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  Disclaimer. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously; any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locations is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsements.

  Warning: Please note this novel contains explicit sexual content and crude language and is intended for mature audiences. Some subject matter may be difficult for persons who have been victims of rape or abuse. Parental/reader discretion is advised.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the author. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with others please purchase a copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  © Cover Design by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Cover Image ©Scott Hoover

  Editor: Kara Malinczak, [email protected]

  Proofreader: Kimberley Foster Holm

  Formatting by Stacey Blake at Champagne Formats

  Author photo by Franggy Yanes

  Publication Date: January 10th, 2017

  ISBN 978-0-9982637-0-0

  After The Break

  Copyright ©Andrea Joan 2016

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  EPILOGUE

  EXCERPT FROM BOUND TO ME

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  This book is dedicated to me. Because I finished the damn thing. And that is pretty cool.

  “Your demons never fully leave. But when you’re using them to create something else, it almost gives them a purpose and feels like none of it was in vain. I think that’s how I make peace with it.”

  ~Evan Rachel Wood

  Seattle: One Year Ago

  DRUG OF CHOICE; RAILING lines of coke seems to be on the menu tonight. But I’m not particular I’ll shove anything up my nose, down my throat, or into my lungs. Snort, smoke, or swallow. It doesn’t matter as long as it gets me so fucking high I can’t remember who I am.

  Booze of Choice; Jameson. Every. Fucking. Night.

  Girl of choice; obviously she has a name, but at the moment I can’t fucking remember. I’m sure she told me before we stumbled back to my shitty apartment. I can probably blame this memory loss on the coke, or the booze, or the fact that this chicks’ mouth is wrapped so tight around my cock that she is literally sucking the memory out of me, but the truth of it is I have barely listened to a fucking word she has said. I don’t care to remember so I can’t listen. Blondie probably told me her whole life story when I was serving her drinks tonight, right before she pulled me into the bar’s bathroom and let me snort lines off her tits while she shoved my hand up her practically non-existent skirt, but every time she spoke I shut my brain off because I. Don’t. Want. To. Remember.

  That’s the curse of having an eidetic memory. I can’t forget anything I hear or see or smell or even fucking taste. Every event, every experience, every single snapshot of my life will burrow its way unrelentingly into my brain like a fucking diseased tick. People think that having a photographic memory is some kind of gift, like a goddamn superpower. Shit, there was a time I believed that. School was a cake walk. Anything I read in a textbook or learned during a lecture was easily categorized and referenced in my mind for future use. I could tell you the ties my Freshman History teacher wore every day of the two-week period he taught the class on the Fall of the Roman Empire. That was almost ten years ago. I can even recollect wall to ceiling to floor what my first girlfriends’ bedroom looked like right down to the prayers on all those creepy fucking Precious Moments posters she had plastered over her walls. I was thirteen.

  But here is the problem with having every second of my life seared into my memory like a brand. I don’t get to pick and choose what is remembered. When something horrible happens to me, something so dark and depraved and painful it would rival my worst nightmare, I will be condemned to remember. Every. Fucking. Detail. In high def. I hear the screaming and the begging, feel the pain of a blade slicing my skin over and over, smell the fear and taste that coppery flavor of blood as real as if it was happening in the present. The memory brutally rapes my mind until there is nothing of substance left and the only escape from the constant punishment of it comes in the form of a powder or a pill or a bottle. Or pussy.

  Pussy seems to help drown out the ghosts that haunt me. Temporarily anyway. Which is why I stumbled the two blocks from the bar to my apartment with blondie on my arm. She was more than ready to fuck, she’s hot in that fake porn star kind of way, and most importantly she came with snowy white party favors.

  “Fuck you’re good at that, honey,” I groan, my large hand grabbing the back of her slender neck pushing my dick deeper down her seemingly endless throat. Bringing the bottle of Jameson to my mouth I take a pull that would put Tommy Lee to shame. The burn hits me quick. I relish the feeling of my eyes rolling back into my head as the effects of the alcohol and coke, mixed with the sensation of a warm tongue licking my cock and taking me deep again cause me to fall back on the mattress, the box springs singing that familiar tune of carnal abuse as I hit it hard.

  “You like that, Liam? God you’re seriously big,” she purrs while her hand takes over where her mouth left off, pumping me up and down.

  That should be a huge fucking turn on, but my name on her cigarette laced voice almost causes me to lose my erection, especially when I open my eyes again and find fake violet ones staring back at me, begging for my approval. Approval she will be waiting a long ass time for because the disgust I have for myself in this moment has been reallocated to this chick. Everything about her is phony; colored contacts, cheap blonde extensions attached to her head, and definitely fake tits. Even the scent of her is a fucking turn off; some kind of overly sweet flower smell, but it replaces the odor of death and blood that habitually surrounds me so I acquiesce.

