The Broken Pieces of Us (The Devil's Dust #2.1)

I trip over my own foot, knocking me from memory lane. The grip of Locks’ hand on my throat tightening from my weight as the footing is kicked out from under me. My hand flings to grab onto something when it lands on the frying pan sitting on the stove. I grip the handle tightly and thrash it against Locks’ head with every ounce of muscle I have. He falls to the floor, causing me to fall with him. The pan clattering to the floor, I gasp and choke on the cool air entering my lungs.

I look down at Locks, noticing the red seeping through his blond hair on his head from where I hit him. I look at Locks, really look at him, and realize I am not in love with him today, or yesterday for that matter, but the Locks from a couple years ago. When did it stop? It's like it slipped away so slowly neither of us noticed it. At first it was just little things that stopped, like taking me for rides on the motorcycle or walks around the block, and wrestling in bed on Saturday mornings. Eventually, he didn't even say goodbye, much less give a goodbye kiss when he was heading out. I would turn around and he would be gone. Life sped up and there wasn’t time for that kind of stuff anymore. But I can’t look over the cheating and the abuse. Maybe Locks’ behavior comes from his father, Baruskey. Locks told me his father snapped one day, nearly beating his mother to death, then went to the local donut shop early in the morning, walked out, and shot at a couple cops, crippling one. All for no reason at all. Some say Baruskey was trying to commit suicide, that there was no other explanation. The judge didn’t grant the fucker such luck though. He’s serving life in prison. Locks’ mother wants nothing to do with either of them. After Locks was patched into the club, his mother was afraid Locks was walking the same footsteps as his father. Maybe he is, maybe it’s in his DNA to snap the way he is.

“Fucking asshole,” I mumble. I grab the frying pan and slam it on his face just for good measure. I climb out from under his limp body, pull out his wallet and take his cash. I’m going to have to put Scarlett in a hotel until I can find something else. I’m not bringing her here in the middle of this. I grab my purse and leave.



Shadow and Bobby just left, taking some girls with them for company. I grab a beer from the bar fridge and am heading toward my room when Babs walks through the front door.

“What are you doing here so late, babe?” I ask, surprised to see her at this hour. Her hair is a mess and her clothes are all disheveled.

“You okay?” I ask concerned, stepping toward her.

“You think I can sleep in one of those rooms tonight?” Her voice shakes and her hands worry the purse in her hands. My eyes widen with surprise. Why would she want to stay here?

“Why, what happened?” I ask, my brow raised with curiosity.

“I was going to stay at a hotel, but they only had one bed and my niece is staying there—” she begins to babble.

“I didn’t say no, babe. Just why?” I ask, cutting her off.

Getting closer, I notice bruising around her neckline. My eyes furrow with anger and my lips parts with disbelief.

“Locks do that to you?” I accuse. My fingers softly trail the bruised tissue around her silky neck.

She looks away, ashamed. Her tongue runs along her bottom lip as she avoids eye contact.

I run my hands over the scruff of my face, thinking. Her silence and avoidance answer my question. Having her stay here will cause some serious shit between me and my VP if he finds out, but I can’t send her back to him. Apparently, things are getting out of hand at their house, and I know with her defiant attitude and Locks’ dominant ego, someone will end up seriously hurt or killed.

“You can stay with me. I’ll sleep on the floor,” I suggest.

She nods and looks up at me with relief, tears running down her face, making her mascara run.

I grab some blankets and extra pillows from the linen closet and head toward my room. I make a pallet on the floor and kick off my old boots.

“You sure?” Bab’s stares at my attempt of a pallet, her eyes raised with a disapproving look. “I can sleep on the floor,” Babs offers.

“You ain’t sleeping on the floor, doll,” I answer. I look up from unbuckling my belt to find Babs’ eyes staring at my hands intently. I watch her body suck in a breath when I drop my jeans to the floor.

I shake off my cut and hang it on the back of the door carefully before taking my shirt off.

“I’m going to go get cleaned up,” Babs quickly announces.

I smirk and watch her scamper off toward the bathroom.

I lay on my shitty made pallet and cross my arms behind my head, waiting for Babs to turn the lights off.

She opens the door, her face cleared of smeared makeup, and her wrinkled clothes folded in her hands. My eyes skim down her porcelain skin, black bra, and black panties, making me the one sucking in a breath now. She is not skinny; she is thick, but not fat. She’s a woman, and proud of her figure. She’s a woman with curves, and damn if I don't like that.

“Don’t look,” she requests sternly. I smirk at the childish demand and turn my head toward the door.

“Don’t forget to turn the lights off,” I remind her.

“You’re closer,” she argues.

“You’re the last one up,” I counter.