Shattered Pieces (Undercover Elite Book 1) Read online

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  ©Shattered Pieces

  ©My Plight Series

  ©Undercover Elite Series

  Copyright © 2013 Suzanne Steele

  Published by Suzanne Steele

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of Fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced. It may not be used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the Author.

  Cover photo © Dollar Photo Club

  Cover Copyright © Suzanne Steele

  Edited by Corey Amador

  Cover Design by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Formatting by Suzanne Steele

  Thank you for downloading this e-book.

  Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

  All content herein is protected under copyright law.

  This e-book is Rated 17+

  To the reader

  The men I write about are Alpha males in every sense of the word. They are the men society warns us about. They are dominant males with controlling tendencies. They are the men you know you should stay away from but yet

  you are drawn like a moth to a flame.

  If you are looking for a sweet romance, you won't find it here. What you will find is dark passion. Many times my heroes carry what would be considered an obsession for the women they love. Each and every character I write about has demanded their voice be heard. I have been true to that calling and I have stayed true to their personalities, which at times the reader may not always agree with. They are dark, they are gritty, and many times their love is dysfunctional but, nonetheless, it is real.

  Stalk Me…

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  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 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

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  I wish I could tell you that this is a story with a happy ending. I wish I could tell you that this is like so many other stories I have seen and read, where there is a wonderful reunion for mother and daughter, but I can’t.

  The simple fact of the matter is that my birth mother never wanted me. From the moment I left her womb, until the day of her death, she made sure I knew that she wished I had never been born.

  Though I still can’t wrap my brain around how it’s possible that some women never bond with their children, I have finally realized that my mother is one of the few without the ability. I made the conscious decision to accept this reality and move on. I had to. It was either that, or turn into a whining, beat-down, shell of a woman who uses the past as an excuse to never make a difference in this cold, fucked-up world where we live.

  I have no regrets for the life I have been allotted and I harbor no resentment. I suppose if I hadn’t gotten in the mess I was in, he never would have taken me. Ours most certainly isn’t a story with fairytale attributes; it is more like a nightmare. I believe wholeheartedly that the ugliness found within the pages of this story is my mother’s doing and not Cash’s. Though he went about inserting me into his life in a questionable manner, it was a necessary evil.

  I’m certain he justifies kidnapping me. You know… the whole ‘the end justifies the means’ thing. Regardless, I am a better person for it and though I kicked and screamed when he first took me against my will, I went along with the training that followed nonetheless.

  The story within these pages is a very real, raw, and depictive story, but it is one that needs to be told. Others need to hear that being broken is okay, being unwanted is okay, and being abandoned is okay. I believe we all come with our own set of scars, cracks, and blemishes that make us the beautiful messes we are. I believe perfection is overrated. I have chosen, rather than hide my imperfections, to embrace them and share my experience with others so they too can move past their shame and into their freedom. I don’t know how to be anyone but who I am and I refuse to paint a false image that will crumble because it has no foundation of truth.

  This is my story…

  Chapter One

  Johnnie

  “Oh shit, shit, shit,” I groan as my car barely sputters into the parking lot of the strip club where I work. I need a new car but I’m never going to get it on my waitressing salary. My boss and the girls I work with keep telling me how much more money I could make if I would just dance but I can’t do it. I watched the slow demise of my older sister when she took that route. No, I won’t let that happen to me.

  I rush back into the dressing room to put on the slutty clothes. I hate them but I won’t get any tips if I dress the way I prefer—like a boy to ward off advances. It’s fitting that I got stuck with a boy’s name at birth; I really am a tomboy at heart.

  I throw my bag down and quickly pull the top over my head to change when I look up to see my boss. “Hey, some fucking privacy here would be nice!”

  “You’re late.” The bastard doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s staring.

  “So dock my pay. I’m broke anyway.” I pull on a crop top t-shirt that I had cut up and wiggle into a denim mini-skirt.

  “With a body like that, you could be rich if you quit waitressing and started dancing.”

  I have no intention of telling him why I refuse so I just duck under his arm and make my way out onto the floor. I walk over to the bar and have to yell to be heard over the loud music and catcalls from the men watching Andrea grind against the dancing pole. I shudder to think what a nasty petri dish that pole must be with everyone rubbing on it nightly. The bartender makes her way over to give me my tray along with a pad and pen to take orders. I don’t know why she gives it to me. I never use it, preferring to rely on memory alone.

  “That hot ass stalker is here. I saw him talking to the boss earlier.”

