by Drake, J. L.
Broken
Broken Trilogy, Book One
J.L. Drake
Broken
Copyright © 2015 by J.L. Drake. All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: March 2015
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-070-9
ISBN-10: 1-68058-070-1
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For my mother who has followed this story with me from the very beginning. Thank you for the endless support you’ve given me in everything I’ve ever tried.
I love you.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Prologue
Deceit
Deception
Dishonest
Distortion
Fiction
Myth
Tale
Fib
…anyway you say it, it means the same thing…lies.
Chapter One
I don’t know how long I’ve been here, four months possibly five. Time passes in strange ways when you have no means to mark it. At first, I counted time by the meals I received, but after a while they became fewer and less dependable. I know for sure I’ve been here one full season. The men went from wearing long sleeve shirts to T-shirts.
My prison is a small room with a rusty bed that squeaks anytime I shift position. A tiny wooden table with a small stool takes up one corner and a toilet and sink hide behind a ratty curtain in the other. No windows, no TV, nothing to read but an old copy of Wiseguy by Nicolas Pileggi. I wasn’t one for reading crime novels in the past, but I can recite every single word by heart now.
I hear the familiar sound of the key retracting the lock and my stomach sinks. I pull at my ratty sweater wrapping it around my midsection a little tighter. Like that is going to help protect me from them.
I hear his boots scuff on the hardwood and sweat breaks out along the back of my neck. Shit, it’s him. My skin crawls when I see his sausage-like fingers holding a tray of food for me. His hairy stomach pushes out below his T-shirt and bulges over the top of his jeans. As soon as he spots me he gives me his lopsided smile.
“Hola, chica, how are you today?” His voice is raspy and his accent is thick, but I understand every word. His body language is enough in itself. “I ask you a question,” he barks at me.
“Fine,” I say through the lump in my throat.
He stands holding the tray above me. Finally I raise my eyes to meet his and he smirks, showing me how much he enjoys having this power over me. I’ve had enough encounters with this man to know that he won’t leave without wanting something in return. Luckily up till now it’s never been anything sexual—just more head games. But that doesn’t mean he’s never insinuated it. I feel my body tremble, shaky fingers pulling at the hem of my cotton nightgown that is sitting mid-thigh. I don’t need to give him any ideas. His gaze drops to my legs and he licks his lips.
“Beg,” he orders, drawing out the word.
My mouth goes dry. He loves this part. I am an animal to him. He calls me his perra, which means dog in Spanish. I feel my temper rise as I try to tell myself to stop but I can’t help it. I am past caring anymore.
I give him the sweetest smile I can muster. “Screw you.” I’d never spoken more than I absolutely had to since I got here, so suffice it to say he is blown away by my choice of words. Normally I do what I’m told while secretly fantasizing the many ways I’d like to kill this man. I try to behave, never wanting to relive my first few days here. The incredible pain after they beat me to a bloody pulp when I didn’t do what was asked made me wise up quickly.
My present adrenaline high is short lived, however, as I watch his eyes narrow and his jaw tighten. He suddenly tosses the tray across the room, shattering the dishes against the wall.
“No food for you, lengua de mierda!” he hisses, taking a step toward me. I cover my ears, tucking my knees up to my chest. This man is large enough to pick me up in one hand and toss me across the room, meeting the tray’s fate. He grabs a handful of my hair and drags me across the room, my knees bouncing along the floor like a rag doll. I barely register the pain—I am more aware that that this six foot, three hundred seventy-five pound man is hovering over me, enraged. Why did I have to get smart! The only thing I have going for me is they haven’t killed me yet. Maybe I am being held for ransom? It’s no secret my father has a lot of money and everyone knows his name—he is running for a second term as Mayor of New York City after all.
I try to force myself up onto my hands but his boot crushes down on my back forcing me down hard. My forehead smacks against the floor making my ears ring. I let out a whimper as my eyes focus on something just out of reach. I hear the sound of him removing his belt and my heart quickens—no, no, no! This can’t be happening. If I could just move a few feet to the right…I muster up all I have and launch myself forward along the floor.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is oh, so calm. My fingers wrap around the broken piece of plate and I tuck my hand under my chest to hide it. “Come.” He bends down, grabbing my feet and flipping me over, dragging me back toward the bed. I scream out in protest I kick and wiggle but his grip is too tight. “Feisty little thing, aren’t ya?” he chuckles. He leans over to grab me and I take my opportunity. I shoot upward, driving the sharp piece of glass into his neck. His eyes go wide with shock and he falls to his side with a loud thud, cursing and digging at the object. I scramble to my feet and head for the open door.
