Break So Soft: Break So Soft Duet

by Black, Stasia

  Break So Soft

  Break So Soft Duet

  Stasia Black

  Copyright © 2018 Stasia Black

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Preview of Hunter: a Snow White Romance

  Also by Stasia Black

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  CALLIE

  The bass of the club beat vibrates through my feet and up to my ribcage. I close my eyes and everything tight in me loosens as my hips start to sway with the beat.

  There’s that delicious electricity in the air. Bodies are thick on the dark, crowded dance floor. The music is so loud it drowns out every other thought. I could deep swaying and lose myself out here on the dance floor and I’m tempted.

  My eyes snap open again. Because no, I’m not here to lose myself. I’ve done enough of that over the last four months. For most of June and July, I barely left the house except for work.

  Then I went out, very reluctantly, with some coworkers for happy hour one night and discovered something amazing. It’s the same thing that’s drawn me out tonight.

  I’m here to fucking feel alive again. Or as alive as I can with the most vital part of myself amputated from my life—my son.

  Not thinking about that right now. Not thinking about any of it.

  Several people enter the club behind me and I finally move forward. The stiletto heels I’m wearing force me to walk in a certain way. Back straight. Hips swaying. If I’m honest, I’m fucking strutting.

  I own it. This is my catwalk. The club’s so crowded, I doubt anyone’s looking at me particularly, but I imagine they are. I’m commanding every eye in this place. They are all at my fucking beck and call. I revel in it, the power I have in this moment.

  It’s not all in my head, either. When I sit at the bar and cross my legs, casually fluffing the wild shoulder-length red hair of the wig I splurged on last month, I don’t just feel like a queen on her throne. The people in the sphere around me respond to me as if I am one.

  A couple of women look down at their own dresses self-consciously. The man sitting beside me immediately angles his body toward me and away from the woman he was flirting with moments before.

  I hide a smile as the bartender, also a man, notices me among several people vying for his attention. He leans in as he asks what I’d like to drink.

  “Vodka tonic, please.”

  “Put it on my tab,” says the guy sitting beside me.

  I only spare a cursory glance in his direction. He looks to be in his mid-thirties. Far from old but a little out of place for this particular club scene in his business shirt with his tie loose and askew. Yeah, it’s a Thursday night, but it’s eleven o’clock. He couldn’t change into something a little more club appropriate?

  I smile at him charmingly but shake my head with a strong no. Number one, it’s my firm policy never to accept drinks from men. I’ll never be indebted to any guy in any way, shape or form. And number two, he’s just a little too eager for me.

  “I got it,” I say to the bartender and slide some cash over the bar. “Keep the tip.”

  The bartender grins at me, bright white teeth against ebony skin. I perk up. Now he on the other hand could be a possibility. I’m a sucker for a great smile.

  He grabs a mid-shelf vodka and pours some in my glass. I lean in, elbows on the bar top, cleavage unabashedly on display in the form-hugging electric blue dress that I’m wearing.

  “How’s your night going, handsome?” I ask, elevating my voice to be heard over the noise.

  His grin widens, though I wouldn’t have thought that possible a moment ago. My eyes zero in on his lips. They’re so inviting and thick, luscious is the only word that comes to mind. Immediately, my mind pictures his big body underneath mine, those lips sucking on my nipple.

  “Better and better since you walked up to my bar.”

  Oh yeah. This guy is looking like a more attractive candidate every moment. I toss him a flirty smile along as well as an eye roll as he presses the spout to fill up the rest of my glass with soda.

  “You know what, I don’t even care how often you’ve used that line,” I laugh, then take a sip of the vodka tonic. It’s a perfect mix. I nod at him approvingly. “You’re cute enough to pull it off.”

  He puts a hand dramatically to his chest like he’s wounded. “Aw man, cute, that’s the kiss of death. I’ve been downgraded from handsome to cute?”

  I’m about to respond back when he holds up a finger and says he’ll be right back. Unfortunately, the bar is swarmed with people wanting drinks as the club really hits its peak traffic. I finish up my vodka tonic, enjoying the slight warmth that settles under my skin from the alcohol. It’s the only drink I’ll have for the night, but it’s brought a lovely looseness to my limbs. I manage to catch Cute Bartender’s eye and toss him a finger wave as I head for the dance floor.

  I slip, squeeze, and push my way through to the center of the dance floor. Being surrounded by so many people doesn’t make me feel claustrophobic. It’s actually one of the few places I feel safe.

  A Lady Gaga classic blasts out of the speakers and again I soak up the beat through my feet. It’s so loud and enveloping, I can feel it throbbing in my ribs. My body can’t help but move and I lift my arms up over my head. My movements are barely just a hip sway at first but soon my whole body is in sync with the music. I roll my torso and then pop my hips back on every downbeat.

