by Daya Daniels
RUIN
A Romance Novel
by:
Daya Daniels
CONTENTS
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Playlist
Quote
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
War Baby – A Novella
About the Author
Copyright@ 2018 by Daya Daniels
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any way, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or any other means without the explicit written permission of the author, except for brief quotations of the book when writing a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and even facts are the product of the author’s imagination. Wait a minute...especially facts. Any resemblance to actual people—alive, dead, or someplace in between—is completely by chance and likely in your head.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. Holy hell, this is important. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Let’s not forget! All song titles in this book are the property of the sole copyright owners.
Acknowledgments
Thank you first and foremost to all the readers. You are my tribe. Without you, my stories would have no audience.
Thank you to J. Zweifel for proofreading this novel.
As always, I appreciate all of you.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Readers,
It’s August, midday and scorching.
I’m standing in the middle of Times Square which is bustling with humans.
A man stands off to my left wearing a Superman leotard. His ass cheeks are squeezed into it so tightly that they’re spilling over the waistband of it creating serious muffin top. It’s quite an eyeball-scratching, side-splitting sight. Off to my right is an old woman who’s practically naked. She’s strumming a guitar and attempting to sing Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer.” A few feet away two newlyweds are having their photographs taken. I smile at the sight of fresh love…And just in front of me is a piece of contemporary art—a Viking ship made of wood which has a woman’s face carved into the bow of it.
With a grin, I scan all the nonstop action around me.
This is one of my favorite places to visit.
I couldn’t imagine Ryker and Griffon living anywhere else, so I knew this story had to have New York City at the heart of it. After all, it is a place of beauty, discovery, and ruin. It is everything this story encompasses.
In this journey you will also meet two of my favorite men—Pierce and Baby. You will have the chance to read their story at the end of this book. While it is not a must that you read War Baby – A Novella before you read RUIN, if you do choose to do so, it will help you to understand who these two souls are a little better.
Anyways, enjoy.
I hope you love Ryker and Griffon as much as I do.
Yours truly, Daya
#newyorkcity#loveislove#loveconquersall#ruin
PLAYLIST
“American Idiot” — Green Day
“Mr. Brightside” — The Killers
“Time Is Dancing” — Ben Howard
“Nocturne E Flat Major Op. 9 No. 2” — Frédéric Chopin
“Bohemian Rhapsody” — Queen
“I’m Upset” — Drake
“Welcome to the Machine” — Pink Floyd
“Best of You” — Foo Fighters
“To Be Alone” — Ben Howard
“Type of Way” — Rich Homie Quan
“Alive” — Pearl Jam
“Once Upon A Time in Paris” — Erik Satie
“Knocked Up” — Kings of Leon
“Bleed the Freak” — Alice in Chains
“Worth the Fight” — Broods
“Cool Kids” — Echosmith
WARNING: This novel contains strong subject matter, strong language, strong sexual content, and includes situations some readers may find disturbing. If you are sensitive to explicit sex, then this isn’t the book for you.
Move along...nothing to see here.
You have been warned.
“Woe, destruction, ruin and decay; the worse is death and death will have his day.”
—William Shakespeare, Richard II
For you, you badass, you.
CHAPTER ONE
GRIFFON
THIS-IS-BULLSHIT.
I scrub my face with my hands for the billionth time and squirm in the cold metal chair I’m sitting in. I should be listening, but instead I’m wondering about what they’ll be serving for dinner in this crap hole and what time I’ll be able to make my last phone call. I guestimate how many hours of TV they’ll let me have later tonight and around what time I’ll be able to go and jerk off before I go to sleep.
I huff.
We’re sitting in a perfect circle as if everyone here is about to sing kumbaya.
But nope.
Instead, we talk.
They told me it would be good for me to put my feelings out there, be understood, share more. What a load of kaka. Each time we do this, I feel more and more violated. Someone forcing me to tell my secrets and talk about my dead hopes and ridiculous dreams is an awful proposition. I prefer to keep those things to myself, thank you.
The new dude, Mason, to the left of me is moaning about his mother. How she never hugged him. How she drank too much. How he doesn’t really have many memories of her when he was a kid because she always left him in the care of his grandmother.
Boo fucking hoo.
Now, Mason is sobbing.
I take another deep breath.
The rando next to him pulls him in for a fierce hug.
And I can’t think of anything more gross—being physically embraced by a stranger. Getting dusted with their germs and all the fecal matter on their hands because they likely didn’t wash them today or probably yesterday either.
It’s all fucking disgusting.
I run a hand through my hair and peek at my wrist for a moment when the hoodie I’m wearing edges up to my forearm. I can barely feel my fingertips because it feels like I’m standing at the tip of Alaska in this cold, cold place. I admire the tatt of a tiny red heart I’d had put there two years ago when I first broke out of prison.
