by K. Street
“Everybody, listen up.”
Three pairs of eyes focus on me.
“Peanut, please make each of your brothers a bowl of cereal.”
“But—” Cade and Colt interject.
I hold up a hand, palm out, signaling for them to stop. “I’ll be in the kitchen in ten minutes.” I glance down at Tessa, who winks and holds up two fingers. “Twenty minutes. Now, everybody, clear out.”
“Boys, go on. Bailey will be right there,” Tessa says.
The boys leave, and Tessa looks at Bailey. “Do you still want to get your ears pierced?”
“Yes,” she says excitedly.
“After the boys’ game, Daddy and I will divide and conquer. He’ll take the boys, and we’ll go to the mall, just the two of us.”
“Yay. Thanks, Mom.”
I hold out my fist, and Bailey bumps it with her own. Then, she leans down to kiss Tessa’s cheek.
“I’ll be there in a bit, peanut.”
She leaves the room and closes the door behind her.
“Why do our children never sleep in?” Tessa groans.
“I don’t know, babe. Feel like a shower?” I waggle my brows.
“I’d love one.”
“I’ll be right back.” I get out of bed and go into our bathroom to turn on the shower.
Tessa appears in the doorway.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Like I have a foot stuck in my rib cage.” She pulls my T-shirt over her head, revealing heavy breasts and dark nipples.
“Hang in there, baby. It won’t be much longer.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Come on, let me take care of you.” I softly kiss her and help her into the shower.
We step beneath the spray and take turns washing each other. I glide my hands over her round belly, and my cock twitches. I’m positive my wife is the sexiest pregnant woman to ever live. I squeeze shampoo into my hand and work it into her scalp.
“That feels amazing.”
“I’m just getting started.”
After I get all the shampoo out of her hair and repeat the process with conditioner, I lead her over to the shower bench. When she sits, I kneel in front of her where I work my thumbs into the arch of her foot, and then I switch to the other.
“Dante. Oh my God. You’re going to make me orgasm from that alone.”
“If that’s a challenge, I accept, but it’ll have to wait because I need to taste you.” Before I spread her wide, I drop a kiss to her stomach. “Good morning, baby.” I rest my chin there and look up at Tessa. “Do you have any idea how sexy you are?”
“I look like I swallowed a watermelon. Seriously, how did I let you talk me into another baby?” She laughs.
I smirk and then lift her legs, spreading them wide, positioning one on each of my shoulders. I lower my mouth to her pussy and flick my tongue over her clit, sliding two fingers inside her heat.
“Oh God,” she moans. “Now, I remember.”
Keep reading for a preview of Healing the Broken by K. Street.
I curl up in the middle of my bed, scrunching into a tiny ball. I struggle to make myself as small as possible. I tightly grip the pillow over my ears, hoping it will block out the sound of Mama’s cries. She pleads with my Father again and again, but he doesn’t stop. Ugly words spew from his lips. Worthless. Pathetic. Less than nothing. I listen as he repeatedly beats her. I silently will my feet to move…to save her, but I can’t force my limbs to work. I remain still…held in place by unrelenting terror.
With my index finger, I rub across the two-inch diagonal scar on my forehead. The scar is deep, just above my left eyebrow. It serves as a constant reminder of the monster my father is.
I am not sure how long my Father has been beating Mama or how long I have been cowering under these covers. My Father’s anger keeps growing, his roaring voice carrying through the walls. Wood scrapes loudly across the ceramic floor, followed by the splintering of timber.
“You’re never fucking leaving me!” my father snarls so loudly I hear the words through the barrier covering my ears.
Mama’s constant begging acts like lighter fluid poured on an open flame. Her words make his rage burn hotter. Several sickening, earsplitting cracks are followed by shocking silence. I become dreadfully aware that Mama’s cries have gone mute. For a moment, the only sounds I hear are the very breaths I am breathing and the pounding of my heart.
The stillness is broken by footsteps.
There is no escape.
My door is thrown open with such strength, there is a whoosh of air across the room, the force of it causing the door to bounce off the wall with a bang.
“Ryann. Oh, Ryann,” he singsongs in a horrifying tone.