  The song switches to a dark, industrial techno mix and I close my eyes and sink into it even more. It’s so awfully sensual. Erotic. My hand runs from my neck down the sides of my body. I feel my nipples pucker and the telltale slickness between my legs.

  Yeah. Hell yeah.

  I drop down and then slide slowly back up, my hands rubbing the insides of my thighs as I go. Everyone around me is dancing similarly. Grinding. Sex and desire steam in the air around the floor as the dance goes on and on. My arms float back up into the air as I groove deep in the dirty rhythm.

  The music swells as electric violins drop in on top of the techno, sending the melody through the roof. Goddamn, I feel like I might be having an out-of-body experience. My head goes loose on my neck as I drop it and continue dancing with the beat.

  Until suddenly there’s a body at my back.

  Invasive hands on my hips.

  Someone grabbing me. Not letting go.

  And in my head I’m back there. Always in that room. Always hearing his voice: I’m taking everythi
ng from you, you shit piece of nothing.

  Oh God oh God.

  Wearing out every hole—

  I can’t breathe.

  No no no no no no no no no no no NO!

  The word galvanizes me into action. I swing around and bring down my arm in a t-bar action to knock his hands away from me.

  The dude jumps back with an oof of surprise, rubbing his arm that got the brunt of my fist. “What the hell?” He looks at me like I’m nuts. A stranger. Not Gentry. He’s not Gentry.

  “Crazy bitch.” He turns away from me and disappears into the crowd.

  And then the noise and crush of bodies that seemed so comfortable and inviting moments ago is suddenly jarring and just way too much.

  I gasp in half a breath and then choke it out again. I press my palm against my chest like I can force my lungs to expand correctly.

  Dammit, I’m past this.

  I’m stronger than this. Goddamn mother fuck shit cunt—

  I manage another half a breath but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

  I only feel more lightheaded. So goddamned weak. Something I swore I’d never be again.

  I look around and see a couple people watching me. Most are too busy dancing, lost in their own worlds. Men with their hands on women and women grinding right back up against them. Normal. Not freaking out because a guy touched them. Fuck.

  I stumble out of the center of the dance floor. I swallow, over and over. Sometimes that helps me breathe again.

  It’s not working tonight. The guy at my back— It was too much like—

  It sent me immediately back to that place—

  Hands grabbing me, all those hands.

  Almost blindly, I keep stumbling forward. I’m still hiccupping for air. Shit. Fuck.

  This is a panic attack. I haven’t had one in weeks. Goddammit. Why here? Why now?

  Sweat soaks my forehead and I keep staggering forward until I make it to a wall. Somehow I’ve managed to stay on my feet in spite of these ridiculous heels. I have no fucking idea how. I sag against the wall and bend at the waist, trying to remember what the therapist chick said I’m supposed to do.

  Step one: Acknowledge the attack. Right. I’m fucking having it. Got it. Then I wince. She talked about not just realizing it’s a panic attack, but acknowledging that there’s nothing to do but wait it out. There aren’t shortcuts. Damn it.

  I. Hate. This.

  I try to suck in more breath and fail.

  Breathing techniques are next. Belly breathing. That’s what I’m supposed to do. I blink rapidly and try to slow down and breathe in the way she taught me. Not these quick shallow breaths from my chest, but breathing in deep from my diaphragm. That apparently means from your belly.

  After another few hiccups, I manage a breath where my belly expands and I know I did it right. Now if I can just manage another one.

  Try to remember your panic is based on a fear about something that’s not actually happening in the present. I remember the conversation in the counselor’s cozy little office like it was yesterday, even though it was actually several months ago.

  I went back to the women’s center I’d gone to when I first got pregnant. After that…horrible Day Which Will Never Be Spoken Of, I wanted to get a full panel of STD testing done even though condoms had been used.

  My breathing stutters, even letting my mind near the periphery of thinking about it. I close my eyes and take another deep belly breath. I scheduled an appointment with a counselor only because I knew I ought to. I forced myself to keep the appointment because of Charlie. He didn’t need a mom any more fucked up than I already was. So I went.

  Usually the fear is based on something that’s already happened or something that you’re afraid will happen in the future. To really get rid of the attacks, we need to get at the root of that fear. Why don’t you tell me what you think is driving the panic, Callie?

  I never went back. I love my son and will do anything for him, but I can get through this on my own. I know the source of the panic, of course. The Day Which Will Not Be Spoken or Thought Of.

  No doubt the nice counselor lady would want me to break a cardinal rule I’ve set up since then and, you know, talk about it. Which would require thinking about it. Both of which are strictly off limits.

