Our Broken Pieces - M.E. Clayton Page 0,31

calling me. It could only mean she missed me. Whenever she misses me, she calls at crazy early or late hours, knowing that’s the best time to catch me for conversation.

There were so many times, over the years, I wanted to tell my mother the truth about my father, but she was truly, blissfully unaware of my father’s philandering and she was happy.

Always happy.

I wasn’t brave enough to tear her world apart. Besides, it would come down to my word against my father’s and I wasn’t sure which side my mother would pick. I wasn’t ready to lose her over my father, and if I threatened her marriage, that might very well could happen.

I answered the phone. “Hey, Mom.”

She let out a soft sigh. “Gage, honey,” she replied. “How are you?”

“I’m well, Mom,” I told her. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” she replied. “I miss my only son, though.”

I hated that I went out of my way to avoid her because I really did love her, but guilt was a monkey on my back I couldn’t shake. I was always on the verge of telling her the truth now that my father didn’t have a hold on me any longer, and I was always worried I was going to blurt out his secrets, ruining my mother’s happily crafted life. “I miss you, too.”

Her voice lightened as she said, “Well, I’m going to be in Chicago next week for a conference, so why don’t we do lunch?” My parents still lived in California and my mother still traveled for business. Sometimes work brought her to Chicago.

An automatic denial was on my lips, but I held it in. “Alone, Mom,” I replied, instead.

“Now, Gage-”

“No, Mother,” I said, cutting her off. “I am not going to sit through another lunch where you invite a friend and her conveniently single daughter.” My mother’s grandmother clock was ticking, and she wasn’t being subtle about it at all.

“That was one time, Gage.”

One time too many.

“Call me when you know more and I’ll make the reservations for lunch,” I replied, ignoring her defense.

She let out a sigh. “Fine,” she relented. “I’ll call you.”

I smiled because I couldn’t help it. I was a right bastard, but I did love my mother. “Okay. Talk to you later, Mom. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said automatically right before hanging up.

Now, while I was sure my mom’s friends had lovely daughters, my father’s introduction to sex had fucked me up so badly, my dick didn’t get hard for sweet and innocent. It got hard for the darker pleasures and I hated that development as much as I hated my father.

The first time I ever fucked Mystic Anderson, it hadn’t been her tight virgin pussy that had made me cum. It had been the dark, disgusting images of holding her down and making her take it that had finally made me nut off. And it’s been those sick images that have been doing it for me all these years later.

I had sworn Mystic Anderson was dead to me the day it had sunk in that she had really left me, but over the years, I couldn’t keep the memories at bay.

She was every-fucking-where.

She was there whenever my dark desires surfaced. And, even though, it had taken a couple of years, she had still been there when I had finally started fucking other girls. I had stayed the fuck away from girls with brown hair and brown eyes, but it hadn’t mattered. Mystic was all I saw when I was balls-deep inside a woman.

She was there because no other woman had ever been able to come close to being what Mystic had been to me.

What she still fucking was.

The sad thing was that, while I had come across a few women who would have loved to be taken roughly, I hadn’t wanted to cross that line with them for more reasons than just my image. Mystic had really done a fucking number on me, and marking another woman had always felt wrong, no matter how much my dark needs had wanted to.

I resorted to cage fight training to unleash my aggression, and even then, that didn’t do much, other than take the edge off.

Mystic was there in my head all the goddamn time whenever a woman was getting naked for me. While I knew her name and face, the second my dick made contact, every face turned into Mystic’s. Every moan was in the sound of her voice. Every pair of