Pieces Of One, Part 1 (The Dark Life Collection)

by Ricketts, SVC

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  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

  Acknowledgement

  About the Author

  The Dark Life Collection - Pieces Of One, Part 1

  Copyright © 2013, 2014, 2015 by SVC Ricketts

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental (maybe).

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express consent of the copyright owner. If you have downloaded this book illegally, you are a c*ntcake in a douche-canoe. May karma take an elephant sized dump on your face.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Art and Formatting by Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs (https://www.facebook.com/PinkInkDesignsbyCassy)

  First Edition: June 2015

  To the warrior in all of us. Embrace your inner badass!

  To the ones in our lives that support and protect us no matter how much we f*ck up. Thank you!

  To the wild child that gets us into all kinds of messes so that we can learn.

  On ne vit qu'une fois, faites que ça compte!

  To the person we’ve become and continue to grow into.

  Je t'aime! Je t'adore!

  STEALING THE MONEY, easy–it’s never hidden very well. Getting out of the house, also easy–as any experienced liar would know. Making the long drive toward an evening that could go wrong in so many ways? Not so easy. Immersing yourself in a sea of denial won’t prevent the “big bad” from happening. Deep down, the tiny, cockroach-like voice excessively whispers, telling me so.

  BELOW, THE RUMBLING of the highway drones under my heels. As one of the few souls on the poorly lit road, my headlights eat up the lane dividing reflectors; glowing an angelic white ahead, devilishly red behind me. I’m not purposely going over the speed limit, but my foot is heavy on the gas pedal. With what awaits, I shouldn’t put myself at risk for a traffic ticket. I’ve made this trip over a dozen times, but tonight I’m counting on this to be my last. Too many memories and too much risk—a history I cannot erase.

  I’ll burn my last bridge, play my final card, and then I’m out. Going over the plan in my head, a dread like black sludge seeps into my chest. My hand shakes when I raise it to touch the spot between my eyes. To control it, I grip the wheel with both hands till my knuckles pale. The pain brings a tear to my eyes, or maybe it’s something else. I blow out a breath, but it does nothing to ease my rapid heartbeat.

  The music in the background plays some wacked out 1980’s bubblegum pop song from one of Trista’s pre-set stations. Irked by the whiny squawk of lyrics that make no sense, I fingertip the dial to find something more au courant. A rise of bass causes my finger to pause and a slow smile creeps to my lips. Without question, I turn that shit up.

  The tune spills through the car’s speakers and vibrates the windows. Sinking back into the velour seat, a rush of excitement floods me, swirling around me like warm silk. My heart pumps the sensation through me and turns my focus to another anticipation of the night. Although not dry, I lick my lips and hold the tip of my tongue with my teeth before slipping it back into my mouth. The taste of apple red lipstick fuels me. My eyes lower seductively and my left eyebrow arches up. My closed-lipped smile is tight and one side curves up.

  Ahead, the club comes into sight and I grow heavy with a craving. A throb pounds between my thighs to which I foster by pressing them together tighter. I clench my ass and bask in the thrum’s warmth and slickness.

  When I pull up to the valet, a handsome, acne-inflicted boy opens my door. My short, snug dress is slightly uncomfortable and makes getting out with any decorum virtually impossible–so I don’t. Though the Miami air is humid tonight, the breeze that strokes my pussy when I spread my legs inappropriately apart to exit the car feels delicious.

  A ripple of unscrupulous delight goes through me as I purposely release my car keys an inch from the young valet’s fingers. The clattering sound when they hit the cement, makes me flinch a smirk knowing what he’ll have to do. Let’s see if he does. A moment later my manipulation pays off, just the way I knew it would.

  Despite the line of waiting cars, he takes his time, slowly standing, soaking up my vertical landscape inch by inch. Starting with my legs, to my hips, idling at the curved V of my breasts and then to my face, his eyes drink me in. Barely meeting my eyes, he flits his away. The now blushing boy hands over my claim ticket with unsteady hands. Wrapping my fingers around it, I ensure they stroke his. A move I have mastered.

  “Th…th…thank you,” he stammers.

  A cocky smile pulls the corner of my lips, smoldering embers not yet turned ash, dance inside me. That should be my line when taking the ticket. My perfumed black, wavy hair brushes his face when I lean in. In a breathy voice, I purr, “Take good care of my baby.” Giving him a wink and a peck on the cheek, I turn to the club’s velvet-rope guarded door.

  Nothing about the club screams danger, though, in the dark, dusty corners of my mind, the cockroach voice whispers again. I block out the annoyance because tonight I’m on my game. Tonight I hunt specific prey. I revel in the wicked rush pulsing through me and savor its grasp. It feeds me, tapering the subtle, edgy vibration underneath my skin. My target in mind, I take a stiff breath, pull my shoulders back, and step towards my fate.

  MY SLEEP-CRUSTED eyes slowly let the morning light in, but I don’t feel the need to get out of bed since I’m not due at the shop till noon. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful I have the part-time job at Mr. Peterson’s repair shop, although at first, I hated it. Nevertheless, he’s our neighbor and needed the help, i.e., my mother volunteered me for the job. To my surprise, I discovered I had a talent for fixing things and the shop fixed EVERYTHING. Mr. Peterson taught me how to refurbish vacuums, TVs, toasters, cameras, and anything else with a plug or batteries.