  It’s the past. It has nothing to do with me or my future.

  Or it wouldn’t if I didn’t keep having these fucking flashbacks and resulting fucking panic attacks.

  But getting pissed about it doesn’t slow the attacks down. I’ve learned that well enough. There’s nothing to do but ride them out.

  So I do. I give myself up to it, do my best to belly breathe, and ride it out.

  This one isn’t as bad as others I’ve had. Within five minutes I’m able to stand up and I can breathe mostly normally again. Just a few hiccups here and there.

  I glance toward the exit to the club. The easiest thing to do would be to run with my tail between my legs. But what then? I go curl in terror under the covers for another week? After all, I’m just a poor little victim. I’m what they fucking made me.

  See? Sometimes it takes just one session to break a bitch.

  I shudder at the memory of Gentry’s voice.

  But this time it doesn’t bring on another attack. I let the anger burn through my veins. My eyes pop open and I ignore the fact that I’m sweaty and probably look like hell. I glance around the dark little alcove I’ve been freaking out in. No one’s even noticed me back here. This club has lots of dark little cut-outs in the walls. If I squint my eyes, I can just make out some shadows in additional alcoves that I imagine other couples have discovered when looking for a discreet escape from the crowd.

  Interesting.

  Then I turn back to the dance floor and march my way back out into the mass of people. I start to move to the music, but I don’t lose myself in it this time. Every move is calculated. I dance my way through the people, eyes scanning every man as I go. I pass by the ones already attached to a woman.

  I see a couple guys working the crowd. They approach a woman dancing on her own, always doing that move of coming up behind her and then putting their hands on her body. Without her consent. Some of the women welcome the hands, others don’t.

  I’m not naïve, I know this is how it goes in clubs. It still makes fury burn in my belly and I want to go stab the pointy end of my stiletto into their instep. I want to yell at them: ask permission—never touch without asking! Instead, I ball my hands into fists and pass by.

  I edge by a group of women who are all dancing together and laughing. Obviously friends out for a good time. I pause, then smile and join the periphery of their group.

  I’m easily welcomed in. One of the girls who’s voluptuous with wild, curly hair holds out a hand to me. That’s more like it. When I grab it, she spins me. It startles a laugh out of me. I dance with them for awhile.

  Wow, I didn’t realize how much tension I’ve been carrying. It works its way out of my shoulders as we dance. It feels good to earn my sweat this way. It’s also a good cover to watch the crowd and keep up the hunt.

  That’s when I find him. My target for the night.

  He’s medium height and build. Medium’s a good word for him all around. Not too handsome, but far from ugly. He’s not aggressive in his dancing, either. He approaches women to dance, but he does it from the front. He moves into their space and holds out a hand in invitation to pull them closer. Giving them the choice to accept or decline.

  More often than not, the women give him a semi-apologetic shake of the head no. I roll my eyes in disgust. A lot of those same women are fine with the backside grinders, but this guy’s a gentleman and he gets the brush off for it. The song changes and the woman he was dancing with moves away from him. I roll my eyes. Idiots.

  That decides it. He’s the one.

  I thought I might have to dance in his vicinity waiting for him to be free, but no, looks like I can move in right away. I head toward him.


  The transition to the next song is smooth and it’s a sultry beat. The guy is just turning in the crowd, still moving his head with the music a little awkwardly like he’s trying to figure out where to go next. I slink up to him, eyes at half-mast and licking my lips for good measure.

  I’m not big on subtlety.

  His eyes widen when he notices me. A smile lights up his face and he starts moving with the music more. He looks like he’s about to do the not-so-smooth-move-into-my-space-ritual I’ve seen him do with the other girls, but I beat him to it. I step into him and drape my arm around his neck, my breasts crushed against his chest.

  “Wanna dance?” I hiss into his ear.

  “Yeah,” he chokes out, nodding his head at the same time.

  I smile, but barely pull back. Instead, I drop my face into his neck. He smells good. Well, he might have overdone it a little on the cologne, but at least it’s not one of those obnoxious smelling ones. He didn’t douse himself in Axe or anything. It’s a fresh, cool beachy smell. It feels like everything else about this guy—a little overeager, but really kind of sweet.

  I slide my leg in between his so I’m straddling his thigh. Then I dance the fuck out of the song.

  And when I say fuck, I do mean fuck.

  I’m all but humping his leg as I writhe my hips back and forth to the beat. I keep my arm hooked around his neck but let my upper body loose. I throw my head back and arch my body, breasts thrust up, held up only by my grip on the back of his neck.

  I can feel his absolute focus on me, how completely I’ve captivated him. To him, I’m a goddess who walked out of nowhere and chose him.