Breakdown
Authors: Jack L. Pyke
Jack has the evidence
there in his hands, the DVD and notepad off D.C. Sanders that proves Gray played a part in tearing him and Jan brutally apart. But with Jack locked away in his own mind and lost to his blackouts and self-harming, the past brings to light the origins of a new beast. Martin only comes out to play when Jack needs to hide, a psychopath who has perhaps tasted and tested Gray to the full. All Jack has to do is remember how... and why. And why is there such a serious sadistic kick in hiding the memory? (M/M)
Don’t...
Book 3
Jack L. Pyke
ForbiddenFiction
www.forbiddenfiction.com
an imprint of
Fantastic Fiction Publishing
www.fantasticfictionpublishing.com
BREAKDOWN
A ForbiddenFiction book
Fantastic Fiction Publishing
Hayward, California
© Jack L. Pyke, 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission from the publisher, except as allowed by fair use. For information contact
[email protected]
.
CREDITS
Editor: Rylan Hunter, D.M. Atkins
Cover Design: D.M. Atkins
Cover Art: Photo by Catalin Petolea at Dreamstime. Photoshop assistance from Siolnatine
Production Editor: Erika L Firanc
Proofreading: Jae Knight and Kaye O’Malley
SKU: JP2-000180-01 FFP
ISBN: 978-1-62234-175-7
Published in the United States of America
This book is a work of fiction which contains explicit erotic content; it is intended for mature readers. Do not read this if it's not legal for you.
All the characters, locations and events herein are fictional. While elements of existing locations or historical characters or events may be used fictitiously, any resemblance to actual people, places or events is coincidental.
This story depicts fictional BDSM; it is not intended to be used as an instruction manual. It contains descriptions of erotic acts that may be immoral, illegal, or unsafe. The characters are not models for the Safe, Sane and Consensual forms embraced by most current practitioners of BDSM. The author takes license with the use of BDSM for dramatic effect. Do not take the events in this story as proof of the plausibility or safety of any particular practice.
To Dilo Keith. For all of her conceptual guidance into the BDSM lifestyle that livened up Jack and Gray’s world. Thank you!!!
Splintered
“God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another.”
—Shakespeare, W.
Hamlet
Jack. Age 30
No one would look at me.
As I made my way through Gray’s main reception hall, out into the courtyard, people I’d known for years made a united point of drawing a firm division line down the middle of the marble floor, making sure I stayed on one side, them the other. Ray and Ed were among them, Gray’s head of security and staff. Gazes stayed fallen, or hidden at least, fixed on some point that meant nothing else existed, least of all me.
Fucking peachy, that. They licked at the balls of the Gray bastard himself, and suddenly I was the problem?
Slipping a hand into my back pocket and pulling out a notebook and DVD, I snorted a look down at them. I had everything I needed right here, all evidence bagged and tagged. It was enough to bring down all the king’s horses and all the king’s fucked-up men in one go. The bastard shouldn’t have kept the evidence in his study like that, in his goddamn DVD player for Christ’s sake where he’d been watching the shit he’d caused.
Gravel stopped crunching underfoot, but I refused to look back. Gray’s manor had over sixty fancy windows with four classy patio doors. Strange thing to note over the years, all of the nearly twelve of them I’d slept here. But if you went into the kitchen, flipped the intricate alarm system off and set it to come back on ten minutes later, you could remove one patio door, slot it back into place, leg it past Gray’s pool, tennis courts, and maze, sneak around to the back, then duck through the woods, leg it over the wall surrounding the property and there you have it: a way of avoiding Grays’s security.
And Gray’s security had needed avoiding; I just had difficulty remembering why at times.
Don’t ask me how I knew about the patio door. Part of me didn’t understand it, or even questioned why I kept finding a screwdriver in my trouser pocket these last few Saturday mornings, Sunday—today—being the last one, or why my body hurt as though it had been seriously fucked. Being a mechanic, screwdrivers were always kept handy and colour coordinated and size orientated next to the condoms in my bedroom drawer, basically everywhere. Although all that order had been fucked up lately too. As for the really fucked part? I looked down at the DVD. Gray had taken to organising and watching some really sick shit lately.
Back in the manor, he was picking up the pieces, or standing among the debris with glass and picture frames crunching under his feet. Just watching. Bastard had done so much watching lately.
The DVD and notebook going back in my pocket, I refused to look back.
Every window had this whole
eyes wide open
thing going on, just staring, refusing to blink for fear of missing a move I’d make. If you stepped close enough, put your ear to the glass, you could follow the offer of old laughter, or the sighs found in sleep, or, if you listened long enough, the soft groans of pleasure and pain of those who had been allowed to lie down in its rooms.
