many beers, and the first person I think about when I wake up with my head throbbing.

  She’s my twenty-one in blackjack, my jackpot on a slot machine, and my royal flush that’s always just out of my reach.

  She’s the lethal poison I can’t get out of my system.

  Fuck you, angry girl.

  With a sigh, I surrender and head toward my motel. Carrying the girl who holds all the fucked-up shards of the person I still can’t face in the mirror.

  “Warm, it’s so warm.”

  “This is nothing, you should visit in the summer.” I kick the door behind me closed and drop her on the outdated floral comforter. “Don’t puke in my bed.”

  She murmurs something I can’t decipher before turning on her side. I try not to stare at the curve of her ass as I walk into the bathroom to get a cool washcloth.

  I make sure to grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge on my way back. “Here.”

  Soft snoring is my only response.

  Cracking open the bottle of water, I ask the good Lord for some patience. Then I roll her back toward me, place the washcloth on her forehead, and prop her up to take a few sips.

  I should have asked him for some willpower instead because the top of her dress slips down ever so slightly and those pouty lips of hers moan around the bottle before she swallows.

  I’ve been with lots of women, but none of them have ever sent me reeling quite like she does. I still want her in every capacity, on every surface, and at my every disposal.

  You’d think three years would have diluted the potency, taken some of the shine off the apple, but it didn’t. Not even close.

  Every time I jerked and every time I fucked…she was there. Lingering like a stain that won’t come clean.

  Reminding me that we always want what we can’t have.

  I bite the inside of my cheek when the tip of her tongue darts out to catch the liquid trickling from the corner of her mouth.

  She misses it completely though, and I watch as the drop runs down her suprasternal notch—otherwise known as that sexy little indent between her clavicles, before gliding down her chest and continuing to her...

  “This is good water.”

  Feeling like I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar, I peel my gaze away. “I’m pretty sure it’s just tap with a fancy label.”

  “Can I have more?”

  Nodding, I go fetch her another one from the mini fridge. “Aside from going to bars and popping ecstasy, what else are you doing in Vegas?”

  “Work.” Her voice is low, and her words are still a bit garbled. “I really loved my job.”

  My ears tune in at her use of the past tense. “Loved? What happened?”

  She drops her head in her hands. “I’m not sure.”

  The sadness in her tone makes me want to put my fist through a wall and I have to remind myself that whatever the issue is, it’s Kit’s bullshit and not mine.

  I hold the bottle out to her. “Here.”

  She makes no move for it, instead she sinks down, dozing off for a second time.

  Placing one knee on the bed, I wrap an arm around her for support and haul her back up. “Not yet, sleeping beauty. You need to drink some more water first.”

  “No thank you.”

  “Kit.”

  When she starts to decline again, I push on her chin until her mouth parts and shove it between her lips. “Take a sip.”

  Finally, she concedes. Swear it’s like dealing with an infant. My chest contracts with that thought, but I focus back on Kit who takes the water from me and begins guzzling it down like she can’t get enough of it.

  I seize it back and place it on the nightstand. “You’ll get sick if you drink too much too fast.”

  I freeze when her palm slides over my chest. “This is really soft. What’s it made from?”

  I’m about to tell her it’s just a regular black t-shirt, but the words fall from my lips when she ventures lower, causing my abs to contract under her touch. Apparently, I’ve unknowingly entered one of the circles of hell because this is the sweetest form of torture there is.

  I catch her wrist while I still have the restraint to stop her. “Don’t touch me.”

  She shrugs, not looking at all put-off. “Sorry.” Her eyes become droopy and she slumps down on the pillow. “Thanks for the wa—”

  “I want you out of here by morning.”

  I start to move off the bed, but a tug on my arm halts me. “Why?”

  Because I can’t stand being in the same vicinity as you.

  My jaw works. “I have shit to do.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Against my better judgment, I look at her…and immediately regret it.

  On impulse, I go to wipe away the black crap smearing her cheeks due to her tears, but reach over and turn off the light instead. “Get some sleep.”

  I go to stand again, but she tugs me back, more forcefully this time, and my composure snaps. I’ve had about all I can take of this.

  “What the fuck do you want from me, Bishop?”

  I don’t realize how deadly my tone is until her eyes go wide. “You’ve never been this mean in my dreams before.”

  A callous, bitter laugh escapes me—of-fucking-course she would think this is all some kind of hallucination in her delusional state.

  Shifting, I prop my arms on either side of her body, hovering above her. “Well, I hate to tell you, sweetheart, but this isn’t a dream.” I incline my head so we’re nose to nose. “However, if you don’t shut the hell up and stop pissing me the fuck off, it will become your nightmare real quick. Got it?”

  “I don’t understand—”

  I punch the mattress. “That’s just it. You don’t understand, and you never will, so do us both a favor and stop talking.”

  She scowls and the organ inside my chest skitters to a stop altogether.

  “I don’t know why you’re being so mean to me when—”

  “When what?” I lean in farther, ghosting over her lips. “When I hurt your little feelings by getting sucked off?” I tilt my head, brushing my mouth along her ear. “What�
�s the matter, angry girl? Did it make you jealous?” She whimpers, but I don’t stop. I need her to hate me. I need to push her buttons the way her mere presence seems to push every single one of mine.

  But mostly, I need her to get the fuck out of my life again. For good.

  I nip at her neck, deliberately provoking her. “That’s it, isn’t it? You wished it was you taking me deep and sucking all the cum out of my dick. Don’t you?”

  “No—” A moan cuts her off and it surprises us both. But not nearly as much as what happens next.

  She starts grinding against the leg that’s wedged between both of hers.

  A flush spreads from her cheeks to her chest. “I can’t help it.” Embarrassment floods her features. “Oh, God. I need to wake up.”

  I’m torn between wanting to burst that bubble of hers with a reality check, and my own selfish greed. As usual the latter wins out.

  I look down the length of her body and a surge of arousal hits me like a freight train, making my dick strain against my zipper. All of her dry humping has caused her dress to bunch up past her thighs…the only thing preventing me from seeing every inch of that smooth holy grail is the leg she’s still rubbing herself on.

  My jaw tics and I peel my gaze away. “You’re not wearing any panties.”

  It’s like she’s intentionally provoking me.

  Either she doesn’t hear me, or she’s too far gone to acknowledge my question. Her eyes roll back and her chest heaves, causing the top of her dress to dip more—revealing an agonizingly, teasing peek of her pink nipples.

  Like a cobra who wants to sample his meal before he devours it whole, my mouth finds the exposed skin and I give it a little flick with my tongue. “What happened to your panties, Kit?”

  My self-control is hanging by a thread. She has less than a second to stop what she’s doing, or I’m going to do us both a solid by spreading her legs, grabbing the headboard, and fucking her into the middle of next week.