The Broken One (The One Series Book 1)

by Selene Maxley

  The Broken One

  A Novel

  Selene Maxley

  Edited by

  Angel Butts

  Copyright © 2020 by Selene Maxley

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For permissions contact:

  info@selenemaxley.com

  Editing by Angel Butts, The Word Angel

  Cover Design by OliviaProDesign

  First Edition

  Dedication

  For all the broken ones, flipping on masks to get through the day:

  It’s never too late.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  27. Preview of Hard Limits

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Coming Soon From Selene Maxley

  Prologue

  I had two childhoods. One I call Before and the other I call After.

  After was fantastic. Vacations to Disney World, family gatherings with what felt like hundreds of people, parents who were fierce protectors. The best part about adoptive parents is that you know they chose you. My mind is warped, though. Even knowing that they chose me, I still feared the collapse. In the After, I wanted to be the best goddamn child anyone could ever want. The one who was easy to raise, the one who was easy to love, the perfect one.

  Before stopped existing when I was 20 years old and realized I could choose what stories were mine.

  When you’re a kid, the adults in your life choose your narrative. It’s not intentional or malicious; it just happens. When a 6-year-old child randomly shows up in someone’s family, people want to know from where she came. They just need to know. So they ask, “And who is this pretty little girl?”

  The story demanded to be told. And so, my narrative was born.

  Pity is the worst expression the human face can make. If you ask me, it looks an awful lot like disgust. I think about the first animal I hit with my car, an adorable little rabbit. I was 16, and I knew it was a goner the minute I saw its sweet little bunny face appear at the side of the road. I think of its ears poking out of the grass and its tail, a fluffy puff of white cotton. My stomach sank when it jumped into the road and sealed its fate.

  My dad always told me, “You do not swerve for an animal, ever.” My career in claims analysis has confirmed this. Not only does it typically cost less to hit an animal, swerving to miss them is how compassionate people die.

  In the split second before tire meets wildlife, my easily sidetracked mind wonders if that’s how she died. No one ever could explain how a person misses a turn within five minutes of leaving their house. There were many hypotheses: She dropped her cigarette, she fell asleep, he cut her brake lines. Well, that last hypothesis is mine. Her devastated vehicle is probably still in the woods they hauled it to after the accident, so I could easily go check, but I don’t. Haven’t. My theory gives me a sort of comfort that perhaps the universe didn’t randomly rip my mother away from me, that there was a reason. Sick logic is still logic.

  The rabbit—it didn’t die right away, and I felt so sorry for it. I stared at it laying half-smashed into the road where I hit him. Her? Whatever, there’s a reason people buy two girl bunnies and have 600 bunnies a year later. Point is, this little guy was still alive, his back half mangled in a pool of his insides and his front half squirming and crying out. The only humane thing to do was to put him out of his misery. Not owning a gun and lacking the stomach to put my tire iron to the task, my only choice was to drive over him again.

  I felt the first crunch in my stomach. The second crunch reverberated in my bones. I can still feel it.

  What. A. Pity.

  Chapter 1

  I hear the final boarding call as I approach my gate.

  “Just in time,” the doe-eyed brunette says with a touch of annoyance in her voice. Her fake smile doesn’t touch her big brown eyes. I slide the screen of my phone under her scanner, and it beeps its familiar confirmation as I walk on without a word or a smile. Like she has anywhere else to be. I’m not usually this person, but today it’s okay to let out the darkness inside me.

  I don’t know what it is about the long walk down the jetway that I love so much, but I’m practically giddy seeing the last person disappear into the plane ahead of me. I typically want to be the last person to board. I hate the lines, the waiting on people to put their bags in the overhead bins, the impatient shuffling around. I don’t like to be touched unless it’s on my terms, and tight quarters always make an excellent excuse for people to get handsy and a little too close.

  It’s the precise reason I always opt for business class. I’m not going to be rubbing elbows with some oversized creep stuffed into the seat next to me for an hour. Or God forbid I have to go to the bathroom and must choose whether to put my tush or my bush in his face. First or business class tickets are a frivolous expense, but sacrifices must be made.

  Sometimes I wish I’d win the lottery so I could buy my own plane. Then I remind myself that you have to play the lottery to win, and the odds of winning the jackpot are somewhere near 1 in 300 million. At 1 in 11 million, my odds of this plane going down tonight with me on it are better. I know this logic doesn’t hold water, but buying a lottery ticket is like dooming the next 28 planes I’m on. The thought of it running out of fuel or the engines failing crosses my mind as I step over the threshold and into the cabin.

