Unbreak This Heart

by Betty Shreffler

  UNBREAK THIS HEART

  BETTY SHREFFLER

  COPYRIGHT

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  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

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  EPILOGUE

  LASAGNA RECIPE

  MORE BOOKS BY BETTY SHREFFLER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  UNBREAK THIS HEART

  Published by Betty Shreffler

  Copyright © 2018 by Betty Shreffler

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereinafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording or in any information storage or retrieval system is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher. For information email: bettyshreffler@yahoo.com

  This 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, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Editor: Sandy Ebel, Personal Touch Editing

  https://www.facebook.com/PersonalTouchEditing/

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  This story is close to my heart. I have personally suffered from sexual assault and the aftermath of depression and PTSD that comes with it. I wanted to write a story that reflects the struggles a woman goes through, but that she can also overcome those inner wounds and find the strength to live a fulfilling life as well as to be able to love and trust again. I hope you enjoy Alex’s journey as much as I did writing it.

  Thank you Lorilee for your expertise on all things MMA. You made my research much easier and enjoyable especially with your enthusiasm to answer every one of my questions no matter how late I was up writing.

  Thank you Lorilee and Tashia for being my beta readers. Your love for Carter motivated me to keep writing this story during the hardest times.

  To book nerds everywhere;

  you are my tribe

  you make my dream possible

  and for that

  I thank you.

  To stay connected with me and to be in the know for all my sexy and suspenseful releases:

  --> Subscribe to my Newsletter

  --> Follow me on Amazon

  --> Join my Facebook readers’ group; Betty’s Beauties and Bad Boys.

  --> Visit my Website for New Release information or to shop for Author Betty memorabilia.

  Now onto Unbreak This Heart! Enjoy!

  PROLOGUE

  I lay here teetering on the edge of my own sanity. My despair and fear have become a black hole from which I can’t escape. I fear the dark. I fear sleep. I fear what comes to me every night. Over and over. When morning comes, I gasp for air, drenched in sweat, my fists clenching my sheets. I remind myself he’s not here. He can never hurt me again. He’s dead, and I’m alive.

  The pain you feel today is the strength you’ll have tomorrow.

  CHAPTER ONE

  —

  ALEX

  The loud, obnoxious buzzing of my cell phone on my nightstand reminds me it’s time to wake. I only fell into an exhausted sleep three hours ago. Dragging my heavy legs off the bed, I stumble to stand and make my way into the kitchen. The cool tile floor feels refreshing against my warm feet. It’s the first thing every morning that jolts my body awake and reminds me I can still feel something—anything.

  With the direction my life has gone these last several weeks, it amazes me I haven’t lost everything. My boss has taken pity on me and given me many passes, but it will only last so long. I need to get my shit together. I’m trying. I swear I am but surviving an attack in your own home isn’t something you recover from quickly.

  Moving to a new apartment in Villa Heights was a way to cope. Every time I walked into my old apartment, I was reminded of that night. Leaving behind all of my furniture and telling my landlord to sell it or use it was an easy choice for me. The apartment had become a desolate cave, filled with despair, anger, fear, and disgust. It was no longer my home. I would’ve burned it down to the ground and watched it incinerate if given the chance.

  The Keurig machine grinds and hisses, and I’m snapped back to the present. Pulling the mug from the base, I hold it between my narrow fingers and bask in the warmth before bringing the hot liquid to my lips. As it warms my throat, it sheds the last of the lingering night.

  My hand curls around the white curtain and pulls it away from the floor to ceiling window, letting the Florida sunlight illuminate the room and fill every crevice of my apartment. After another sip, I close my eyes and concentrate on the sensation warming my skin. I need these little moments—moments where I forget the pain, the desolation, the loneliness.

  Ever since the attack, I haven’t dated. I had a fiancé, but the coward took off when I needed him the most. I can’t blame him though. I became a broken woman. I was no longer the spritely, kinky, fun Alex I used to be.

  Now I’m the workaholic, structured, paranoid, can’t bring myself to love Alex. If not for my best friend, Jane I may not be here at all. Her spunk and loyalty gave me a string to hold on to—something to grasp onto in my deepest, darkest moments.

  Glancing at the gym certificate on the table, I smile. After mentioning I wanted to take a self-defense class, it was Jane who left me a sparkly card on my birthday with a gift certificate for eight weeks of kickboxing and self-defense classes, all expenses paid. You see why I love her?

  My first class is at nine and I don’t want to be late. After a quick shower, I carefully choose something comfortable. I’m not a gym enthusiast, but I do know I’m gonna need as much flexibility as my clothes will allow. Settling on a peach racerback tank and black, knee-length, athletic, yoga pants, I wrap my chocolate hair into a ponytail, grab my bag and keys, and head out the door.

