Battered and Bruised, But not Broken

by Piper Kay

  Published by Encompass Ink

  This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ©Text Copyright 2017 Piper Kay & TL Travis

  Cover By:

  Rue Volley

  Edited for Encompass Inc. By:

  EAL Editing Services

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  Dedications:

  To all the ones who have felt battered and bruised, you never have to be broken. Not when there is love in your life.

  And to TL Travis,

  Woman, the things we’ve been through. Geezuz!

  I love you, my twin.

  ~Piper

  To Piper Kay,

  Meeting you was an eye-opening experience, one I’ll never forget. I honestly don’t think I would’ve been able to write this book had we not met. Your story is one that should be told and I’d be honored to help you do so. You inspire me, you push me to be better and you also scare the shit out of me.

  I love you twin!

  Chapter One

  Hunter

  Metal gates clang together and the cell doors slam shut.

  “Lights out!” the guard announces over the speaker.

  Within thirty seconds, they flicker and shut off. Only the dim, overhead track light in the main rec room shines. I hate this time of night, because it’s when I’ve got be on alert, a hundred percent, and ready for anything that may come my way. That old saying about sleeping with one eye open rings true here. That’s just how things work in prison. Damn near pitch black is when shit hits the fan, or at least in my unit it is. Someone has it in for you, this is how and when they get you.

  I do my best to stick to myself, not make pretend friends in here, and ride completely solo. So far, it works, but when you get a shit-ton of pent up men with nothing to do, all it takes is one glance in the wrong direction for someone to read it the wrong way, and there you go. Reason to get jumped.

  Curling my pillow up under my head, I listen, as shit goes down around the cell block, just thankful it’s not directly affecting me. So far, I’ve been very lucky.

  ***

  BAM… I snap out of my daydream. Shit! I hate when this happens, a flashback to something I want to forget. My time in the clink.

  Luckily, I was only in the State’s custody for a short time, but now I’ve got this nice little label, ‘ex-convict’, attached to my name on a permanent basis.

  I shake my head, and crack my neck from side to side until something snaps me back into the current place and time. Work, here in the refinery.

  Tapping my pencil on the flat surface, I steal a glance at the black and white oval clock on the wall, and then gently scratch the lead of my pencil against the wooden desktop. Time cannot go fast enough for me today. I’m antsy…and ticking off the minutes. Seven more to go, and then I’m out of here and headed home for the weekend. Hell yes!

  This temp job bores the living fuck out of me, but it’s good for delivering two things that are vital to my being right now.

  One, that crispy paycheck on Friday afternoon, which ensures my rent is paid up for the next week.

  And two…it keeps the state, and especially my parole officer off my back, and happy. See, as long they’re good, my life stays easy. I sort of like things being simple like that, especially since it only takes a quick scribble on a form to lock me back up again.

  Hopefully things will change because this place I work at has no room for a future, it was just the first thing I could find. It’s not easy to snag a job when you wear an ex-con label on your T-shirt, so you take what you can get. This is what I got, and it bites, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  I’m applying for something else first thing Monday morning that doesn’t require three pots of coffee or wooden toothpicks to prop my eyelids open. And for right now, anything at this point beats the hell out of the six by six cell I’ve been cooped up in for the last two years. That rates to exactly zero on the fun scale, and I’m not chancing a repeat performance. I’ve got to tow-the-line and keep a low profile. As though that’s an option for someone like me, a person who makes a habit out of being in the right place at the worst possible times. It’s a gift straight from hell… I think.

  Convict doesn’t float too many boats around prospects in the employment line, or family, and it’s the main reason I hang solo with me, myself, and I...in all this bullshit.

  No one else to count on, be responsible for, or depend upon. I have a real nasty habit of giving people the benefit of the doubt, when I shouldn’t. That’s what nailed me in the first place, pretty much. Something that should’ve been harmless fun, took a turn for the worst, so now I don’t even trust my gut instincts anymore.

  Unless someone’s walked a mile in another’s boots, and lived it, they automatically have unfair judgments to toss out, because they don’t get it. They’re quick on spinning stories to make it all sync nicely, and love to paint picture perfect portraits, because it pacifies them.

  They don’t care about the who’s and what’s of a situation, as long as it all comes out smelling like pretty roses.

  In my case, it’s not something I run around bragging about or even begin to think anyone would understand. The average person in society knows nothing about prison, why would they? It’s the people that did know me personally, as in my family, who turned their backs on me. After all, I created the drama, best for me to ‘stew in it’ they said as they waved goodbye. Sad thing is, I had a choice to make. Get killed or live.

  Now, I run life by myself on full protection mode, and why I hold everyone else at arm’s length and keep them out of the loop. It clears me of any emotional reins that could bind me to anyone. The heartbreak was unbearable and I refuse to go there again. Being completely alone is never something I thought I’d have to endure or cope with in my life...until it happened. Never again. It’s way too risky to allow anyone to get close.

  Being completely alone has taught me many things. Throwing up walls has become my specialty these days. While some may consider me as being a ‘hard-ass’— to me it’s self-preservation, and protection. I don’t do pain, especially emotional pain.

