Hopelessly Broken
Authors: Tawny Taylor
by
Tawny Taylor
Published By Novel Mind Books
Copyright © 2013 Tawny
Taylor
All rights reserved
Taylor
Heart Throb
Burn For You
Her Lesson in Sin
Touch of Fire
His Dark Kiss
Playing for Keeps
Your Wicked Game
Make Me Burn
Make Me Shiver
What He Wants (My Alpha Billionaire, 1)
What He Demands (
My Alpha Billionaire, 2)
What He Craves (My Alpha Billionaire, 3)
What He Needs (My Alpha Billionaire, 4)
For fans of The Arrangement, a new series by bestselling author Tawny Taylor.
High school drop-out, ful
l time novelist, and now mother--and father--to her younger brother, Jenn Reynolds doesn't have time for anything anymore but work, work, work. Not school. And definitely not a social life. Dating? Yeah, right. No matter how hard she tries to put her life back together, it keeps crumbling apart. The first blow--the sudden death of her parents--started the destruction. Now, her life is spinning out of control, and she has no one to turn to. She is about to lose the only thing that matters anymore—her brother.
But there's one option--one incredibly risky, terrifying solution. If Jenn can find someone she can trust, he just might be able to help her stem the devastation.
Maybe.
But who would it be? Aeron, the totally mysterious, totally dangerous stranger she has just met? Or Bobby, the devastatingly gorgeous guy who has already broken her heart once?
Depending upon what their secrets are, they both might make things worse. Much, much worse.
Genre: New Adult Romance
PLEASE
NOTE: This is the first installment of a two-part serialized story. The complicated storylines unfold over two volumes. Part Two will be available in the upcoming weeks. If you prefer to read the entire story from start to finish, then you may wish to wait until both parts have been released.
Praise for Tawny Taylor
"Scorching hot. . .a heady mix of BDSM and thrill combined with the dark world of vampires." --Romantic Times on Dangerous Master
"Delicious taboo sex and intrigue. . .irresistible!" --Eden Bradley on Darkest Fire "Absolutely delicious!" --Kate Douglas on Dark Master
SAMPLE:
Her door swung open and banged against the wall,
blam
.
Jenn, standing next to her dresser whirled around. “Aeron?”
“Dammit, Jenn.” His eyes were wild, dark, feral. Tension pulled at his features, his mouth, his jaw.
She couldn’t move. She was frozen in place. Like a doe caught in the scope of a hunter’s rifle. “What’s wrong, Aeron?”
He charged at her like a furious bull, shoving a chair out of the way. He halted inches from her, nose flared, breathing swift.
Her heart rate spiked. She searched his eyes, trying to push through the dark shadows. “What is it? Are you angry at me?”
“No.” His hand jerked up, cupped her cheek. And her skin sizzled under his touch. A little jolt of electricity charged through her system, locking her muscles, freezing her in place. She couldn’t move. She didn’t want to move. Her gaze drifted down, to his mouth. That perfect mouth. His lips looked soft yet strong. Would she ever know how they tasted? “I…I’m trying.”
“Trying to do what?” she whispered.
“To stay away.”
“From who?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. All day she’d found herself flirting with him, stealing glances, smiling at him as he played with Logan. And he flirted back for a moment. Everything was wonderful. She felt alive and beautiful and happy. But then he suddenly jerked away, his tone chilly, his eyes like dark river ice. Over and over that cycle repeated until at last he grumbled, “Excuse me,” stomped upstairs and locked himself in his room.
It was strange and confusing. Why was he acting so hot and cold?
“You.” His thumb grazed her lip, and a shudder of need quaked through her. She curled her fingers around his wrist, holding onto it to steady herself. Her breath caught in her throat. Need pulsed through her system, firing her nerves like little white-hot firecrackers.
It was just like her book, exactly like it. She’d never dreamed it could be so wonderfully painful, such longing, such wanting.
“Why?” she heard herself say. “Why stay away?”
