Shattered

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Shattered

  dedication

  play list

  note from the author

  prologue

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  Mia

  Cruz

  epilogue

  acknowledgements & thank-yous

  Shattered 2018 Jaci J

  All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below

  jaclinjean@gmail.com

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, any place, event, occurrence, or incident is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created and thought up from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any clubs, names, organizations, or groups of people are one hundred perfect fictitious and made up by the author and in no way, represent or reflect any actual real person or group of persons.

  Editor: Dana Hook at Rebel, Edit & Design

  Cover Design: Margreet Asselbergs at Rebel, Edit & Design

  Cover: Bigstock—bigstockphoto.com

  Photo: Photosvit (245748895)

  dedication

  This book is for Barb and Shara.

  For endless amounts of laughter, Mexican food, and friendship.

  Thank you.

  play list

  “OTW” – Khalid, 6LACK, Ty Dolla $ign

  “River” – Bishop Briggs

  “Better Now” – Post Malone

  “R.A.N.” – Miguel (Superfly Soundtrack)

  These songs inspired me and kept me company while writing. ;)

  note from the author

  I’m giving you a warning, and not one that’ll spoil the book and give away the plot, but one that says I told you so. So, if you stumble onto something in this book that you don’t like, I don’t want to hear about it, because you were warned. ;)

  Just remember, this book is sexy and fun, so...

  Enjoy!

  prologue

  You better be naked and in my office when I get in there.

  I read the text twice, my heart in my throat.

  He didn’t mean to send it to me.

  I want to be mad, to be hurt...to cry. I want to feel something reading his text.

  But I feel none of those things. I’m numb and detached. This isn’t my life, it can’t be. My life was supposed to be a fairy-tale, or at the very least, quintessentially normal, with a house, a husband, a dog...a baby.

  A family, forever.

  Bryce ruined it. Hell, he ruined it a year ago when he cheated on me the first time. But I loved him, so I forgave him. I moved halfway across the country for him, for us to have a fresh start.

  And now here I am, while he’s traveling for work with his side chick, leaving me alone in a city I’m not familiar with. I gave up everything: friends, family, my dance studio, while he gave up nothing. Not even his other girlfriend.

  He ruined any illusion I had of a happy life with him.

  He shattered it.

  Mia

  I don’t usually walk home alone, but my one and only friend had to run back to the studio, and I don’t live far from the restaurant we’d just had dinner at, so I figured, why not?

  It’s a nice night.

  Hiking my purse farther up my shoulder, I head down the sidewalk toward my house. It’s about eight-thirty and the sun’s about to go down, but right now the sky is that perfect color—an eerily bright black, the clouds a vibrant blue, lit up from what’s left of the setting sun.

  It’s one of my favorite times of night—twilight.

  I walk down a side street and see the small repair shop on the corner where tires are stacked high next to an old car sitting in the gravel lot.

  As I round the corner near the alley behind the shop, I don’t see them right away, but I hear them. “Damn, baby,” someone jeers. Catcalling? Really?

  I continue walking with my head down, picking up my pace as they push away from the car they were leaning against at the curb, making their way toward me.

  They’re full of swagger and confidence, and not the good kind.

  They’re trouble.

  “You just gonna keep walkin’, sweetheart?” one of them asks, smirking as he circles me.

  Predator.

  Prey.

  “I am.” I don’t cower, keeping my head high. Guys like this, they want easy, compliant, and I’m neither.

  They’re both wearing their hats pulled down low, and I can’t get a good look at their faces. That doesn’t sit well with me. At all.

  The guy chuckles, looking at his buddy, then at me, like he can’t believe I’m not interested in his overly baggy jeans and wife beater top.

  With a fence at my back and him at my front, he steps closer to me, caging me in.

  Instantly I’m uncomfortable. More than uncomfortable. My heart starts to race and my hands get shaky.

  My adrenaline skyrockets.

  He cocks his head to the side, studying me. “Damn, you’re a pretty little thing. Why you walkin’ alone?”

  “Just trying to get home.” I straighten my spine, my eyes looking over his shoulder. I can’t look him in the eyes, too scared it’ll provoke him.

  “Want a ride?” he asks, eyes leering and lips curled in a humorous grin. He thinks he’s clever.

  “No thanks.” I try to step around him, but it doesn’t work. He just steps back in front of me, blocking my path.

  “Aw, come now, don’t be a stuck-up bitch.”

  I don’t say anything as I try to walk around him again, pushing past his arm.

  “Damn, you’re a fucking bitch.” He grabs me, his hand wrapping around my forearm.

  My unease and discomfort shifts into something else entirely.

  “Come on, bitch. I won’t bite.” He pulls on me and my purse slips down my arm, falling to the sidewalk. The guy lets me go long enough to grab it up and chuck it to his friend who he catches it, laughing.