It’s beautiful, like a painting, and more spectacular than the replica on the wall across the room. It’s a damn good one too. Captures all the vivid colors and the lines and the vision Monet must’ve had when he first painted Gondola in Venice in 1908.
I let my gaze linger on the purple hue of the painting for a moment and allow myself to be taken away from the irritating voice of Samantha who is sniveling about how her father never paid much attention to her when she was a teenager.
I guess her daddy issues are what have made her into a whore.
But nobody says that, of course.
They all just nod, grimace, sympathize, and bullshit.
“Samantha, would you like to tell us more about your father?” Doctor Azad smiles, flashing everyone with all his pearly whites.
I exhale loud.
Doctor Azad tosses me a stare.
I know what it means, but I ignore it, as I always do, and lower my head.
Do
ctor Azad oversees this group of losers which I’m a part of. He’s around forty years old, I’m guessing, judging by the gray that edges his hairline and the light creases around his eyes. He’s experienced in all the crap we have stored up to dish out for him. He’s worked here for over ten years I’m told—specializes in rehabilitation and all sorts of other fancy stuff. He’s cool. Good-looking and rocking a thick black beard that is probably a little long for the average airline’s taste.
I’m pretty sure this dude gets a good old pat down from some asshole in the TSA line before he gets to board any airplane—probably twice!
Samantha sniffles. Her body shakes. And I know we’re in for another hour of listening to her explain why she’s had more dick in her ass in the last six months than I have in my entire life!
She cries more.
And the Tony Award goes to…Samantha…The Super-Whore!
I block it all out and scan the place—my new home—another prison.
It’s where I’ve been for the past four months sorting out my shitty life.
All around me is white white white.
White floors. White walls. White ceilings.
It’s like the inside of an insane asylum.
And everyone who works here wears white.
Just glorious.
I shift in my chair, take a deep breath, and keep my eyes focused on the shiny floors beneath my rubber shoes. The clock on the wall tells me it’s getting up to four o’clock in the afternoon which means in fifteen minutes exactly this dedicated hour of sharing will be over, and I can go back to my cell and stare at the white walls.
Fucking fantastic.
Across the room and beyond the large window is nothing but green—manicured shrubbery for miles. Maple trees. Oak trees. Birch trees. There’s an endless canopy of them that line the long gravel-covered road which leads here.
The silvery steeple of the west building inches into view with its red brick façade covered in ivy and moss and super clean windows.
I admire the pristine way everything around here looks…
The rich people whose checkbooks weigh more than they do. The fancy cars worth more than the average working-class person’s home. The upper-class accents which pronounce every word with precision and purpose as though they’re making a speech.
God, don’t get me started on the accents around here…
It all only serves as a reminder that I’m in Connecticut—Westport to be specific.
This place is home to around thirty thousand people—all rich.
In the 1900s, the town had a sort of cultural explosion when artists and musicians and people such as F. Scott Fitzgerald moved here and decided to stay. So did folks like Paul Newman and the Ricardo family on I Love Lucy.
It’s quaint here. It’s quiet. It’s simply not-my-style.
I should be in the city, in Hell’s Kitchen, where I was born.
I don’t even want to consider how Giovanni—my father, a.k.a Babbo—could afford my stay in this place. He’ll be laying terracotta tile for the next century just to pay it all off and moaning and bitching to me for just as long about how much money and trouble I’m always costing him.
Blah, blah, fucking blah.
I should be out having fun, drinking, smoking, snorting up whatever dust is available.
After twenty years of what I can tell you has been a very average life, this is where I find myself.
In rehab…
I look around once more, unable to truly believe my present situation.
I’m at Spero.
Interesting name for what you find lurking within the walls here…
Latin for “hope.”
Spero has been one of the top rehabilitation centers in the northeast for at least the last twenty years. Known for fixing folks like Scott Weiland, Anna Nicole Smith, and Corey Monteith.
I guess I shouldn’t say “fixing” considering all those folks are now stone dead.
Expensive. Expensive. Expensive.
After sobbing away about why she’s such a dick slut, Samantha is practically buried beneath a mountain of loose tissues.
I roll my eyes and focus back on the floor, avoiding Doctor Azad’s gaze. Then I look up. His brown eyes are laser-focused on me, setting me up for the kill and his pending question feels like an incoming nuclear bomb.
The next dude talks for ten minutes about his roaring addiction. The whys, then whens, and the hows. I give him a quick once-over and decide he’s too fat to be on any steady sort of diet of blow. I say he’s lying about the whole thing or he eats everything besides his Sub-Zero after he’s been out on a binge.
The room goes quiet.
Samantha is still sobbing.