  As I pull up to the gym, I’m already feeling good about the place. It has large windows across the front of the building. With the sun shining, I can see inside clearly. There’s a class now, a group of women hitting and kicking bags with all their might. I take a breath, committing to my endeavor. It’s
now or never.

  Opening the door, I’m overwhelmed with nerves. The eyes that descend on me, the smell of sweat and metal, and the symphony of grunts do nothing to calm them. A pretty girl with short, wavy, dark hair gives me a toothy grin from behind the front desk.

  “Welcome to Raise the Bar. What can I do for you?”

  I hand her my certificate.

  “Oh great! You’ll be with Carter. He’s the best. He’s finishing up the eight a.m. kickboxing class. If you want to take a seat and fill out this sheet, he’ll be over when he’s finished.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, taking the clipboard from her hand.

  Moving to the small waiting area that blocks my view of the current kickboxing class, I listen to a guy with a smooth and authoritative baritone instruct the women to stretch and drink water before telling them they did a great job this morning. Filling in my name and information, I wait for the next class participants to arrive.

  My nerves etch wrinkles across my forehead when no other women show up, but several depart from the class that just ended. Stepping up to the counter, I place the completed form on it.

  “Excuse me.”

  The sweet girl turns to me. “What can I help you with?”

  “The certificate says nine. Was it printed wrong? No one else seems to be showing up.”

  “No, it’s printed correctly,” the young woman smiles kindly. “It’s a certificate for private classes.”

  “Private classes?”

  “Yeah, here’s Carter now.”

  She points behind me, and I turn to see a magnificent specimen of a man walking toward me while he lowers what appears to be a fresh shirt. Flapping wings go into a tizzy, giving my stomach an unfamiliar sensation. I stare, a bit mesmerized by the broad shoulders, muscular arms, and the peek I saw of his chiseled chest and the tribal tattoo laced across his torso. And those abs! I’ve never seen someone in the flesh with an actual eight-pack.

  Before I embarrass myself, I peel my eyes off him, glance back at the girl, and smile. The warmth of my flushed cheeks adds to my embarrassment. She gives me a knowing grin.

  A smooth baritone breaks me from my internal anxiety attack.

  “Hey, you must be my nine o’clock. I’m Carter.”

  Turning to face him, I accept his extended hand and give it a firm shake.

  “I’m Alex.”

  Deep blue eyes study my face for what seems like an eternity. Steadying my trembling knees, I give what’s probably a crooked, awkward smile.

  “Come on back. I’ll show you around, then we can get started.”

  I follow like a loyal, scared puppy as he points and explains where things are and what equipment is what. He leads me into an area with padded floor mats, kickboxing bags, and equipment hanging from the low ceiling.

  “Do you have a pair of good gloves?”

  “No. I should’ve got some. I didn’t think of it.”

  “It’s all right. I have a pair you can borrow for today, but it will be better if you have your own pair to train with.”

  “Got it. I’ll take care of that later today.”

  Carter smiles and that incessant flapping in my stomach startles me. His smile is too charming, too sexy. Avoiding his gaze, I find a place to drop my bag.

  “When you’re ready, we’ll start with some stretches, then we’ll move into some simple exercises of punches and kicks. I’ll try not to work you too hard on your first day. I want you to come back,” he chuckles, pinning me with that sexy smile.

  “I kind of have to. My friend paid for these classes. I’m not going to let her waste her money, and honestly, I’m here to learn.”

  He moves to a stereo and hits a button. Upbeat music filters out through the speakers but not loud enough I can’t hear him clearly.

  “What would you like to learn, Alex? What are your goals?”

  I cross my arms, unsure of what to do with them.

  “I’d like to learn to defend myself.”

  Carter observes my body language with every one of my movements. He’s studying me and that makes me uncomfortable. Biting my lip, I rub my suddenly chilled arms.

  “Have a seat. We’re gonna stretch, then I’m going to help you reach your goal.”

  Sitting down, I outstretch my legs. Sitting in front of me, he outstretches his. I copy him as he moves one direction, then the other. He stands, and I follow his movements, stretching limb after limb, loosening my tight muscles.

  “Good. You ready to start?”

  When I nod, he grabs me a pair of pink gloves. With his assistance, I get them on, then he slides on a pair of punching mitts. Standing in front of me, he raises them eye level.

  “What I want you to do is put your front leg forward and get a confident, steady stance, then punch with your right, left, then duck.”

  Repeating the words in my head—right, left, duck—I start swinging. My glove makes impact, then I lower my body before his left mitt hits me in the face.