  I roll my eyes and she just continues to speak. “Why in the world you ignore that fine ass specimen of a man is beyond me.”

  “Why he continues to stalk me is beyond me,” is my only response.

  I turn to make my way out into the mass of people and look over to the darkened corner where I know I’ll find him. He’s there, casually leaning against the wall like he owns the place. He crooks his finger in my direction and I obediently walk over to take his drink order.

  Standing in front of him, my 5’10” frame feels inordinately small. I can smell his co
logne and I have to push away thoughts of how gorgeous he is. Tonight, he’s wearing a tan, tailored suit with a black, button-up shirt complete with cufflinks that look like they cost more than I make in a month. His jet-black, long, layered hair is the kind that tempts you to run your fingers through it. His coal black eyes bore through me as he speaks, “You’re late and now you have to sit with me all night because I’ve already paid what you got docked.”

  “You just don’t quit, do you? You went to my boss?”

  “You have no idea how far I’ll go when it comes to you.”

  I walk away, knowing he’ll follow me, and head to a secluded booth where I set my tray down and plop my feet up on the small coffee table.

  He stalks his way over and eyes me with a sexy, hooded gaze that I’m sure worked on all the ladies he’s tried it on before.

  “I’m baffled… I’m certain you could have any woman you want, yet, you want the one you can’t have.” I try something I haven’t used on him before, “I don’t like men.”

  His rich, baritone laugh resonates through the air and lightens his normally stone cold features.

  “Now that’s funny. Okay, I’ll play along. So you like women?”

  “No, I don’t like anyone.”

  That incites another laugh and I can’t help but wonder why I feel so flattered that I’m the one that brought a smile to the face of a man who is normally so intense in nature.

  “You’ll work perfectly for what I have planned for just that reason, Johnnie.”

  My name rolls off his tongue in a tangle of sensual syllables. This would be a hell of a lot easier if this guy didn’t ooze sex appeal.

  “Okay, now I’ll play along. Don’t I have any choice in this plan you’re cooking up?”

  “Absolutely not, I’m a man who not only has to be in control, but also enjoys that control immensely.”

  “Well that can be interpreted in more than one way.”

  “I exercise control in every area of my life and, yes, that most definitely includes the bedroom.”

  I feel my face flush under his intense gaze and I’m glad for the interruption when the waitress arrives to take our order. He never takes his eyes off of me though, even when he is speaking to her.

  “Please bring us a magnum.”

  The waitress just stands there and ogles him as if she’s hypnotized. He seems to have that effect on every woman he encounters, every woman but me. I finally look up and speak to the waitress, “Tracy, snap out of it.” Her face turns red and she rushes away in embarrassment.

  “I’d like to think you’re jealous,” he leans in to whisper in my ear.

  “In your dreams. I don’t subject myself to womanizers.”

  “You’re stereotyping me. I’m crushed.”

  “I’m certain you’ll recover.”

  I spend the rest of my night talking to the man who has been stalking me for the last six months and, surprisingly enough, I enjoy myself in his company.

  Cash

  She’s so fucking beautiful, even more so because she tries so hard not to be. She dresses like a tomboy, purposely trying to discourage male attention. The journal, that I was able to copy from her computer when I broke into her apartment earlier this evening, will definitely come in handy. It will enable me to study her most intimate thoughts, to delve into her psyche.

  She’s absolutely perfect for what I have planned and I will make my move very soon. I worry about something happening to her. I know enough about her to know that she is her own worst enemy. It grieves me to know a woman like her, who has so much potential, is so self-loathing. Yes, the journals will tell me why. I have a very strong desire to wrap her up and take her home just so I can help her begin the healing process she so desperately needs.

  I’d like to think I am her knight in shining armor, but a dark knight would probably be a more apt description. I’m not a good man; I’ve taken too many lives to give myself that title. I listen as she talks, as we banter back and forth, and I study her. Talking to her is easy and it brings an element of peace into my life. That’s something I haven’t had in a very long time.

  I’ll do what I always do. I’ll watch over her and then follow her home to make sure she arrives safely. She is in my system, a drug I crave. More than once, visions of being buried deep within her have taken over my thoughts.

  I’m a patient man and I can wait for the perfect opportunity to sweep her off her feet. My manner of doing so won’t be the norm, but all I care about is getting the results I desire. I want her and I will do whatever is necessary to have her completely under my control. I have all the resources I need to make it happen. Soon, very soon, I will have her right where I want her—in my home, in my arms, and in my bed.