  Fuck! Why did I have to open my eyes? Maybe if I get drunk enough and high enough this will never even be a memory.

  “Don’t talk honey. Just suck.”

  “Mmmm, I love when you call me honey,” she moans, creeping her fingers slowly toward the hem of my shirt, her other hand fisting my dick hard just like I need.

  The harder she sucks me off, the ha
rder she works her hand up and down my shaft, the easier it is to push the memory of that night further and further away. So I need her to stop fucking talking.

  Chuckling, I take her hand off my shirt. “You shouldn’t. I only call you honey because I can’t remember your name. Now stop talking and suck me off. Or you can leave. I don’t really give a shit.”

  Her faux violet eyes shoot up at me clearly in shock that I would say something so offensive. But I know she won’t leave. I clocked her as an insecure bar slut the minute I served her a cosmopolitan and she adjusted her already low cut shirt further down to give me a better view of her tits while constantly brushing her hands over the tats on my arm.

  “You’re an asshole,” she spits out but stays conveniently on her knees in front of me.

  It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, or anything I would argue with. But what the hell did she expect? A few winks in her direction, some shared shots of tequila-which I’m not technically supposed to drink while working- and the mention that I was once an amateur boxer had her panting and guiding my hand under her skirt in the bar bathroom before she even gave her name.

  A name I now can’t fucking remember for the life of me. Tammy…Taryn…Trisha? Something with a T. Or maybe a P. Nope. Not coming to me.

  Goddamn this coke is good. My face is numb, my fucking mind is numb. I need to get the name and number of her dealer before I shove her ass out the door.

  “I know I am. But maybe you can help save me. Turn me good again, honey,” I say with a cocky smile. I know the effect I have on women without even trying and that little ray of hope should do the trick of getting her gifted little mouth back on my dick.

  Christ, I am an asshole.

  Blondie smiles big and works her hands back toward my shirt. My entire body tenses at the realization that she is trying to take it off.

  “Stop.” I snatch her wrist with the hand not attached to my whiskey.

  “What? I just wanna see what you’re working with under there. I know fighters have cut bodies. It would make me much more eager to suck you off. I may even be willing to swallow,” T or P something teases, licking her lips slowly.

  Fuck it. What do I care what this chick thinks? Two scenarios could play out. She will either excuse herself as she runs out the door, which is fine by me, or ignore what she sees and continue blowing me. I’m sure my cock would agree that the latter scenario is more favorable.

  Normally I try to avoid taking my clothes off altogether, but I know she is not going to let up, and frankly I’m too fucked up right now to put up much of a fight. And I need this. I fucking need to get off. I crave the silence in my head, a break from hearing her call out for me to help her. To save her. A brief reprieve from seeing and hearing my brother’s last fucking breath.

  “Go for it, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I take another swig of Jameson before lying back on the bed. The ceiling above spins in an endless circular maze, speckles of silver and black dots swirling round and round.

  The feel of my shirt gliding up my abs should excite me, but only causes panic.

  “Holy shit.” I feel her breath whisper against my skin before my shirt even reaches my pecs. “Maybe you would be more comfortable if you kept the shirt on.”

  What she really means is that she would be more comfortable if I kept the shirt on. I’m lucky my pretty face was spared from any lasting damage or I may have never gotten laid again. T or P something doesn’t bother to ask what happened or feign sympathy as she kneels back down on her knees and takes me deep into her mouth again.

  “Shit,” I curse under my breath, as her tongue glides up and swirls around the tip of my cock.

  It’s almost time for another hit of blow. This chick does have talent, definitely not an amateur when it comes to sucking dick. The feint afterthought that I should have wrapped it up before letting her mouth touch my cock flashes through my inebriated brain. But where was the fun in that? Truth be told I deserve some kind of STD, something that could permanently fuck up my future, but it won’t happen. I’m goddamn invincible and no matter how much I test my luck it will never fail me, despite how often I pray it will; begging for punishment like a drowning man searching for air.

  My hand lazily finds its way to her head as she takes me deeper and deeper into oblivion. I’m so loaded at this point that I barely remember my own name, so P or T something shouldn’t feel bad.

  I don’t bother to warn her that I’m about to come. I know she will take whatever I have to offer, just like all the ones before her. With a grunt I jet semen down her throat, pulling her hair slightly, causing her to moan in appreciation and sending a nice little vibration around my dick.

  Now the welcoming silence descends, my memories wiped clean. Nothing but nothingness.

  “Damn, honey, that was something.”

  I sit up on the bed and tuck myself back into my pants, still managing to hold on to my whiskey like a goddamn pro.

  “Mmm-hmmm,” she hums. “Now it’s my turn. By the way, my name is Samantha,” she informs, wiping her mouth seductively with her fingers. Samantha. I was way off.