“Because I have to. Because all I can do is hurt you.” Despite what he was saying, his head tipped, inching closer.
Was he going to kiss her?
She let her eyelids drift down and held onto his wrist with an iron-tight grip.
Kiss me
, every bone in her body demanded.
Kiss me now.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You have to.”
His breath was sweet. Intoxicating. Warm and gentle. The hand flattened against her cheek pulled her forward, easing her toward his waiting lips. Closer. He was coming closer yet. Almost there. His breath was fanning over her mouth.
But no kiss.
Seconds throbbed by.
“Aeron?”
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured. “Tell me now.”
“Kiss me, Aeron.” Using the hand gripping his wrist, she pulled until his mouth found hers. The instant her lips made contact with his, it felt as if the world was spinning, whirling, dipping. Brilliant lights exploded behind her closed eyelids. Blasts of heat raced through her body. She threw her other arm up, looping it around his neck, and pressed her body against his.
Oh, the agony.
Oh, the aching.
More. She had to have more. When a whimper pushed up her throat and past her parted lips, his tongue dipped inside her mouth, filling it with his sweet flavor. She practically sank to the floor.
A strong arm circled her waist and held her in place. His other hand slid around to cup the back of her head. His tongue caressed hers, plunging in and out in time to the throbbing heat crashing through her.
Dizzy, breathless, she let her legs collapse, falling into his embrace.
One of his favorite websites listed sixty-two quotes about hell. Just for kicks Aeron Driscol read them one day while he was waiting for The Call. And he found himself going back to that page every month ever since. Some of the quotes were amusing, like, “
Go to Heaven for the climate, hell for the company
,” and some philosophical, “
We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell
.”
B
ut only one was practical, “
If you are going through hell, keep going
.” Now that was one piece of advice worth following.
I
f anyone ever thought to ask him what hell was like, Aeron would tell them that hell was a stroll in the park compared to a drive through the seediest parts of Detroit. As long as a guy acted like he knew where he was heading, kept moving, and--forchristssakes--never asked for directions, he would make it outta there with his ass intact.
Finally
the first chord of Merle Haggard’s “Working Man Blues” started playing on his cell phone. It was the call he’d been expecting.
Ano
ther month, another trip through hades and back.
How many had it been?
He’d lost count years ago. He had been escorting souls from this world to the next every twenty-eight days for years. His first trip, the night of his tenth birthday, had been terrifying. But by now it was more routine--and definitely less dodgy--than navigating the streets of Detroit’s west side.
He hit the button on his phone
, and an image blinked on the screen. A computer-generated voice provided the vital information--name, age, address.
It was a
little kid. The third he’d had in the past year. The other nine had been older: a girl on the cusp of adulthood--car accident; and a boy in his mid-teens--drowning. This one was still many years shy of puberty, his skin still smooth, eyes clear and open, full of innocence.
Aeron
saved the message, though he didn’t need to. Just like every one before, the boy’s face and name were branded in his mind, a permanent, vivid, never-fading image that he could pull up whenever he needed.
He had
four weeks. Twenty-eight days. Six hundred seventy-two hours, and not a minute more. In that time he had to find the boy, gain his trust, and, when the time came, escort him to the Other Side. If he failed, the kid would be condemned to make the journey alone, and at best he would linger in this world, watching the people he had known in life struggle through their remaining years, grow old, and eventually abandon their shroud to join him.
At worst, his soul would wander
down The Path and get lost somewhere between the world of the living and paradise.
Like any guy heading to
work, Aeron, bound servant to Samael, the angel of death, tied his shoes, donned his coat, and stepped into the sharp January morning.
* * * * *
They were arranged in tidy lines, wings stretched wide, a single pin driven through their abdomens. At the top he’d put the butterflies, their papery wings painted in vibrant reds and yellows and oranges. Their slightly less beautiful cousins the moths were below. And under them were the dragonfly, mosquito, cicada, katydid, firefly, ladybug, hornet, and honeybee.
