Torn (The Torn Series Book 1)

by Sky Corgan

  Torn

  SKY CORGAN

  Text copyright 2015 by Sky Corgan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Man candy everywhere.

  The beat is pulsing, and there's a drink in my hand. The flashing lights and hot bodies make me feel more at home than I have since I've been back in town. It's odd that this strange place makes me more at ease than being at my house. I don't want to think about that right now, though. That's precisely why we're here—so that I can forget.

  I've been scouring the crowd ever since the conversation died, looking for my mark for the night. If Gloria isn't going to entertain me, then I can certainly think of a different kind of distraction. Perhaps I shouldn't be so selfish. It was saintly of her to come with me in the first place, especially since this isn't her scene. I should be spending my time focusing on making her more comfortable. That's probably close to an impossible feat, though. She has always been timid—always been vanilla. Curious, yes. But not the type of girl who would ever act on those curiosities. If I weren't going through so much right now, I never would have been able to convince her to come here. For that alone, I should be more attentive to her.

  Tonight isn't about her, though. It's about me. And I just want to bury myself in the arms of a powerful man. Feel him bury himself inside of me. Fuck all of my pain and misery away.

  A Dom in the middle of the dance floor cracks a whip. It draws my attention away from the entrance to the club. The sound makes a pleasant shiver roll down my spine. He's a dungeon master here, dressed in leather pants and a harness. Probably off limits. Just out on the floor to rile the crowd a bit. It's still early, and there are more people sitting around at tables holding conversations than there are participants in the play areas. The real action starts later tonight, but Gloria has work in the morning, so we had to come out early.

  “Are you having fun?” I grin across the table at her.

  She looks like a wild animal that has been tranquilized and relocated to unfamiliar territory. Her brown eyes are wide, and her normally plump cheeks look taut. Nothing she could say will convince me that this environment isn't stressing her out.

  “It's different.” She bobs her head, keeping her gaze fixed on the dungeon master, who continues to crack the whip every few seconds. The fact that she jumps with each strike, despite anticipating it, is highly amusing to me.

  “It is different. It took me a while to get used to it.” Saying that won't make her want to come here again. I'm smart enough to know that. She did this for me out of love, but her sympathy has always had a short lifespan. If I want to come back, it will be alone. “You should drink more.” I nod towards her Seven and Seven, hoping that the alcohol will help her to loosen up.

  She absentmindedly lifts her glass to her lips, her eyes never leaving the dungeon master. I can't help but wonder if she finds him attractive. She probably does. He's half-naked and muscular. That's enough to turn on most girls. His features are too hard, though—too serious for me. He looks like the type of guy who scowls and grunts during sex as if it's a workout. Perhaps I judge too harshly. I turn my smirk inward as I sip my beverage. The bubbles from the carbonation tickle my nose. This would not be my choice of libations, but since the club is BYOB, and I didn't see the point of carrying in a bunch of different bottles, I settled for Gloria's favorite.

  The majority of the men here tonight are lookers, and there's a surprisingly healthy mix of leather Doms and business types. I've always preferred the suit and tie Doms—the male equivalent of a lady in the street and a freak in the bed. The good ones always seem more polished. That's probably just projection from appearance, though. I've been with plenty of leather Doms who were equally meticulous. Still, there's something about a man dressed to the nines that gets my blood pumping in all the right places.

  I scan the crowd, looking for fresh faces. The line at the door is long, and new people are continuously streaming in, though at a slow pace thanks to there only being one register open to take the cover charge, plus the fact that they have to verify memberships. Gloria and I just purchased our memberships tonight, which made getting into the club take even longer. I went ahead and paid for hers since I knew she'd probably never use it again.

  My eyes settle on a tall drink of water near the bar. He has to be at least 6'3, with a thin frame and evenly buzzed blonde hair. The black bondage pants he's wearing are baggy, leading down to combat boots. His vest has o-rings all over it too. I wait for him to turn around, hoping I won't be disappointed by the front of him—hoping he won't be here with a sub.

  “That guy is tall,” Gloria notes.

  “He is.” I don't even turn to her. “You know what they say about tall boys.”

  She nearly chokes on her drink, though I doubt it's because she's surprised by what I said. We're both perverts, through and through. Even though she's timid, sometimes I think her mind is dirtier than mine. That's probably not true, though. This past year, I've been a real sexual deviant—a completely different person from who I ever thought I would be. Life has worn me down, though, bad experiences cleansing me of the belief that true love exists. Now all I want to do is wrap myself in pleasure, and what better place to do it than where public sex is smiled upon.

  “Wow. He's pretty hot,” Gloria says.

  She's not wrong. Sir Tall has finally twisted around to lean back against the bar, and he's proven to be rather attractive. In the dim light shining down, I can see that his eyes are a pale shade of blue, his jaw covered with a thin layer of stubble. His outfit is a bit overdone, making him look more like an industrial goth than a Dom, but it also piques my curiosity about what kind of tricks he has up his sleeve. Different can often be good. It can often be bad too.