I have no idea what direction to go but I don’t care—for the first time in forever I am free of that room. I move as fast as my feet can take me. I’m low on sugars and my head feels light but I keep going; this is my chance. Physical activity has not been a part of my world for so long it is hard for my brain to wait while my legs try desperately to keep up. The hallway is long with lots of doors, the wallpaper is ripped in places, and the lighting is low. It looks like an abandoned hotel, but where are the windows? I keep winding around corners, my hands holding me upright against the walls as my knees grow weak. I have no sense of direction; every hallway looks the same. I can hear voices getting louder and my heart is in my throat. I try pulling and pushing on the closest door handle but it doesn’t budge. Stinging tears race down my cheeks, panic is kicking in and sobs are overtaking me. I fight them back but I feel I’m letting myself down—I have a chance to escape and I can’t even open a godd
amned door! A heavy click followed by a humming noise makes me freeze. Then the lights flicker and go out.
I cover my mouth to stop the screams as my hands shake violently along with my teeth. I press my back up against the door needing something stable to hold on to. A bright flicker off to the left draws my eye but it quickly dies and is followed by a dull orange glow. Someone is standing about ten feet from me smoking a fat cigar. I close my eyes saying a silent prayer. When I open them again I’m met with a mean set of eyes inches from my face. I am unable to move. I know this man—I've seen him a few times before and I think he runs this place. He puffs away, filling my nose with the nauseating scent of his Montecristo. I'd know that smell anywhere; my father often had parties and they seemed to be the most popular cigar among his guests.
My knees weaken as he continues to stare at me, saying nothing. I hear his shoulder shift in his jacket as his hand comes up and grips my chin tightly. With casual ease he flicks open and ignites his Zippo, holding it up to inspect the growing lump above my eye. The light goes out and I feel his vice-like grip move to the back of my neck and he pushes me to move forward. He obviously knows the building well since it is still pitch black and he directs me without hesitation. All I can hear is my hammering heartbeat and my short, ragged breaths.
Finally we stop at a door and he pushes it open and tosses me inside. I stumble forward, falling to my knees. Suddenly, the lights come on and I come face to face with the fat man whose neck is now wrapped in a white bandage. He holds his belt in his hand snapping it for more effect. The last thing I remember is being pushed onto a couch and the first crack of the belt along my lower back. This kind of pain, I’ll never forget; it is permanently embedded in my memory. Thankfully I slip away into a blissful place, one I welcome with open arms.
I wake to blinding pain, the smallest movement causing me to sob, which in turn hurts even more. My brain is cloudy. I can barely form a thought—even breathing is tricky. It takes me a few moments to realize I am back in my prison lying face down on the squeaky bed. I let go and allow the tears to flow. I need something to think about, something to focus on. I remember the first day I came here, Christ it seems so long ago.
***
“Hello my love,” I purr to my Keurig as I place my beloved mug that reads “Don’t talk to me till this mug is empty” underneath and push the button. My friend Lynn gets a kick out of the fact that I can’t function until I’ve had at least one large cup of coffee in me. She bought me this mug for my twenty-sixth birthday. It was tucked inside a basket she had done up along with an airline ticket to Fiji for the two of us to escape my crazy world. Man what a trip that was. I hear my front door open.
“You’re in for it now, Savi!” Lynn shouts as she comes into my kitchen. She holds up a magazine, showing the cover to me. As soon as my eyes read the caption I knew I was in the shit.
“Oh no.” I snatch it from her fingers.
“Oh yes,” she sighs, passing by me and opening up a cabinet. “So I take it he hasn’t called you yet?”
I shake my head no as I study the picture in horror. Us Weekly has a picture of me at a bar last night leaning over a table showing off my behind. The caption reads, “Mayor’s Daughter Reveals All”.
“I was reaching for my purse!” I shout. “It isn’t even my butt—this has been Photoshopped.”
“I know that, but will daddy dearest believe you?” She sips her coffee, eyeing me with concern. “Maybe you should call him first, might look better if you do.”
Lynn and I have been friends forever. We met in middle school the day we got stuck in detention for running our mouths and became fast friends ever since. She rode the wave of fame and publicity right alongside me. She is my rock as I am hers and we both consider ourselves the sisters we never had. Perhaps she has a point. I toss the magazine aside, reaching for my purse and pull out my cell. Three rings later I hear his voice.
“Dad, how are you this morning?” Silence grows on the other end of the line. “You there?”
“Any reason why I’m staring at my daughter on the front cover of yet another popular magazine?”
Shit! Shit! Shit!
“Dad, look, you know I haven’t been out much. I’ve been so careful after what happened last year. But this isn’t what it looks like—”
“Save it, Savannah, do you have any idea what kind of damage you cause me? I have three people working on this, wasting their time on this crap!”