It was only a school project to
Logan. But to Jennifer Reynolds, it was more. It was both a celebration of beauty and a grisly reminder of the inevitability of death.
Her eye kept going to the dragonfly for some reason.
Perhaps it was the vibrant jeweled blue of its body. Or the translucently delicate wings.
Staring at the display, Jenn
lifted the insect collection and called to her brother, who she suspected had just raced out the front door--clothes askew, hair mussed, shoes untied and lunch sitting on the kitchen counter--just like every morning. “Logan, you forgot your bug project.” By the time she reached the front door, her lively seven-year old brother was at least twenty feet down the sidewalk.
He did a
quick one-eighty, and, grinning brightly, started running back toward her. “Oh! Thanks Jenny.” Unzipped coat flapping in the brisk wind like limp wings, he dashed up the snow-crusted sidewalk, skidding around a corner.
“Easy, buddy. You’re going to fall
and crack your head open.” She stepped onto the front porch and offered a hand down, helping him up the two concrete stairs sheathed in glossy ice. Once she had him safely inside, she grabbed his boots and plunked them down in front of his feet. “Have mercy on your big sister and wear your winter gear, so she doesn’t worry to death about you turning into a popsicle on your way to school.”
Her
brother grimaced. “Those boots are for babies.”
Her eyes took in the rest of his clothes
--the
SpongeBob
SquarePants
t-shirt, the
Cars
hoodie he wore over it, and the
Scooby Doo
tennis shoes--and hid a smile behind a cupped hand. “Those boots are for babies, eh?”
“Yeah. Nobody wears yellow boots in second grade, only first-graders do
. Everyone says so, especially Jacob.”
“
Everyone? Hmmm. I guess we’ll have to buy you some new ones, then, won’t we?” At his jubilant nod, she set the boots aside. “It’s too bad, though.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“You were so excited when we bought these a few weeks ago…”
“Yeah.”
“It’s late in the season to find boots in stores now. I don’t know what I’ll find, though I know I saw some
Hannah Montana
ones left on a clearance rack…”
He grabbed one of the boots. “Maybe these will be okay for now.” He kicked a soggy shoe off and stuffed his foot into the boot.
“
Are you sure? I’d be happy to get the
Hannah Montana
ones if you’d rather wear those. They were really cute.”
He wrinkled his nose.
“No, thanks.”
“
Okay. We’d better get you off to school.” She helped him with the other boot, wrapped his wet shoes in a plastic bag and shoved them in his backpack. Then, after making sure he had both his lunch and his bug project, hurried him out the door.
As she waved good-bye, she noticed a strange
guy standing in the middle of her neighbor’s driveway, a leash in his hand. Whatever was at the opposite end of the lead was too small to be seen behind the wall of snow framing the driveway.
Jenn wasn’t the most outgoing person on her block
. In fact, lately she had practically become a living, breathing cliché. Once a girl with no worries and a lifetime of dreams ahead of her, she was now a high school dropout, novelist, and full-time mother to her brother. Keeping to herself, she left her house exactly once a week--to buy groceries and go to the library.
Never for parties.
Never for dances. Or football games. Or dates.
What an exciting life she led.
But even though she was practically a hermit, she recognized the people who regularly walked their dogs down her street--thanks to an irrational fear of the beasts. The nasty little ankle-biters were the worst. She had firsthand knowledge of exactly how vicious little dogs could be if they were hell-bent on devouring you alive.
Even so, Jenn couldn’t help lingering on her porch for just a second.
The man, the stranger, was him. Her hero. The hero in her latest novel.
Her book,
Forever My Love,
was about the king of the fallen angels, named Zagan. Zagan, like all her heroes, was built like a bull. But he had wings, and had a strikingly beautiful face--in a very masculine sense.
A wingless
Zagan was standing in her neighbor’s driveway, and he was looking at her. And wow, was he gorgeous. Like, take-her-breath-away striking.