  They’re playing games with me, taunting me.

  “Now you gotta take a ride with me, sweet thing.”

  “No, I don’t,” I growl, pulling away so hard it hurts.

  He can keep my damn purse. Hell, he can keep my arm for all I care.

  He just keeps laughing, sounding deranged as he tightens his hold on me.

  “Let me fucking go!” I shout, pulling so hard, my bones crack and pop.

  He d
oes let me go, but only to turn me around to wrap his arms around me in a bear hug. My back is pressed against his front and my feet leave the pavement.

  No!

  Thrashing around, I start screaming. I scream so loud for help that my throat hurts and my chest heaves.

  He’s gonna take me, and he’s gonna kill me.

  “Shut the fuck up!” he barks, his breath reeking of alcohol as he leans in close to me.

  Someone shouts, then a door slams closed. “The fuck you doin’!”

  “Mind your fuckin’ business, asshole,” the guy shouts near my ear, blocking me with his body.

  I fight, trying to get away.

  It’s chaos.

  My adrenaline is through the roof, my heart beating a million miles a minute. I’m shaking out of my fucking skin.

  The friend watching, enjoying my terror, pushes off the door of the car when the voice comes toward us, tossing my purse to the ground. It’s a man. He’s a big man—tall, wide, and scary as hell.

  “Put her the fuck down!” The guy in the white T-shirt and black vest barks out. His voice is gritty, menacing.

  My savior.

  The man holding me starts to move, walking to toward his car.

  “Let me go!” I wail, jerking around.

  The man advances, his face full of fury, but my captor’s friend steps in his way, swinging at the guy. My savior swings back and slams his fist forward, connecting. The friend stumbles back and hits the pavement, his nose gushing blood.

  Hope blooms in my chest.

  But it doesn’t last long.

  The guy with his arms around me lets me go, shoving me hard to the ground, and in the same motion, pulls a gun from under his shirt.

  Oh God.

  No.

  In slow motion, he shoots my savior point blank.

  Twice.

  When he stumbles back, the two guys run and jump into their car, squealing their tires as they take off.

  Nausea rolls up my stomach and into my throat. I can feel it burning me from the inside out. The sound of that gun. The smell of it.

  The blood.

  The guy’s face was stone, like he wasn’t surprised by the two bullets.

  Why wasn’t he surprised?

  I don’t know what to do.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  The guy on the ground groans with his hands clutching his stomach, blood leaking between his large tattooed fingers.

  He’s slumped against the fence, head pressed back against the wood, his eyes screwed shut. His face is a ghostly shade of white, and his lips a funny shade of blue.

  He’s going to pass out, or die. Oh fuck. He might die.

  “Fuuuck,” he growls, low and guttural.

  His white shirt is soaked in blood, his hands and arms covered up to his elbows in the red liquid.

  It that normal? That amount of blood to leak out of a body?

  Fuck.

  On my hands and knees, I crawl over next to him and touch his hand with my shaking one. “Are you okay?” I ask, even though the answer is obvious and my question is stupid. He’s not okay. “I’m going to call 911.” I dig through my purse with a shaky, blood-covered hand.

  “No,” he barks, grabbing for my hand and the phone, grunting in pain when he moves.

  “No?” I shriek, pulling the phone away and punching at the screen. “You’re dying.”

  “I’m just bleedin’. I’m fine,” he grinds out through clenched teeth, his breathing deep and shallow.

  He’s not fine. “You’ve been fucking shot! There are two fucking bullets in your body and it’s my fault!” Oh my God, it’s my fucking fault. “But you’re going to be okay,” I tell him, punching in the number for an ambulance. “I promise.”

  It rings once.

  “911, what’s your emergency?” I wish her voice gave me comfort, but it doesn’t.

  “He’s been shot.” I hear it in my voice, the panic, the tears. I’m losing control.

  “Who’s been shot, ma’am?” Why does she sound so calm? Jesus, she’s so steady and sure. I hate this lady. “Ma’am, what’s going on? Who’s been shot?”

  Who? God, I wish I knew his name. My savior.

  The man watches me with a heavy and distant stare, his eyes vacant. I feel the tears well up in mine and slide down my cheeks.

  He’s in pain, suffering, and it’s my fault.

  “I don’t know his name,” I whisper. “He’s a man who tried to help me, and these guys fucking shot him. I think he’s losing a lot of blood. He didn’t want me to call, but he needs help.” I’m in shock and rambling. “We need a fucking ambulance.”

  “What’s your address?”

  I fire off the street name, telling her I don’t know the address, before she tells me help is on the way and to stay on the phone.

  The guy starts to close his eyes, going limp, and I panic.

  No!