  However, with this kind of attitude, it causes me a lot of missed opportunities, but what the fuck do I do? Let my guard down and get hurt again? No thanks. Not in a million years. I still have needs, don’t get me wrong, I just fake my way through them. I’m a convincing faker, by the way.

  The second-hand ticks its way around the circle, and finally lands straight up on the hour. Outta here!

  “Hello weekend,” I mumble to myself, slide the card through the skinny slot on the auto reader time-clock hanging on the wall, and bolt out the door until Monday rolls around again.

  Within minutes, I’m straddled over my silver and blue, Ducati. Twisting the key, I crank her up, letting the vibrations rumble and shake up and down my legs. Seems like the most exciting action I’ve gotten over the last two weeks of being out and about, in the free world.

  With any luck, this might be the last time I’ll see this parking lot. Good riddance! If all goes well, and I get a job on Monday then this place is history, especially if it’s one with bette
r pay. Working in the refinery shuffling paperwork isn’t my ideal job.

  ***

  Tonight, is it. I’m making my move and heading out for the night. It’s a risk, but if I don’t do this, I’m going to explode. There’s this new club I’ve been hearing about through Grindr called Morph, that’s buried deep in the underground tunnels of downtown Houston. It’s my destination spot for tonight. A man’s got to satisfy his urges, even if that means it happens through a stranger. A need is a need, and when not handled properly, it can lead to all kinds of other issues. Outward turmoil, like I need any of that. Aggressive behaviors, been there and done that. Torching of certain vital parts as they explode behind denim or leather pants…. Pretty, self-explanatory, I’d say. Don’t know about most guys, but I’m not one for having my cock spontaneous combust anytime soon.

  Honestly, I’m doing the best I can to stay out of trouble and keep away from old people and places that I’d normally be around. So here goes nothing.

  They, whoever ‘they’ are, have this little saying. “When nothing changes, then nothing changes.” Whatever the hell that means. I guess I’m changing. I don’t know a single soul that works at Morph, so consider this one step in the right direction.

  Can’t say I’m looking forward to the underground tunnels, because as most people don’t know, these are the same routes and pathways that link the county jails to each other, and to the courthouses. Nothing fun about traveling them as a prisoner, so it’s time to approach them as an outsider. You know, see the other side of the brick and pavement walls?

  After arriving at home, not like you can call it a real home, but it works for now, I grab a quick shower. Zipping my black leather pants, and tying up my Harley boots, I squirt a few shots of cologne on my T-shirt and head out, with only one thing on my mind.

  Release…

  ***

  There’s a guarded parking lot outside of the main bank branch, with plenty of security cams and guards to watch everything. Hopping off my bike, I know she’ll be protected. I look toward the elevators and then make my way there and step inside, all alone, pushing the “U” button for underground.

  To be very fucking honest, I’m way out of my comfort zone here. I don’t usually go spur of the moment with shit or chill in unfamiliar ground. Damn changes and shit, but I’m really trying. As I exit from the elevator, just a block or two down, I see the sign.

  “Morph” is written in slanted, cursive purple letters with a cobalt blue outline around them above the double door entrance. Gold lightning streaks zap down each side of the neon sign. A burly, overgrown guy is perched behind a stand, and music is vibrating so hard I can feel it tickle through my boots. I pay the fee and step inside wearing the illuminated stamp he just hit the top of my hand with.

  Lights ping from ceiling to floor, wall to wall, and then draw into the center of the platform dance stage. Now we’re talking.

  Glossing my tongue over my bottom lip, I scan the place, checking out the scenery. So much grinding and rubbing all over, I love it so much. There’s a single stool at the bar, and I push my way through the crowd to snag it.

  No one in-particular grabs my attention yet, but the night’s still young. Cutie-pie bartender heads in my direction ready to take my order, but he’s not my type either. A looker for sure, just not my thing.

  “Open tab, and anything cold on tap,” I answer, before he has time to spit the question out first.

  He gives me a tip worthy grin, returning a few minutes later with a frosty mug and sets it down in front of me. “Here you go. That’ll be $4.50.”

  Guess the fucker wants me pay and fill that complimentary tip jar to the rim too. No can do here, Amigo. Tip is one thing, but to fill the glass jar, so not happening.

  I slap a ten down on the counter, instead of a twenty, and swivel on the barstool, scanning the room. Nothing interesting, nothing at all. Everyone’s coupled up with someone, laughing and having fun, dancing and playing, yet here I’m, like normal…alone. Maybe this was a bad decision after all.

  Swallowing a big gulp of the white fuzz on top of my beer, the main door opens and I can’t help but look. I’ve got that whole cat-curiosity shit going on, along with the who’s gonna make it purr just right.

  Dressed in khakis and vans, Mr. Legs on a Hottstick enters and I damn near drop my drink in my lap. Dude, is nothing like my usual type, but something about those golden locks call to me. Not to mention, that tight ass t-shirt he’s poured into— Fucking yum. I lean back against the bar, placing both elbows on the marble countertop. Consider my attention caught right fucking now. My cock stirs behind the metal zipper of my leathers. Stick me with a fork, I’m sizzling.