My covers are stripped away, and he glares at me through crazy eyes. Digging his bloodied callous fingers into my arms, he yanks me from my bed. His shirt is blanketed in red.
I listened to him beat her, and I didn’t try to stop him. I didn’t protect her from his wrath. I’m a coward, and the guilt settles in the pit of my stomach like a boulder.
He twists his fingers in my hair, jerking me toward my bedroom door. My legs are jelly, dropping from beneath me, but it doesn’t stop him. I can feel my hair being ripped from my scalp as he forces me down the stairs and into the kitchen. I tightly squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to look.
I hate him.
He presses his lips to my ear, and the stench of his beer breath fills my nostrils.
“Look at her, Ryann! Look. At. Her.” His voice is harsh, but his grip has relaxed.
I open my eyes and stare up at him. “No, Daddy…please…no,” I cry. I haven’t called him Daddy in years, but still, it doesn’t work.
His hand tightens in the tangles of my hair. “Look at her. Look. At. What. Your. Mother. Made. Me. Do.”
I swallow down the vomit rising in my throat. Slowly turning my head, I obey my father’s command.
Mama’s motionless, battered body lies on the floor, surrounded in a pool of her own blood. She has been beaten so severely that, if it wasn’t for the loose crimson curls that match my own, I wouldn’t recognize her. Splintered bits of wood litter the ever-growing dark puddle encircling her. Part of her skull has been bashed in, exposing bits of her brain.
I can’t hold back the contents of my stomach any longer. I puke until nothing is left and a sheen of cold sweat covers my skin. When my father deems I have taken in enough of the gruesome sight of Mama, that this memory is burned into the deepest part of my memory, then, and only then, does he make his next move.
He hauls me out the front of our two-story brick house and shoves me into the passenger seat of his old Buick. Out of habit, I immediately buckle my seat belt. The driver’s door groans in protest as my father climbs in the car and fastens his seat belt before slamming the car into reverse. The neighbor’s porch light glows like a beacon of hope through the darkness, and sirens wail somewhere in the distance. My father tears out of the driveway, accelerating down the two-lane rural street. The roadway is still wet from the storm earlier this evening, which causes the car to skid, but my father isn’t fazed. He continues to increase his speed, mashing the gas pedal against the floorboard.
We’re going too fast around the curve in the road.
Suddenly, the car is spinning out of control.
I see the tree. But my father must see it two seconds too late.
My eyes squeeze shut in an attempt to brace myself for the impact. My ears are not only filled with the crunch of metal, but also the shattering of glass. Something is wrong with the car horn because it never stops blaring. Fear and pain course through me as I open my eyes.
My father’s body is slumped toward me, straining against his seat belt.
There is blood.
So much blood.
The metallic stench of it is thick in the air.
My father’s gaze is fixed on me, as if in surprise. His mouth gapes open while blood trickles from his
nose to his lips. He reminds me of a clown. And I hate clowns.
My right arm sears with pain, and my head hurts. We are both covered in tiny bits of broken glass. It shimmers like glittery sand under the moonlight.
Shakily, I stretch my left hand out, and my fingers hover for a second before I flatten them over my father’s heart. I feel nothing.
The pain in my head grows by the minute. Maybe I am dead, too. But that doesn’t make sense because dead people don’t feel pain.
I’m alive, and Vanessa and Jimmy Sinclair are dead.
My parents are dead, and I’m an orphan.
I’m eleven years old, and I’m an orphan.
It’s my last thought before the blackness swallows me.
acknowledgments
To God, the first portion.
To my readers, without you, none of this would even be possible. Thank you for reading my words, sending me messages, and writing reviews. I appreciate you.
Mr. Street…this novel is as much your accomplishment as it is mine, and I couldn’t have done it without you. You are my happily ever after. I will love you until I breathe my last breath, and even then, I’ll love you still. My cup runneth over, as do my personalities. P.S. Still Arby’s.
Sunshine Girl, thank you for coming up with names for my main characters, but you can’t read this book either. Thank you for the days you spent quietly reading or watching Netflix, so I could write. So many times, you said to me, “I’m proud of you, Mom. You can do this.” You are the most amazing kiddo, and I’m so blessed to be your mom. You’ll never be too old for a sandwich. I love you, baby bear, to the moon and back again plus all the stars in the sky.