  Cash

  I did exactly as I intended; I kept her safe for one more night. I make my way inside my mansion and into the quiet foyer. I guess, living this way, I should feel lonely but I’ve never really wanted to be around people. That changed when I met her.

  I bound up the spiral staircase, walk down the hall, and enter the master bedroom so I can get through with my shower. I have one thing on the brain and that is getting into those journals of hers.

  I run the water until it’s the perfect temperature and my mind, as usual, is bombarded with thoughts of her. It’s getting harder and harder to let her go with each passing day. She is forcing me to go through with my abduction plan, wooing me into her web, and entangling me more and more each time I see her.

  My cock jumps to life with thoughts of her fulfilling my fantasies. I stroke myself, using the slippery soap in my hand, as I think about her tight, athletic frame. Thoughts of having her pinned beneath me and fucking her until she screams out my name force the orgasm from my body.

  I finish my shower only partially sated. Remembering the journal, excitement over exploring her private thoughts in written form prompts me to hurry. I dry off, pull on some drawstring pants, and plod over to my king size bed where I wish I had her tied up and at my mercy.

  The laptop boots up, I pop the memory stick in, and begin to read.

  I suppose the reason I’m beginning this journal is to try and make some sense of my fucked-up life. Our last argument sparked the idea. It went something like this…

  “Why the fuck would you name me Johnnie?”

  “Your father wanted a boy.”

  “My father? That’s a joke. You mean my sperm donor, don’t you?”

  “Look, Johnnie, you’re not the only kid ever born who was unwanted. Get over it.”

  I eyed the drunken woman sitting in front of me and though I didn’t feel any empathy for her, I did feel pity. She was a poor excuse for a mother. I turned and made my way out the door. Why subject myself to any more of her abuse?”

  I turn off the computer, feeling even more determined than before to make my move and knowing I need to make it soon. She’s a walking time bomb and I’ll be damned if she is going to self-destruct on my watch.

  Johnnie

  Stretching as I wake up, I try to alleviate the stiff neck and muscle soreness I have every morning, courtesy of my ancient mattress. Memories from the night before flood my brain as I look over at the clock to check the time. Ugh, it’s already 12:30pm. Working in a bar, all the late nights have the unfortunate result of turning me into a night owl and I end up sleeping away most mornings. I’m grateful to be off tonight; maybe that will help throw my stalker off my trail. Surely he can’t know my schedule. Though, if I’m honest with myself, I can’t say that I would be shocked if he is aware. He seems to know way more than he should, than is possible, about my life.

  I have no idea how he does it, but the man keeps better tabs on me than I do. I finally extricate myself from the sheets tangled around my body and make my way over to the coffeepot to get it started. Living in an efficiency apartment means it’s only few steps between my bed and the caffeine I so desperately need.

  The shower helps to wake me up a little as I allow the coffee to finish
brewing. I’ll get ready and then run errands before I come back home and dress to go to my bar of choice—the gay bar. It’s the one place I don’t have to worry about being hit on by men.

  I couldn’t care less about having a man or, for that matter, anyone in my life in a relationship capacity. I don’t like people getting close to me. The professionals call it Reactive Attachment Disorder, or RAD; I call it survival. It’s what happens when children don’t receive enough nurturing in their formative years. To put it simply, I can’t bond with people. It seems to be a much bigger deal to everyone else because it doesn’t bother me in the least. It’s all I have ever known.

  Ironically enough, it is probably the reason the suit stalking me wants me so badly. He draws women like bees to honey with his suave demeanor, but I see something that other women don’t—his dangerous undercurrent. The man has a sinister element to him and though he manages to hide it from most, my radar, honed from growing up in the streets, alerts me to how dangerous he really is. He reminds me of the kind of guy you see on TV who looks normal, but he’s really a hired killer. I can’t quite put my finger on it but there is something about him that tells me he is trouble. You know, he’s just not the kind of guy you want to cross.

  Oh well, that’s enough daydreaming. I head out to start running errands so I can go out tonight and have some fun with my gays. It’s the one night a week I allow myself to just kick back and enjoy cutting up with the friends I’ve made at the downtown Louisville gay bar.

  Where most kids grew up playing in the neighborhood park, I grew up in strip clubs and gay bars. If it hadn’t been for the strippers and drag queens, I wouldn’t have had responsible childcare. Yes, I’m serious. It was the strippers and drag queens keeping me safe while my sister was working and my mother was too drunk to watch me.

  Chapter Two

  Johnnie

  I make my way up to the bar and lean over so the bartender can hear me over the loud music. “A Bloody Mary, please.”