“Dad, please let me explain—”
“No, Savi, we’ll discuss it tomorrow night at dinner.” The line goes dead.
I toss the phone on the counter and rub my face with both hands. Lynn touches my back gently giving me a few moments to process everything. I sigh, running my hands through my hair. Lynn has moved in front of me, getting me to look at her.
“Come on, Savi, let’s get out of here.”
After a hot shower I start to come around a little. I pull on my favorite navy blue dress with black boots and a black pea coat.
“Okay, okay, stop fussing,” Lynn groans from my door, “you look fine.”
“If I end up looking like I have a hangover and the media finds me, you know they’ll have a ball with the story.” She grabs my shoulders and looks at me in the mirror.
“Who cares what anyone thinks, Savi? Anyone who knows the real you knows you have a heart of gold…and a quick tongue to put people in their place.” She grins. “What’s not to love?”
“I am pretty great,” I joke, linking arms with her as we walk out the door. We have to sidestep two painters outside in the hall and as I push the button on the elevator I glance at one of the men. He’s wearing a massive belt buckle that reads ‘Texas’ with a Longhorn head sticking out of the center.
“He’s a ways from home,” I mutter. Lynn shakes her head at me.
“Oh please.” She laughs, noting the direction of my gaze. “They’re a dime a dozen at any market.” She hustles us into the elevator. I sigh not wanting to face the outdoors.
“Ready?” she asks, pulling on her sunglasses.
“I guess so.”
“Stop worrying, Savannah,” Lynn says through a bite of her bagel. “Your dad will get over this. You know how he is.”
“I know. I just hate disappointing him, especially over something like this, and I’ve been so careful.” I thought about how the last time I made it on the cover of a magazine was when I tripped over some drunk and fell flat on my face. It made a great story for the tabloids and made an even bigger stink with my father. Everything is about image in the public eye and frankly I am just plain sick of it all. The idea of another four years was enough for me to run screaming for the hills.
“You got plans tonight?” Lynn asks as she tosses her napkin on her plate.
“Yeah, I have a dinner thing for work I have to attend. We’re trying to win over another new client.”
She makes a sour face, “Sounds…fun.” Lucky for Lynn she works her own hours as an artist in her own studio whereas I work for a big marketing corporation. Even though I worked my butt off in school for years I still feel like they use me for my connection to the mayor just to win over clients.
When my mother passed away six years ago after a long battle with cancer I was mentally and physically exhausted. I changed my last name to her maiden name when my father got more involved in politics. I didn’t want people knowing who I was right off the bat. My father didn’t understand at first, but now I’m sure he’s fine with it. I just needed time and privacy to get on with my life and to get over my grief.
Later on that evening, I found myself lost in thought instead of paying attention to the conversation around me. Here I was at another fancy dinner with the beyond boring executives of our company talking about nothing that was remotely interesting. They hardly engage me in conversation and never ask for my opinion. I just sit there and try not to show what I’m thinking. Like how Mr. Roth’s tie keeps dipping into his soup and how his wife pretends not to no
tice. She keeps trying to hide her smirk—I take it they don’t get along very well at home. At least this was a tad amusing. I shift my gaze out the window and into Central Park—oh, what I wouldn’t do to go for a run through the snowy paths right about now.
“Wherever you are, can I join you?” Joe Might asks, leaning over so I alone can hear him.
“I’m sorry?”
He smiles. “You look like you were off somewhere else.”
Oh. I am embarrassed, caught daydreaming by our hopefully soon-to-be client. This doesn’t look good for me.
“I’m so sorry.” I wrinkle my nose, feeling embarrassed to no end. Nice one, Savi!
“Don’t be.” He pulls his hand out from under the table and shows me the phone he’s been playing online poker on. I try and hide my laugh, he grins and shrugs. “We all know it’s a done deal, right?”
“I guess so, huh?” I say with a sigh. “I just wish I could get something stiffer.” I point to my glass of Pinot Grigio. I don’t drink as a rule, but this dinner is painful! He winks at me before he clears his throat.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I need to have a word with Miss Miller.” Before I know what is happening he pulls out my chair and helps me to my feet, walking me through the dining area and out the front door. He hands the valet his ticket and moments later I’m sitting on the tan, plush seat of his red corvette. “Now.” He grins. “Let’s see about getting you something stiffer—to drink, that is.” All I can do was nod like a moron.
After a few drinks at a Scottish pub I decide I should get back before I get in any more trouble with the press. There is only the bartender and a lone man in the corner but lord knows they’d have another field day if they find me in another pub after what happened last night.