  Quickly I look around, and then slide my hand down to my crotch, adjusting the bulge and taming the twinge that shoots straight through my cock. Shit a fucking brick, this fucker’s a mind of its own. Down boy.

  This is too damn weird for me, it really is. I don’t do twinks much or nerds for that matter. I like them full on burly and boasty, then like to have them drop down and please me before we take it a step further. Call it my kink, or whatever. I love the control factor behind it, the challenge. To know I have someone sort of bow down, wanting me like I’m a fuck hot cock God or something. It’s twisted, I know that…maybe, but for fucks’ sake I’ve left everything behind me on a public level. Can’t I just hang out and have my own private fantasies play out for once?

  Mr. Tall, hot, and khakis steps up to the bar. He slides between me and the seat next to me, slightly brushing his body against mine, resting his wrists on the countertop to order as he leans down. The smell of his cologne is…well, rather enticing and erotic. Intoxicating. Musk, with hints of birch and bergamot, blended with berries and it’s delicious. The sudden urge to lick him all over causes my already swollen cock to rub uncomfortably against the back of my zipper.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asks him.

  He nods. “Mai-tai, please and thank you.”

  The bartender returns with his drink. After paying, he looks down at me, and I give him a shit ass smirk and roll my eyes at his drink choice. He smiles, then looks to the dance floor. What a dick.

  That voice of his, just a few little soft spoken, yet, demanding words radiate confidence, and I kind of like that. Hell, anyone who orders a drink like that and still smiles, has me more than intrigued. I can totally picture this guy down on his knees begging for me. In fact, I might just have to take him now…

  Biting my damn tongue isn’t going to work. “Hey there…” Fuck, that was lame, but at least he grinned. I’ve been out of this scene way too long.

  “Hello.” He glances my way, and then looks back up, quick like. “Sorry for just barging in here on you like this.” He shifts his body away from mine. “I needed a drink.”

  Gasping for air, because that was smoking sexy the way the words formed on his mouth and purred out through those pouty lips. I don’t even know what to call him yet, except slurp worthy. Fucking hell he’s delicious.

  He stands close to six feet tall with piercing hazel eyes. My fuck, they’re hypnotic. He’s one bucket full of mystery that needs to be solved.

  Laughing at his apology, I rebut, “No prob. Sort of been watching you since you came through the front door. I’m totally good with you barging in…and shit. Got a name?”

  His grin curls the corner of his lips, revealing a little pinch in his left cheek. “Is that right?” He laughs taking his colorful fruit drink and then turns to me. “What else are you good with?” he asks, ignoring the question.

  The way his mouth puckers and purses around the straw damn near has my dick drooling.

  Fucking flirt. Name now, please.

  “Quite a few things, actually.” I smile at him, and he leans in closer to me, lowering his head to mine. “Too bad there’s not an empty seat here, or we could discuss them, in detail.”

  He trickles his finger across my cheek. “Discuss, huh? I’m actually more of a hands-on guy,
so to speak.”

  I laugh again, and he leans back up as I glide my hand over my aching dick. “Hands on is always a good thing, but I usually require a name first.” Damn, he’s difficult, and I’m not upping my game for shit, not without his name first. “You do have one, right?”

  He grins. “I do. Do you?”

  I arch my brow at him and smile. Two can play at this game. He wants to know it, I’m not handing it out, but man, I want to bend this guy over the nearest piece of furniture and bang the fuck out of him. “Maybe we should go somewhere more private, first.”

  I slide my hand up and down the side of his shirt, my knuckles brush against the muscles hidden underneath. His fingers intertwine with mine and I scan the room, looking for any place to get him alone. This isn’t my typical hangout, and I’m clueless where to go. He takes the lead, and I follow behind him like a puppy tailing his momma.

  We head down a narrow, dark walkway, and he nods to the man standing off to the side near a door, the man nods back, taking his keys out of his pocket unlocking it for us to enter.

  The secluded room is dimly lit by a couple lamps that cast shadows against the walls as we step inside. Perfect, I think to myself as the door slams closed behind us.

  Taking his face in my palms, I bring his mouth to mine, gently giving him a couple of kisses. He wraps his arms around my back, nails digging into my skin. I trace over his swollen lips with my tongue, loving how pink they turn as I lick them to a different shade, before entering his mouth. My tongue swirls around his. The way his lips start quivering is a huge plus for me. God, I want to do this man right fucking now.

  Or better yet, have him on his God-damned knees in front of me, sucking me off like there’s no tomorrow. Mmm…

  His fingers dig and claw into my back, and I let out another gasp, moving him up against the wall— pinning him. Our bodies heat against one another. With my boot, I tap his feet and spread his legs apart, then wedge between them, nudging my way in, grinding my cock against his. He reaches down and unfastens me, taking me in his hand, stroking me up and down, and I delve my tongue back into his mouth. Fuck, I want to feel that mouth around me right now.