Shattered Pieces (Undercover Elite Book 1)(3)

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.