Yet stand at this distance, the echo of old laughter took on a twisted twinge, the soft groans of pain and pleasure more a cry of Gray and his—
You think I did that? You think I’d fucking hurt
you
—like
that—
“Jack?” Someone rubbed at my shoulder, making me jerk slightly. Jan stood close by. He was the only one with balls enough to follow me out. But then he’d always been a ballsy bastard, despite that soft vanilla side that tripped me up every fucking time. Bloody strange how I shifted away a few steps despite needing to hold the hell out of him.
“What... what the hell’s gone on?” That didn’t come from Jan. My old man stood next to him, seeming to slipstream into focus from nowhere. He looked back over my shoulder, back to the manor, to—“Jan? What the hell’s gone on? He—” He was staring at my hands now. “Jack?”
Blood stained one of them, just the pads, nothing too significant to say major damage had been done. Christ knows I’d seen more than that in my life, but the confusion was there over just where the stains had come from this time around, his look feeding mine now.
“Jack?” Just a whisper of my name off my old man again. “What the—”
“Shush.” A finger went to my lips, blood dampening them. “No fucking whispering.”
My old man eased off, gravel crunching under foot, eyes almost anticipating which way this new spider would move so he could run.
“Gray—” I started, but Jan shook his head.
“Wasn’t us, wasn’t Gray, Jack. Never Gr—”
I looked at Jan, quietening him. Sat on the gravel off to the right, Gray’s Rolls Royce still sulked from the beating that it had taken. The bonnet was smashed in, the driver’s side window splintered into a spider web of glass. Bits of indicator lay close to one wheel and a rear-view mirror was twisted to a broken bone angle. It had long since stopped its cry against the abuse, now it just nursed its wounds in watchful silence. Ed had done the same with his wrist, Ray too. Security. Yeah, Gray’s fucked-up security avoided me now.
“Met’ police,” I said flatly. “You want to do something, you take me there. Special Branch, fucking hate MI5 ops. They’ll listen where Gray’s bastards will only cover his shit up.”
“Jack, what did... what on Earth do you think Gray’s done?” My old man came close again, but I sidestepped him, covering the DVD in my back pocket.
“Move,” I said, glancing at him. Thing was, I loved the bruised and battered memories going on back there in the manor, how scared Jan—even Gray had looked. Yeah, there’d been fear there. And that was the terrifying part. Knowing that fear felt good, breaking apart everything Gray loved, wiping away his touch, his life, wanting to keep hitting, not stop, just keep fucking hitting. My old man’s frown had deepened as he looked back at Jan.
“What the hell have you done now, son?”
“
Not... fucking... me
.”
My old man flinched and I calmed it down. “Gray,” I added quietly, this time looking at Jan. But Jan was looking over at another man who had gotten out of my old man’s Range Rover. “I’m talking to you, Richards.”
Jan looked back at me.
“You think you can get your fucking head out of Gray’s crotch long enough to take me over to West End Police Station?”
Jan had gained a few more lines on his face lately. At twenty-seven, he should barely have any, yet these past few months...
Hurt you real bad too, didn’t he, Richards?
Breath caught, and the need was there, to pull him close, run the fuck away with him and say screw you to any more hurt, all the fucked-up trouble. I even started, but he looked away, just slightly, back to the manor, his lost look trying to find something else, someone else in there.
Yeah, somewhere along the line he’d fallen in love with Gray; it was there written in his eyes.
“Fucking
go
with him, then.”
Jan jolted, and there was no guilt on my part for how I maybe needed to see the fear in his eyes, scare him out of this fucked-up world I’d dragged him into. Instead he looked down at the suitcase, then all of the lines in his face seemed to soften. “Given the choice, I would,” he said quietly; then he glanced up at me. “Given any other time, you’d be right in there with us, baby.”
I went close, nose-to-nose close, aware of how my old man pulled on my sleeve to get me away, how Halliday stepped in close quickly too, nearly blocking my view of Jan. A glance kept both in their place. “That touch of Stockholm Syndrome infecting your look there, boy,” I said to Jan, “get rid of it. You enjoy Henry and Vince holding you down and raping the fuck out of you, all for Gray to watch it in there? You want that? You
want
to go back to that?” I looked him over. “Out of the two of us, I thought I was trained to be the sick fuck.”
Now there was hurt, and Jan shared something with Doctor Halliday, just a look. Barely acknowledging Jan, Halliday moved past us and opened the passenger door of my old man’s car. “Jack, let’s get you to the police station.”
“Did I ask you?” I said coldly.
“Hey.” My old man tugged at my sleeve again, shifting me towards the car. “Get in. I’ll take you.” I pulled back, away from the empty space inside the car; then Jan was suddenly easing past and getting in first.
Not feeling him behind me had the strangest sensation, like I’d fall backwards into blackness, not touching ground, just falling. So I followed, a grip on the Range Rover door and a foot on the sill the only way to stop my fall. Despite Jan’s look out of the window, one elbow rested on the frame as he wiped at his mouth, I sat opposite, ignoring how the need to be near him was a like the draw of a Dom’s whip to a sub’s bare back: too natural to ignore, yet coming with a certain sting that also made me want to turn tail and run.