  His gaze shifts over the crowd, momentarily distracted by the televisions on the far wall that are all playing pornography. My heart speeds up as his attention makes its way to our corner of the room. This will be the moment of truth—the moment that I see if he has any interest in me. He could be looking for a potential submissive for the night, or he could be looking for his friends. I'll know soon enough.

  Target locked and acquired.

  Our eyes meet, and his expression turns darkly predatory. I throw the same signals back at him. It's not a submissive gesture, but more of a challenge. I'm not the type of girl to back down when I see something I want. And I want him. Between my legs. Tonight.

  “Oh my God, he's looking at us,” Gloria whispers as if he can hear us from where he's standing halfway across the room. I can picture her cowering slightly, trying to slide under the table out of sight. I dare not break the staring match to look, though.

  A knowing smirk quirks one corner of the Dom's lips, and then the bartender walks up to him, stealing his attention away from me. Damn it. All it takes is one second—one small distraction—to ruin everything.

  I scowl as the intense moment between us is lost. If I were alone, I'd leave the table and approach him. I'm not alone though. Gloria is with me, and it makes me feel trapped. That thought drives my mood down even further. We came here because I was tired of feeling like a bird stuck in a cage. Now that I'm out of the cage, I've found that my wings are clipped. Coming here with her was a bad idea. I see that now. She's not like my friends back in Utah, every bit on the prowl as I am. She's perfectly
content sitting here and people watching—letting so many intriguing experiences pass her by.

  For the briefest of moments, I think about being selfish. When Sir Tall turns back around, though, it's not me he's looking at. Two women rush up to greet him. He wraps one arm around each of them, and I'm completely forgotten. My head snaps back to Gloria so quickly that I can feel the tension in my neck muscles.

  “Two girls for every boy.” Her eyes widen as if she shares my disappointment.

  This isn't uncommon though. It's a pussy fest in here. The ratio of women to men is almost always unbalanced, no matter what club you're in. It can make for slim pickings sometimes.

  We spend the next several minutes consumed by awkward silence. Voices ring all around us and the music still blares, but it doesn't provide good company.

  Sir Tall walks the girls back to a table where they all sit together for conversation. It's not long before a bigger group joins them. That tells me that he's a local here. It also tells me that maybe next time my chances will be better. I don't care if he fucks someone else tonight as long as I get my turn. Every good-looking guy in this place is just a potential notch on my bedpost, as far as I'm concerned.

  I finish my drink and pour another. Gloria is throwing them back as well, but it doesn't seem to be making her any bolder. She spends a few minutes looking around the club, and then she drops her gaze to the table and stares at it for a while before taking a drink and starting the process all over again.

  To be honest, I'm a bit relieved when she announces that she needs to leave. Neither of us is having any fun, and while I do want to stay, I know that I should probably get back home. No one else of interest has entered the club since Sir Tall, and I'm not really in the mood to flirt anymore. Sitting idle has drained me of my charisma. If I stay and don't hook up with someone, I'll be in an even fouler mood.

  “Not your cup of tea?” I ask as soon as we've pushed through the solid black double doors leading out into the parking lot.

  She takes a deep breath. “It was interesting.”

  That's Gloria speak for no.

  “It's not for everyone.” I keep my eyes to the pavement while we walk towards our cars.

  “Like you said, it probably just takes some getting used to.”

  It's a statement filled with false hope. We both know she has no interest in getting used to this type of environment.

  We reach our vehicles and turn to each other.

  “Well,” she sighs, looking out towards the street, “I'm sorry I couldn't stay out longer.”

  “Don't worry about it.” I shake my head. “I'm just glad to get out of the house.”

  “I know things are hard right now, but you'll get through it.”

  Her sympathy is genuine, but I can't help but feel that she has no idea what she's talking about. I was just beginning to like my life again before God had the good humor to serve me this shit sandwich. Haven't I suffered enough? I don't understand why fate saw fit to throw this on me as well. Back in Utah, I was desperately trying to rebuild myself after I felt like I had lost everything. Now I can't even figure out where to start putting my life back together.

  “Yeah,” I reply weakly. “Have a good rest of your night, and drive safe.”

  “You too.” She smiles at me, taking the hint that it's time to leave.

  I slide into the driver's seat of my car and pretend to fidget with something in my console until Gloria drives off. Then I hunch forward and hug the steering wheel, resting my forehead against my arm. There's an almost acidic feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's all too familiar. The feeling that comes when I know I have to go home and face the grim reality waiting for me there.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The feeling grows stronger as I approach my house and peaks when I pull into the garage. My eyes are fixed on the door leading into the house, waiting to see if one of my brothers comes out to greet me. Hopefully, they're both asleep. Or maybe they don't care whether or not I'm home. It's not like I was ever around before—ever a good sister.