  The male flight attendant takes my black leather duffle and stows it away for me, and I wonder if I would be screaming, terrified with the rest of the passengers as we plummet to our deaths, or if I’d pull out the calendar app on my phone and calmly type Die in a plane crash under today’s date. Surely it would take people a few days to realize I put the entry in as we were going down, and I laugh a little as I imagine the media coverage of the psycho who downed the plane. There would undoubtedly be countless psychologists and psychiatrists analyzing the situation after it was discovered, and I make a mental note to choose that path, should I ever know my plane is crashing.

  These are the types of thoughts that would get me committed if other people knew I had them. I like to believe they are the kinds of thoughts everyone has, but no one can say aloud. Every once in a while, though, I’ll share them with a stranger to test the waters, and they’re never on board. Or won’t admit to it at least. I’m always left wondering if that makes me crazy or if everyone else is hopelessly repressed.

  I can’t help thinking my Id, Ego, and Superego have failed me miserably. Perhaps I’m aware of my Id when I shouldn’t be? Maybe it is closer to the surface in me than in other people, or than other people are willing to admit? Perhaps other people only indulge in the sexual aspect and ignore death and aggression. Well, people other than rapists and murderers. I am a complete psychopath?

  “Excus
e me, Ma’am,” the flight attendant says again, “You’re here, in 2B.”

  I’m happy to see the gentleman in 2A is on his laptop and paying no attention when I sit down. Fortunately, I was able to secure my preferred aisle seat, so I won’t have to step past him to get settled in. With any luck, he’ll remain oblivious to my presence for the duration of the flight.

  The flight attendant, I see now his name is Sam, asks if he can get me anything for the flight, and I smile through my reply. “No, thank you, Sam.” People love to hear their name, and I may be the only person who calls him by it today.

  I silently kick myself for forgetting my mask as the sound of my voice, which I know is girlishly sweet, causes 2A to look over at me. His eyes go wide, and his mouth sags open in shock before he snaps his head back to his laptop without so much as a hello.

  I can feel the self-satisfying, Joker-like smile spread across my lips.

  I’m so glad I decided to wear my Veronica mask today. My long blond hair is a wild mane down my back, there is a hoop in my nose and studs in my cheeks mark the dimples I wish I had. My lips are painted with Deep Void, and my black eye makeup is so heavy I’ll need to use half a bottle of micellar water to get it off. I love Veronica; she is the person I am when I don’t want to deal with humanity. She is a woman with whom this man wouldn’t dream of conversing. She’s wearing the black lace-up combat boots that identify her—all my masks are defined by their unique choice of footwear—a pair of destroyed black cut-off jean shorts with fishnet tights under them, and a charcoal V-neck T-shirt tucked loosely into them at the belt buckle only. I even swapped my nail polish to Lincoln Park After Dark, a color I love but cannot wear with many of my masks. I am nothing if not committed to my role.

  When I fly alone, which is often, Veronica is the mask I choose. She is the reason I can take out my new copy of The Smartest Guys in the Room and read through this entire flight, which means we are landing before I know it. I. Love. Veronica.

  Chapter 2

  I’ve never been to Phoenix before, so my first step out of the Sky Harbor airport doors sucks the air out of my lungs. It’s 10:05 p.m., and I feel like I’ve met the same fate as the witch at the end of Hansel and Gretel. I can feel the moisture evaporating from my pale skin, and I am confident I’ll be human jerky in under ten minutes. I’m trying to remember how to breathe when I notice the temperature displayed on a monitor outside.

  “One hundred ten effing degrees?!” I damn near scream. Guess I have some breath in there after all.

  The other people on the sidewalk give me a wide berth as they move around me. I decide that yelling random things in public is a handy trick I might use again sometime.

  The soles of my beautiful boots have melted, becoming one with the concrete. I’ve made a terrible mistake. I hate the heat. If I can find a way to move my feet, maybe I can haul myself back into the airport and board the next plane to Iceland. It’s so hot, I might sincerely be dying. I’ve already prepaid three months of rent, and I’m considering whether I might be willing to walk away from the money.

  It can’t be this bad all of the time. And the interview I have Monday is for a job I’ve been excited to explore. People always say it’s a dry heat, that you get used to it.

  I drag a deep breath in and slowly blow it out. This is my life today, I tell myself as I force my feet to move me in the direction of my rental vehicle and secure my hair into a top knot.

  The minute I’m in the car, I crank the engine, roll down all of the windows, and blast the AC. The heat is making me feel claustrophobic in the tiny cabin. I shift the transmission into drive, yank all of the fake hardware off my face, and stick it all in the small leather pouch I keep in my purse. There isn’t an ice sculpture’s shot in this hell that I would put real holes in my face, though I do love ink. I’ve painstakingly calculated my physical appearance in a way that allows me to choose what people see and when.