  Putting the phone on speaker, I drop it on the grass and grab the man’s face in my hands, giving his head a little shake. “Wake up! Don’t die on me!” I demand, looking from him to the phone. “He’s passed out!” I shout at the phone. “Where’s help?”

  “Right there,” she tells me. So calm. So even. “Stay calm. Is he breathing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I feel like my heart’s going to stop and my head’s going to explode.

  I don’t know how to check if he’s breathing, so I lean into him, close to his mouth, and put my ear near his lips. For a moment I hear nothing, and I’m almost positive my heart falls through my feet until he says, “I’ll be okay,” so quietly, I almost miss it.

  He’s alive.

  “You’re okay,” I tell him, like it’s a promise. “He’s breathing,” I then inform the dispatcher, feeling like it’s the first time I’ve taken a breath in the last ten minutes.

  Finally, I hear sirens. Thank God.

  Once the ambulance pulls up and stops, guys in navy blue uniforms surround us—some are carrying bags, and others are pushing a gurney while shouting out commands.

  My head is swimming.

  One grabs me, pulling me away from the guy. “Step back, ma’am.” He moves me so fast I stumble back, watching in horror and fascination as they cut his shirt off.

  He’s covered in blood and ink.

  Now that the EMTs are here, doing everything they can to save him, the tears begin to roll down my cheeks like a waterfall.

  On my ass, in the wet dirt and grass, I pray that they save him, pray that he lives, and pray that I get the chance to thank him.

  Cruz

  I’m on fucking fire.

  Everything fucking hurts, every part of me.

  But she’s here with me, holding my hand, her thumb stroking the tops of my fingers softly, thoughtfully.

  She’s concerned that I might die, and she doesn’t want that.

  She’s a goddamn angel, because I don’t even care if I die.

  I’m in and out, and I only know this because I miss half of every fucking thing everyone says. Words are jumbled and broken.

  “Sir?” The EMT says loudly, prying my eye open and shoving a small light into it, pushing the woman away from me in the process. Her hand falls from mine and I fucking miss it. “What happened?”

  What happened? Jesus Christ. I took two fucking bullets to the gut, you dumbass. Just stitch me up and send me the fuck home to die there.

  “They fucking shot him!” the woman answers for me, her irritation in the question obvious in the way she barks at him.

  Good girl. Don’t take his shit. Don’t take anyone’s shit.

  “Who?” The EMT asks, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my arm. “Who shot you?” I want to tell him there’s no point, that he’s not going to find a heartbeat inside this chest.

  “Who cares? Just save him,” she growls, grabbing my hand again. I don’t think she’s holding it to comfort me, but more for herself, and I’m good with that. She’s scared. She needs me.

  I’m ri
ght here, angel.

  The EMT mutters some shit under his breath while shoving a needle in my arm. Suddenly, everything starts to get real fucking fuzzy.

  Relief.

  The pain ebbs, and so do the voices.

  But not hers.

  “Are you family?” I hear the EMT ask around the white noise in my head, and she hesitates. She shouldn’t hesitate.

  Tell him you know me.

  Stay with me.

  Using the last bit of strength I have, I squeeze her tiny hand, and she seems to get it.

  Tell him what you have to. Just don’t leave.

  “Yes,” she tells him. “My name’s Mia.”

  Mia.

  My goddamn angel.

  Mia

  Sitting in the small waiting room on the surgical floor, his leather vest draped over me, I grip his wallet in my hands, refusing to let it go.

  Cruz.

  He’s thirty-four, six-two, two hundred and twenty-four pounds.

  He lives in town, and he’s an organ donor.

  Reading that last bit scares me. I don’t know the guy, not even a little bit, but I don’t want him to die. The idea makes me feel sick. His organs? They stay where they belong—inside of his body.

  I went through his wallet and I’m not ashamed, but found little to nothing in it of importance. A couple hundred bucks in cash. A debit and credit card. An ID, and a couple business cards.

  A dead-end.

  His cell phone was off, and I can’t bring myself to turn it on. I don’t understand the patches on his vest—MC, Hell’s Disciples. All of them mean little to nothing to me, but I cling to them. They make me feel close to the man who could be dying because he tried to save me.

  I sit and wait, terrified that I won’t get the chance to tell him thank you.

  He can’t die.

  There’s an older guy, possibly in his late sixties, in the waiting room with me, wearing a flannel shirt and sweatpants, surfing the small TV channels. Stopping on CNN, he frowns at the screen when two politicians start bickering back and forth with each other.

  Politics. Right now, I can’t do fucking politics.

  I washed my hands when I got here, but my shirt still has blood on it. I’m reminded of it every time someone looks at me, surprise on their faces. The knees of my jeans are still wet from the grass, and my toes are dirty from where my sandals dug into the dirt. I need to go home to shower and change my clothes, but I can’t. I won’t leave him. Not yet.