  “Whatever, honey.” And I also don’t give a shit.

  She straddles me in one movement and kisses me sloppily while rocking her hips into my lap before I even have time to zip up my pants. Amazing. I treat her like shit and she is still down to screw my brains out. Blondie tastes like tequila and tobacco and shame, but I’m an emotional masochist and all that is wrong with her and this situation only makes my cock hard and ready for round two.

  “Give me a second.”

  Taking a final pull of Jameson I throw the now empty bottle onto the floor where it clanks against the many others playing the songs of my failure and ever progressing self-destruction. I reach into my pocket and pull my wallet free snatching a condom out of one of the folds. As daring as I was with the blow job there is no fucking way I’m sticking my dick in this girl without protection. Shit the last thing I need is a mini-me running around.

  Grabbing her hips, I flip her easily around onto my bed, making sure to press her head into the mattress. No need to see her face.

  She giggles like a little school girl and I try not to feel repulsed. Whoever told women that sounding like a little girl was sexy should have his fucking head examined. I need to get this over with already.

  Pulling my pants down for the second time tonight, I rip the condom wrapper with my teeth and sheath myself.

  “You ready for me?” I rasp into her ear, dragging a hand toward the back of her inner thigh and up under her skirt to her center.

  I slide a finger into her and she moans. Damn she is dripping wet, more than ready. Her ass begins to grind upward into my hand and her moans become more frantic. She does have a fucking amazing ass I will give her that.

  The tip of my dick is hovering right at her entrance when without warning flashes of that night play through my mind like a horror movie. Her angelic face ghosts through my closed eyes. Torturing me. Tempting me. Killing me.

  I shake my head as if that will somehow erase the memory, like my brain is a goddamn Etch-A-Sketch.

  Forget. Push past it. Push into her. You will feel release. Become numb.

  Before I slam into her, I hear the muffled ringing of my phone from the pocket of my jeans on the floor.

  “Fuck.” I was so fucking close. Snatching my pants off the floor, I clumsily try to pull my phone out of my pocket.

  “Ignore it, baby. It’s like two in the morning. Just fuck me already. I’m ready.”

  “Don’t call me baby,” I snarl.

  I know how harsh I sound, but where the hell does this chick get off thinking she can call me baby? Only one girl had that right, and she’s dead now.

  The caller ID on my phone reads Shayla and I slide a finger across the screen as fast as I can manage. “Shayla? What’s up? You okay?”

  Trying to hide the panic in my voice is nearly impossible because my sixteen-year-old sister calling at two in
the morning can mean nothing good. I discard the condom, because I don’t want to talk to my sister with a fucking condom wrapped around my dick, and pull my pants back up over my hips.

  “Liam.” A faint sniffle shudders through the phone and burns into my ear. She’s obviously been crying, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.

  “Who the hell is Shayla?” She flips dramatically around and shoots an icy glare my way as if she has some claim to me.

  I thought my not bothering to remember her name would have been the first hint I don’t give a shit about her, but apparently that wasn’t clear enough. And I do not fucking like the way she spits out my sister’s name as if it was poison. I cover the speaker of the phone with my hand and walk the short distance from my bed to my bathroom.

  “My baby sister. Now shut the fuck up.”

  Slamming the bathroom door shut I have to lean against the counter to steady my drunk ass, the iridescent lights quickly creating a migraine in my intoxicated brain. Focus, asshole.

  “You okay? What’s wrong?”

  The relentless thumping in my chest is warning me that I need to calm the hell down before my heart explodes. I press the Harley keys from my pocket hard into my hand in an attempt to focus my rabid energy. That and because I want to be ready to haul my ass home in order to beat the shit out of anyone that is messing with my sister. I may be too fucked up to drive but the blind rage I’ve quickly been accustomed to since that night is scorching through my veins. Sobering. Me. Right the fuck up.

  “I’m fine, Liam. It’s dad. He-he can’t do it anymore.” She sniffs into the phone again. That sound breaks me. My sister is the only one that I allow to evoke some semblance of a real emotion in me anymore; if it were anyone else I would push those emotions someplace deep where they can’t affect me.

  “What? What do you mean, Shay?”

  “It’s the cancer. I know he told you he was doing fine and was in remission and he didn’t need any help with the bar, but he was lying. The chemo treatments are wearing on him. He’s lost so much weight and he is tired all the time. I’m trying to help, but with school I just don’t have the time to be there as much. And Dory quit so he doesn’t have a manager to help him anymore. He’s at the bar all the time. He’s killing himself. I don’t know what to do. I know he doesn’t want you to know, but I’m not sure why. I’m scared, Liam. I just don’t…I don’t…” She trails off through a faded sob.