  “Good, again, but I want you to keep your gloves close to your chin. Protect your face.”

  Everything repeats in my head—right, left, duck—keep gloves to cheeks. I put power into my punches and make contact. He swings, and I hurry to duck, just missing the mitt to my face.

  “Good,” he winks. “Again.”

  This repetition continues several more times before he tells me to switch my leg and punch the opposite direction. Once more, I have to tell my brain where I’m supposed to hit before being able to make contact. The words repeat, and soon, I’m anticipating his swings and falling into a rhythm.

  “Good.” He lowers the mitts as I catch my breath.

  “You’re a natural, Alex, and your form isn’t far off either. Take a drink, then we’ll start on kicks.”

  After drinking water and getting my breath regulated, I return to him on the mat. He motions for me to follow him to an elongated kicking bag, sticking up from its floor anchor.

  “I want you to kick this bag. Here first.” He toes the bottom. “Then here.” His shoe points to the middle. “Then here.” Lastly, his shoe faces the top. “But when you kick, I want you to put your weight on the front pad of your foot. Let your body swivel and you’ll be able to put more power into your kicks.”

  He demonstrates, and I stumble back, startled by the sheer force and speed of his kicks.

  “Got it?”

  “Yeah,” I reply meekly, “I think so.”

  Replicating his movements, I swivel too far and my ankle dips. Strong hands catch my fall and stabilize me. “I gotcha.”

  The touch of his hands to my waist ignites an odd combination of sensations. I haven’t been touched affectionately by a man in over a year, and my response to the graze of his hands is equally startling as it is tantalizing. Immediately, I wiggle from his grasp.

  “Thanks.”

  My shy embarrassment appears to amuse him. Staring at me, his eyes soften.

  “It’s all right. It’s your first day. A strong core takes time and practice. We’ll get you there. You ready to try again?”

  Nodding, I approach the bag. With concentration, I attack, giving it everything I have.

  “Switch,” I hear behind me.

  Lowering my leg, I rotate my stance and begin my kicks on the other side. He says switch two more times before our time on this bag is through.

  “Great job, Alex. That was better. You have the drive to do well, and that will get you through all your training.”

  Silly as it is, I feel warm and fuzzy from his praise. “Thank you.”

  “You need a break or you ready for more?”

  “A quick water break and I’ll be ready.”

  The next thirty minutes, Carter puts me through more punch and kick practices, and I begin to think, wax on, wax off. He’s teaching me proper form and how to keep my stance strong which makes my punches and kicks more powerful. By the end, I’m panting and wiping sweat from my brow. He tosses me a towel and nods for us to sit.

  “You�
�ve done really well today, it being your first time. You had serious power in your kicks.”

  Little did he know who I was imagining when kicking those bags. I stumble through removing my first glove, and Carter smiles.

  “Here, let me.”

  Strong hands that were demonstrating how to demolish a punching bag earlier are now providing a gentler touch as he pulls the wristband off my glove and eases my hand out of it. He takes my hand in his and I flinch at the unexpected touch. His observant gaze watches my response and tilts my hand back and forth for inspection.

  “This is why your own set of gloves will work better. These are MMA gloves. You won’t have these marks on your knuckles with your own hand wraps or kickboxing gloves.”

  Deep blue irises meet my gaze and lock me in his stare. Something passes between us like an unruly itch running across my skin. I quickly withdraw my hand and tear my gaze from his mesmerizing eyes.

  “Any recommendations of where to buy gloves?” I ask as I remove my second glove and avoid getting locked in an awkward stare again.

  It’s been a very long time since I found a man attractive. I came to the conclusion love and men are a loss for me. I’m destined to live alone and be married to my work. These odd sensations coursing through me at the scent of his masculine soap and sweat, his beautiful blue eyes, and the innocent touch of his hands are unfamiliar territory for me.

  “You can buy some at the shop here, on Amazon, or any MMA site. I’ll walk you to the shop and help you pick out a pair if you’d like.”

  “That’d be great.”

  I’m ready to get away from him before I get any dizzier, but I genuinely need his help with picking out the right kind of gloves. He nods and a deal is struck. Taking the borrowed gloves off the floor, he wipes them out and tosses them in his duffle. Grabbing my own bag, I follow him to the store, packed full of workout gear.

  He points to different gloves in different colors, and I catch myself staring at his short, milk chocolate hair, strong pronounced jaw, and the scruff lining it. His eyes though are what keep me from being able to look away. They’re a deep, soft blue that give the impression of tenderness beneath the masculinity. Turning his head at the right moment, he catches me staring, and I quickly point to a pair of gloves.