  The thing about masks is, they are addictive. We’ll slide one on to suit the immediate occasion, then swap it out when it’s convenient. We wear them out of boredom, out of desire, out of necessity. Even people who are comfortable in their skin wear masks. They allow us to operate in a world designed to crush us. They make it possible to brave another day at the office, another family reunion, another friend’s wedding, another first date. Without our masks, humanity wouldn’t exist. I’m sure most people don’t name their masks, but that’s only because they flip them on and off so fast, they’ve never stopped to think about them.

  At some point, it becomes difficult to distinguish what is a mask and what is real. Perhaps each of the masks becomes part of us. Maybe that’s why I love tattoos so much. They are one of my only commitments, and they tie me to myself, somewhere else in time.

  The AC is finally blowing cold air, and I roll my windows up as I find the ramp for I-10 East. I’ve got a 90-minute drive ahead of me to my hotel in Tucson. I should have booked an earlier flight to avoid a night in the hotel, but I need to change before I meet the property manager, and I didn’t want to be under the gun to make it by a specific time. I’m lucky that the leasing office is open on Sundays and that the manager was helpful enough to have maintenance drop my boxes in the living room.

  I’ve been moving around fairly regularly for years, and I don’t have many items that I take with me from place to place. I always opt for a furnished apartment, though they have gotten much nicer since my first dumpy little studio in SoCal. I only bother to lug around some clothes and a few small things. My life is essentially packed neatly into four large boxes, one carry-on, and a personal item.

  The last item to be delivered, my new mattress and pillows, will show up between 10 a.m. and noon tomorrow. By the time that’s all settled, it’ll be just about time to shove off for my 1 p.m. manicure, then I’ll run to Staples to pick up copies of my resume for the interview Monday. I’ll have to drop this rental car off at some point, too. I’ll just use a ride app until I decide to buy a vehicle—preferably one that’s a fuckton roomier than this.

  The majority of my comfort right now is coming from the decency of this highway. I-10 is one of the strangest highways I’ve driven. I’m fascinated by how it stretches straight and flat beyond my headlights without even the slightest detectable curve or change in elevation. I find myself wondering if this is where flat-earthers are made. I wish all of the flat-earthers would join together in solidarity and vow to walk and swim the earth until they find the end. I should start a petition for them.

  My hand reaches for the radio and powers it on without thought. I’m greeted by an old AC/DC song, and I laugh at its literal embodiment of my current reality. I spin the volume knob clockwise, press the melted sole of my boot a little harder on the gas pedal, and sing along, ready to lose myself in music for the rest of my trip.

  I’m on my highway to hell.

  Chapter 3

  The lobby of Keisler & Sax Consulting, KSC, glistens with marble and glass. The receptionist—a small sign on her desk says her name is Sarah—greets me when I walk in and lets me know that Mr. Stanley will be out to collect me shortly. She invites me to have a seat, but one glance at the overstuffed leather couch tells me I won’t be able to get out of it gracefully if I have a proper sit.

  It’s a trap, the perfect way to put someone off balance at the beginning of a meeting. Give them a wonderfully comfortable couch so deep that they feel like an idiot as they struggle to pry themselves from its depths. I’m not falling for it. I perch myself on the edge of the couch like the graceful bird that I am.

  I can’t help but hope that the salary they’re offering matches the lavishness of this room. This is the year I’ve promised myself I would cross over the threshold into the six-figure club, and I decide then and there to raise my asking price. People love to say that money can’t buy you happiness, and I tend to agree—to an extent. What money can afford a person is a level of comfort that contributes significantly to happiness. For instance, the bed and pillows I had de
livered this weekend are the most comfortable I’ve ever experienced. If I were making forty thousand dollars a year, I’d never have been able to buy them without going into debt. Even then, it would be a stretch.

  A quick peek at my watch confirms that my interviewer should be out to collect me within the next five minutes. As if my thoughts summon him, a tall gentleman with dark hair and a pastel sweater vest comes through the doors to the lobby. He’s scanning the room a second time, clearly confused. I’m the only one in this waiting room, and I am not who he expected.

  I meet him halfway, offering my hand. “Good morning, Mr. Stanley. I’m Caspian, your eleven o’clock.”

  “Nice to meet you, Caspian. Call me Dave,” he recovers quickly, replacing the surprise on his face with a smile. His handshake is that of a man carrying a new baby, self-conscious and unsure.

  He appears to have transitioned smoothly from allowing his mother to dress him to allowing his wife to dress him. He could walk out of this office right now and straight into a family portrait. Dave is a good 6’2” or better, so that would have been enough for him to catch eyes, even with the small belly he carries now. Tall men don’t have to worry about being too attractive; everyone wants tall babies. Whether or not it’s fair, this world belongs to those with a vertical advantage.