Awesome.
I massage the bridge of my nose with my thumb and index finger.
I can feel Doctor Azad’s gaze on me.
I wait for it. I wait for it. I wait for it.
“Griffon, would you like to speak today?” Doctor Azad asks.
And there it is…
Another breath leaves me as I lift my head and gaze out at the circle of love gathered around me. All eyes are on me, waiting, hoping, practically begging.
But, nope.
I won’t.
I never speak.
I clear my throat. “No, I don’t have anything to share.” I smile big, bullshitting.
Doctor Azad gives me a blank look then tucks his lips back in as if what he was thinking about saying he’d quickly reconsidered. He huffs and adjusts the glasses at the edge of his nose, then drops his pen in the pocket of his white jacket.
Glancing to my left is Lauren who stares and stares, never says a word. She’s in here for bulimia or some crap. She’s a little too close for my comfort. I inch away a little in my chair when she leans forward dusting me with the putrid scent of peaches. My guess is that it’s been slathered all over her skin or its in her hair. Either way, it’s revolting.
She smiles. “I think you’re cute, Griffon.” Batting her fake lashes, she tosses her hair so hard it’s a wonder her neck doesn’t snap with the action.
This girl keeps trying to talk to me! I guess it didn’t help that I directed her to her room when she first got here. But that was just to get her out of my face. See where a little kindness gets you…
“I hate pickles too.” I grin.
A dent forms between her overplucked brows.
I don’t make friends easily, if that isn’t already just a little apparent.
“Griffon, are you sure?” Doctor Azad presses his lips together. “The purpose of these group sessions is to share.” He gestures to everyone in the circle. “And if you aren’t sharing, Griffon, then you’re only making it harder on yourself.” He doesn’t smile. Honestly, he only seems bored.
I’m not completely amiss that any progress or lack thereof is reported to the proper authorities which then determines the length of time I must remain in this shit hole.
Doctor Azad tips his head forward just once.
I slap my hands on my thighs then rub them together vigorously. “Okay, what do you want to know?”
“Why don’t you talk about what brings you here,” Lauren suggests.
My eyes narrow but I force a smile anyways and squirm in my chair feeling as though I’m under those bright interrogation lights suspects always are in the movies.
“Well, I’ve been here now for twenty-eight days.” I fake-chuckle. “I didn’t expect to be here for this long.” I gift Doctor Azad with a long stare.
He only nods in my direction, says nothing.
I speak a little bit more then stop when the creak and clank of the double doors at the opposite side of the room open and the orderlies escort a dude in.
Said dude keeps his head of dark hair low. It’s long enough to cover his entire forehead and dusts his lashes. It’s good hair. The thick kind. The type of locks that your fingers could get lost in. Not short and not too long. It edges his ears and dusts the pale skin on his neck. My eyes trac
e over his chiseled jawline and his perfectly straight nose. He’s clean-shaven, no piercings or visible tatts. He’s as unblemished as a newborn baby.
The room nosedives into complete silence.
Doctor Azad meets them halfway, mutters a few words, then escorts the new dude in and seats him directly across from me.
Our new guest keeps his head low as he’s seated in the chair like a prisoner.
I keep my eyes on him.
He’s a good height. Medium build. Not bulky. Just right. Just-like-me—a boy-man with nice hands.
Something about him feels familiar…
I scrunch my face when I realize he’s laughing to himself.
He’s annoying already, and he hasn’t even sat down yet!
I keep my eyes on him.
Finally, he straightens up in the chair, then slouches into it, spreading his thighs wide, still smiling. He cocks his head to the side and eyeballs every person in this circle of regret and then his eyes land on me.
His mouth becomes tight.
He stares, and he stares for far too long.
I struggle to stop myself from narrowing my own in wonderment about just what he is looking at and then I know…
His smile is gone and has been replaced with something else arrogant as fuck and twice as irritating.
He’s difficult to read.
Damn near impossible, honestly.
Then, he blinks his long dark lashes and pins me with so much blue, I’m practically blinded. It’s the only color I see. I’m drifting, falling, sinking into the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Everyone, this is Ryker,” Doctor Azad introduces the young man to everyone.
The standard greeting from everyone is extended to the newcomer who’s still staring at me.
My dick twitches in my jeans in a way that makes me uncomfortable.
“Sooooo, you were saying, Griffon?” Doctor Azad prompts me to speak.
I tear my eyes away from Ryker’s and clear my throat, almost choking because I haven’t swallowed in what feels like an entire hour. “Y-y-yes, I was saying.” I rub my jaw, searching my mind because I have no clue what I had intended to say a few minutes before. A slow smile creeps its way across my lips. “On second thought, Doctor Azad, I don’t think I’ll talk today.”