  I kill the engine and take a moment to lean against the steering wheel again. Every fiber of my being does not want to walk into that house, but I know I have to. Whether I like it or not, this is where I live. This is my life. This is now my responsibility.

  I open my car door as quietly as possible though it seems pointless after the creaking of the old garage door and the sound of the car pulling into the garage. I cringe as I press the button to put the garage door back down. My stepfather never took care to oil it, so it seems louder than any automatic garage door ever should be.

  Oh well, there's nothing that can be done about it now. If I woke the boys, then I'll just have to deal with it though lord knows I don't want to. They're a reminder of how my life went to shit when my mother married their father.

  Almost the second I open the door into the house, the aroma of Italian food rushes to greet me. The bright light from the kitchen tells me that someone is still awake. And if that weren't enough, the low volume of the television coming from the living room would be the second indication. My stomach flops as I realize I'm going to have to talk to one or both of my brothers, and I suddenly feel angry.

  I walk past the stove, scowling and shaking my head at the pan of lasagna left sitting there. Those boys have rocks for brains. Completely wasteful, leaving food out to spoil—leaving a mess for me to clean up when I came home. I'm not sure why I'm surprised, though. Their father was a slob. I guess the apples didn't fall far from the tree, and my mother was too much of a pushover to ever correct their bad behavior. That's part of the reason why I started to despise them. That among other things too numerous to list.

  I round the corner to find Earl, the older of the two boys, sitting on the sofa watching television. He turns, giving me a vacant look, and my eyes flit past him to the screen where a woman is being brutally stabbed to death. Again, I feel a surge of anger race through me.

  I take long strides to snatch the remote from his hand and turn the television off before practically throwing the remote onto the sofa beside him and placing my hands on my hips. “That's not appropriate for you to watch.”

  Life jumps into his large brown eyes—the same teen angst I remember filling my own when I was caught doing something I shouldn't be doing. “I'm fifteen. Not ten,” he retorts.

  I'm not interested in listening. My house. My rules. My mother might have let them get away with everything, but I certainly won't.

  “And what about the lasagna? Don't you have any respect for the people who made it.” I point towards the kitchen. “It was kind of them to do that for us. And you were just going to let it go to waste.”

  He stands, towering over me by several inches, his chest so close to mine that we're practically touching. I silently curse that he got his father's height. I won't let that intimidate me, though. After all, he's still just a kid.

  “I left the lasagna out because I thought you'd be hungry when you got home.” He pushes around me, his heavy footfalls filling the silence as he makes his way to the bottom of the stairs and then up them to his room.

  My heart pounds in my chest from stress, and the sickness in the pit of my stomach contorts into something else. Guilt. Why did I have to jump to conclusions? Why did I get so angry?

  I sit on the couch and turn on the television, trying to numb myself to the emotions going through me. It takes me a few moments to recognize the movie playing, but then I feel even worse. Of course, I had to walk in on the only violent scene in the entire movie. What he was watching wasn't even something bad. Good God, I'm a horrible person.

  Tears silently spill down my face, the poison of so many pent-up fears and worries overwhelming me. I've cried every night since I got home, and I can't help but wonder when it will stop. I suppose this is natural, though. I'm still in mourning—will be for a while. And the added stress of being forced into playing the role of mother to two boys who I hate doesn't make things any easier.

  I
sit there until my tear ducts are empty, looking at the television but not actually watching it. Then, when I feel well enough to move, I go to the kitchen and stand over the stove to stare down at the lasagna. I can still remember the sympathetic expression on the woman's face who handed it to me. She had been a friend of my mother's, one I had never met. The gesture was appreciated, especially since I've never been much of a cook.

  I was a stranger to her, but she knew both of the boys. This lasagna was probably more for them than me. Thinking that makes my eyes well up with tears again. I don't belong here—haven't for a very long time. Why did this have to happen?

  I submit to the misery that I knew I would feel when I came home. It's why I didn't really want to leave the club. Sure, I wasn't particularly happy there either, but the unhappiness I felt from being bored was leagues away from what I'm feeling now. There's nothing that I can do to escape it. I can't just run away like I used to be able to. So many new responsibilities weigh heavily on me, crushing me.

  With a sigh, I cover the lasagna and take it to the refrigerator. I had plans to eat when I came home, but the emptiness that was in my stomach is now filled with bitterness, guilt, and so many other unpleasant emotions. Plus, I don't really feel like I deserve to eat after what a bitch I was to Earl.

  An acerbic smirk crosses my face as I slide the lasagna onto the top rack of the refrigerator. Sending myself to bed without supper seems like a punishment that a mother would bestow. There's no one here to punish me but myself, though. I'll never see my mother again. Never hear her comforting words telling me that everything will be alright. I need that right now. All I can do is repeat the phrase in my head in her voice.

  Things are difficult right now, she would say, but you'll get used to them. You have to. You have no choice.

  It doesn't help. It just reminds me of the life I left behind and the freedom that I lost.