Mom, thank you doesn’t even begin to cover it. I love you.
The Brat Pack: Tracy, Katie, Nikki, Angel, and Michael…I love you guys. Don’t be suspicious.
My huge extended family, you are my real-life cheerleaders. In my life, I’ve been lucky enough to form wonderful friendships with amazing people. Family is so much more than shared DNA. I’m thankful for each of you.
Marni Mann, you know I have all the tears writing this. I love our friendship. You push me to reach beyond what I think I’m capable of. You keep me accountable. During my three near breakdowns, you talked me off the ledge. There are only a handful of people who know how hard writing this book was for me, and you’re one of them. I appreciate you so much. Book world might have brought us together, but it isn’t what keeps us together. Love you. xoxo
Crystal Meth, you are a beautiful soul, dear friend, and kick-ass beta reader. I love all your notes in the margins and that you remember to tell me I’m pretty to soften the blow. Love you.
Robin Bruce, you are one of the sweetest and funniest people I’ve ever met.
Carol Nevarez, thank you for the random messages just to check in and all your priceless notes in the margins. You’re the sweetest.
Tina Jaworski, you are a gem, and I appreciate you more than you know. You were the first blogger to reach out to me, and you’ve become a treasured friend.
Marisol Scott, I adore you, and lunch is happening. Meeting you in real life was amazing, and it reminded me of how small the world really is.
Stacy Garcia, #sisterwife, you have my heart.
Laurie Bonanno, thank you for being you.
My J Team: Jovana and Judy.
Jovana Shirley, I’m at a loss for words. Thank you for not giving up on me. You’re a remarkable editor, and this story wouldn’t be what it is without you. You turned all my ramblings and misplaced adjectives into something I’m incredibly proud of.
Judy Zweifel, you’re an amazing proofreader, and I’m so glad you’re in my corner. Thank you for jumping through hoops for me. I appreciate you so much.
Letitia Hasser, thank you so much for the stunning cover. You blow me away with your talent.
Hazel James, thank you for being an ear when I needed one.
RC Boldt, thank you for being much-needed comic relief. I adore you, and I’m working on the blueprints for our compound. I guess we should have filled Marni in on it before now, huh?
Staci Hart, thank you for being you. You’ll never know what your words mean to me.
Sara Ney, instead of thanking you for your keen eye and talking me through all the things, I’m just going to compliment your awesome T-shirt collection.
Aly Martinez, for your wisdom and time. The Indie Tea was an experience I’ll always treasure.
To my Minxes, there are way too many of you to name, but I will never be able to thank you for all the things.
To my alphas, Crystal and Marni, I owe so much of Dante’s character to the two of you. Yes, Crystal, he’s all yours.
My betas—Carol, Tracy, Karin, Robin, Desi—thank you for being another set of eyes. I appreciate you and your time more than you know.
My reader group, K’s Kartel…y’all are amazing. Thank you for all the support.
My book world peeps, there are so many of you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for cheering me on.
Stracey Charran, Laura Schwab, and Kristina Nassar, you all have gone out of your way to reach out and spread the love of my words. I appreciate all of you so much.
To all the bloggers—Thank you so much for all the posts you’ve shared and how tirelessly you work on behalf of authors. I see you. I appreciate you, and I’m thankful for each and every one of you. I wish I could name you and your blogs individually.
To everyone reading this—If you have a dream, chase it. If you have a goal, slay it. Don’t wait for someday.
about the author
K. Street has been making up stories since she was old enough to talk and began writing at the tender age of eleven. She resides in central Florida with her husband and daughter. Her affinity for coffee, sweet red wine, dark chocolate, and hockey runs deep. When K isn’t working or writing, she enjoys reading, cooking, spending time with her family, and cheering on her beloved Chicago Blackhawks.
Sign up for my monthly newsletter to stay up-to-date on what’s next: http://bit.ly/2yUU9Cb
K’s Kartel Reader Group: http://bit.ly/2isdRzY
Facebook Author Page: http://bit.ly/2fKGuVX
Instagram: http://bit.ly/2jh8e98
Twitter: http://bit.ly/2iPE21A
Website: http://bit.ly/2hYksmO