Suddenly, h
er hand flew to her head. Oh God, she probably had the worst bedhead on the planet. She hadn’t even bothered to check it this morning. She rarely ever went out into the sunlight, so her face was pasty without makeup--except the lovely dark purple smudges under her eyes. And her clothes...oh God, her clothes. This ensemble was a
What Not to Wear
Fashion-Don’t classic, from the faux fur flip-flops to the torn sweats, to the stained t-shirt with half the printed decal peeled off.
What a pretty picture she
was.
Really, she did clean up respectably, when she wanted to.
Deciding it was better to just pretend she didn’t see him staring at her--he had to be utterly appalled by the sight, there could be no other explanation--she did what any girl would. She turned around and tried to pretend like she wasn’t mortified.
Oh God, that
hottie just saw her looking like she’d been dragged through hell and back.
Once safely in her house, s
he peered through the door’s little arched window, standing on tiptoe. He walked his canine friend--a Chihuahua--past her house.
“You don’t fool me,” she muttered as the creature turned big
, brown puppy eyes in her direction and wagged its skinny tail. “I know what evil lurks behind that cheery veneer. But your owner there, now he
looks
dangerous.” Stepping back from the door, she murmured, “Maybe someday I’ll marry a guy like that. Later. When Logan's older. Until then...”
She smiled to herself.
She was being so silly. Marry? A guy like that?
“Just because he looks like my Zagan doesn't mean he's anything like him. He's probably a jerk,” she mumbled as she flip-flopped into the kitchen for her third cup of coffee. She filled her mug, headed into the living room, and settled down on the couch, dragging her laptop onto her thighs.
Time to work.
There was no better job on earth.
She read a few sentences
of her work-in-progress, letting herself slowly sink into the story. As she read, the characters became more substantial, their conflicts clear. A snippet of dialogue started echoing in her head. She set her fingers over the keys and then--
A knock on her front door jolted her.
Oh crap!
She hopped up,
dashed upstairs and peered through the front bedroom window. From her vantage she couldn’t see who was standing at her door, but she could tell there was no car in front of her house. Huge relief. It was probably either some guy selling subscriptions for the local newspaper, a pack of Mormons spreading the word, or a meter reader. She was in no mood to talk to any of them.
She
dashed back downstairs, settled into her seat again, took a few sips of her coffee. Patiently waiting for her mind to get back to the scene, she reread her pages.
Ah yes.
Her hero was about to kiss her heroine for the first time. Their gazes were locked. The air between them was charged. They were being drawn together, closer, closer.
Another knock.
Dammit. Whoever it was, they were interrupting her flow.
In the back of her mind
she imagined it was the guy with the dog. The romance novelist in her--the one with the overactive imagination--took that idea and went crazy, sketching out a scene. In her imagination she opened the door to find him standing there. He admitted he was completely enthralled by her and wanted to take her on a dream date ala
The Bachelor
. He then told her they would be going on a private jet excursion to a tropical island.
Ah, yes. Fantasy.
Again the visitor knocked.
In the unlikely
(impossible) event it was her Zagan look-alike, she dashed to the bathroom, combed her hair, smoothed on some tinted moisturizer, and brushed on a little blush. She slicked her lips with some gloss and headed to the door in time for him to knock yet again.
She peered through the window.
Darn, it was only the FedEx guy. Where was his truck? She glanced at the package in his hands.
Books
.
Not wanting to waste any more of his time, she yanked open the door, greeted him with an apology, quickly signed the electronic do-hicky scanner and accepted her package.
So much for fantasy.
Cojack was whizzing on his shoe.
Aeron didn’t realize it until it was too late.
So yes, that was another pair ruined.
He sighed, gave the dog an angry glare then scooped him into his arms. “If you weren’t so cute, you’d be history.” Doing his best to shove aside the image of the girl he’d just
seen, he loped down the street. First stop: home with Cojack. Then he’d head to the gym.
He’d
made contact with this month’s soul.
His work was done...for now.