  This morning however, my bed beckoned for my company making itself too comfy to consider rolling out of any earlier than I had to. Pulling up the blankets, I tuck myself into a cozy ball. With a complacent dozy feeling, my body relaxes into contentment. I inhale deeply to smell my freshly washed sheets, but instead, end up gagging on the stench of cigarettes. Shooting up, I grab my hair, but my brain sloshes to the front of my head.

  “Ooohhhh…” My hands cup my pain-flooded forehead and I fall back onto the feathery pillows.

  Haloed around my face, my product-matted hair stinks like a used bar rag and a wet ashtray, which only adds to the sledgehammer hangover. The pain jumbles with my disorientation as I peer underneath the sheets and frown; I’m not wearing my PJs anymore. Instead, the tight black dress confirms my suspicions. Through the slits of my fingers, I see black stiletto heels ha
phazardly cast-off on the floor. A rumpled men’s black blazer also lays in the corner.

  “Damn it, Marvy. The least you could have done is taken a shower,” I moan.

  In a pulse of rising panic, I grab the pill packet from my nightstand. “One, two, three…” and I continue to count. One missing from last night’s count. Whew! I exhale with relief.

  For the past few years, I’ve lived with Marvy, my split-alter personality. We have an understanding. Well, sort of… Okay, not really, I just deal with her the best way I can. At least she takes the preventative measures I provide religiously. She does NOT want to get pregnant. Ever. Even if she hadn’t had sex last night, she would have still taken the pill.

  “I swear I’m gonna end up with a STD one day,” I mumble. This too, probably wouldn’t happen but my hand slaps around my nightstand to find the black sparkle clutch next to the pills anyway.

  “One, two…oh crap!” Two condoms are missing. Marvy always takes four. For what reason? I have no idea. “Great,” I sigh. “Just flippin’ great.”

  My legs feel like molten lead as I drag my feet to the bathroom. A film of grime layers every inch of my skin driving my need to shower. Get whatever “last night” is, off of me. Piping hot water will also help with the raging headache slamming my skull. Passing the bathroom mirror, a glimpse of my reflection startles me. My red lipstick-stained mouth drops wide.

  Even though I have mascara bleeding down my eyes and it is smeared, a fairly flawless face with a near perfect makeup job stares back at me. Somehow, Marvy camouflaged my acne scars and dark spots on my too-pudgy cheeks. And damn, somehow I have a tan! I angle my head in all directions, astonished at the natural looking illusion created with just a touch of sun from some magical wisp of blush over my cheekbones. My brown, almond-shaped eyes blink with thick lashes that nearly touch my eyebrows. Between the dress and makeup transformation, she could easily have passed me off as being in my early twenties.

  My mood sours more and I crinkle a scowl to match. “Shit, why can’t I do that?”

  Although I don’t consider myself cross-the-street-to-avoid ugly, I don’t consider myself a supermodel by any means. But Marvy has a way of sculpting out features of gorgeousness that is unimaginable. To this day, when attempting makeup, I don’t have the skill or dexterity to copy the motions. I end up with one eye different with too much shadow or jagged eyeliner. I’m convinced an eyelash curler is an evil tool invented by some demon-possessed man. My makeup basically equaled the efforts of a five-year-old, so I just don’t put forth a lot of effort. Some pale tinted lip gloss and a little foundation are the best my cosmetic talents can muster. The only thing I come close to being able to do like Marvy is my hair. But most of the time it gets on my nerves, so I typically pull it away from my face into a tight ponytail. It fits my carefree lifestyle better anyway.

  After removing my rings, I reach for my ear cuff and earrings out of habit. My fingers grasp the empty air below my ear, pinching the vacant lobe. Only one big gold hoop remains dangling from the other side.

  Huh, Marvy must have left it somewhere…or lost it. Idiot.

  Stepping into the shower, water cascades from my hair, soothing my aching body. Reaching for the shampoo I pause and slowly draw my arm up. My eyes fix on a bruise on my forearm and a few smaller ones surrounding it. It looks as if someone had grabbed me. I also inspect two broken fingernails.

  “Aaaand, now I’m a brawler too! I hope she had the friggin’ sense to go out of town to party and pick fights.”

  I’ve always been thankful I’ve never met any of Marvy’s seedy trysts. I always worry that someone will think I’m Marvy.

  Would Marvy come out then? I shake my head. No. Marvy is selfish.

  But this too, really wouldn’t happen. My no makeup self looks nothing like the all sexed up Marvy. Mistaken for each other? No, definitely not. Maybe distant cousins.

  BACK IN MY ROOM, I dress and flop down at my desk. Soaking a cotton ball with nail polish remover, I vigorously scrub off the ugly black nail polish job Marvy did last night. The cotton ball sails into the trash bin and then I see it; the pieces of shredded paper. My eyes start to water with the conclusion.

  “Oh no, no, no!”

  Aligning the small strips back together, the math computations I struggled with the night before materialize.

  “Aaarrrgghhhh! THAT BITCH!”

  The edge of the desk holds me steady under my white knuckle grip. “Awesome,” I grate out.

  Luckily I don't have Advanced Calculous till Monday so I have the whole weekend–I hope–to redo the work. Burning resentment boils inside me as I sweep my arm across the desk, flinging books to the floor. One of my notebooks falls open and I snatch it up suspiciously. Checking the rest of my homework, it all looks intact with one exception. A purple inked notation on my French homework, “Au revoir, you homely dork!”

  “Piss off, Marvy!” I scream, slapping the stripped math pages off the desk.

  I need to get out of here.

  Deciding to run it off, I yank open a drawer and snatch a pair of jogging shorts and a t-shirt. After shoving my limbs through the clothes and ramming my feet into my running shoes, I scuttle down the stairs and wave to the lump on the couch with the game controller wildly flailing in his hands.

  “Going for a run!”

  “Hey! Wait...,” Jones yells, jumping off the couch to run after me. My brother doesn’t expect me to suddenly stop, but what I see, or rather what I don’t see, halts my intended exercise therapy. He smacks right into me and I go soaring face down to the lawn.

  “What the hell?” he yells rubbing his forehead.

  “What the hell, yourself! Where’s my car?” I scream back, getting up with an exaggerated hand wave at the empty driveway.

  “How the shit should I know? You’re the one who went out all whored up last night,” he sneers, ignoring my glare. “I was going to see if I could borrow it, but never mind now.” The pisshead laughs, adding, “Mom is gonna hit the roof!” and goes back into the house. My brother, so close in age, yet so far in maturity.

  My fingers grip clumps of my hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  Immediately my eyes bolt left and right with my hands slapping breath back into my mouth. Nosy neighbors are always around to rat me and Jones out.

  “Aaaarrrggghh!! What the hell did you do, Marvy?” I ask with a lowered tone.

  Cursing myself, I knew I should have checked the video, but I was so annoyed about the homework thing, I forgot. Running back into the house, I take the stairs two at a time, and fly into my room.

  While my laptop boots up, I fish through the evening clutch mentally listing off its contents.

  Her stupid purple pen, a stupid generic parking valet ticket, and a stupid mint from some stupid swanky restaurant in Key Stone. That’s it?

  I press my fingers into my eyelids and sigh. Although I’m relieved Marvy went way out there, I hate the thought of going to get my car. When the glow from the laptop screen finally comes to life, I plug in my ear cuff. Opening up the video files, I hit the one dated from last night to playback. In the seconds of buffering, dread rakes my stomach while I stare at the spinning circle. The anticipation of watching Marvy’s latest antics is a tightening anaconda around my throat. I feel sick. She tricked me again; convinced me with her absence that I could be a regular college girl. I suppose she was always going out; I just wanted to believe…

  Sucking in a staunch breath, I remind myself, “Crying is a waste of energy and won’t change a fucking thing.”

  I swallow the tears of self-pity welling up. This is my life; this is the way it will always be.

  ROUGHLY SIX MONTHS after the accident, I began to notice odd things. At first, trivial stuff like my hairbrush moved from the bathroom to bedroom, and clothes I thought I had already hung up, lay crumpled on my closet floor. The pockets of time missing from my day made things especially difficult. In my sophomore year in high school, cluttered with vague memories of homework
and classes ditched, I managed a 4.0 average, yet found myself in detention a lot for the oddest things. Jones, a year behind me, kept me company due to his profound abilities to attract trouble. My mother was beside herself. I’d always been the ‘good one.’ Then the evening after my sixteenth birthday, I found makeup in my desk drawer, trendy new clothes in my closet, and all my birthday cards devoid of their monetary contents. A few days later, I found a shoe with a broken stiletto heel under my bed. I thought maybe I was sleepwalking, but while awake? During the day? Or maybe I was starting to lose my mind, some sort of delayed mental trauma from the accident.

  I kept all of it to myself though. Times were tough in the Dividir house; emotional threads snapping at the change of a breeze and money was tight—still is. Besides, therapy is expensive and insurance will only cover so much. Even though I had a part-time job back then too, I could only help with small household bills and my portion of car insurance. On top of everything else, my mom constantly stresses about my college money. We have no lofty aspirations that Jones will go to college, but she hopes he will. Yeah, right.

  We still haven’t heard back from any of my grant applications and have been denied a student loan. It’s ridiculous that they think my mother makes too much money as an assistant accountant.

  I was desperate for details and wanted to understand the situation better before sharing my secret, so I decided to spy on myself. If I could figure it out and manage it, nothing would need to be said.

  Since spare parts were all over the repair shop, creating a portable video camera was the best way to do that. After a few prototypes, I successfully disguised a micro-camera design in an ear wrap that cuffed my right ear. Everyone thought it was just a cool bejeweled ear ornament, but to me it was a two-inch, motion detecting security feature for my protection. I knew its beauty and uniqueness would appeal to Marvy. Marvy never left without it, even though she knew I’d be watching. She loved flaunting her exploits.