Breaker: Heartbreakers MC: Book 1 Read online

  Breaker

  Heartbreakers MC: Book 1

  Alexis Abbott

  © 2019 Pathforgers Publishing.

  All Rights Reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginations. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  This book is intended for sale to Adult Audiences only. All sexually active characters in this work are over 18. All sexual activity is between non-blood related, consenting adults. This is a work of fiction, and as such, does not encourage illegal or immoral activities that happen within.

  Cover Design by Wicked Good Covers. All cover art makes use of stock photography and all persons depicted are models.

  More information is available at Pathforgers Publishing.

  Content warnings: kidnapping, BDSM, second chance romance

  Wordcount: 55,000 Words

  Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  1. Kate

  2. Breaker

  3. Kate

  4. Breaker

  5. Kate

  6. Breaker

  7. Kate

  8. Breaker

  9. Kate

  10. Breaker

  11. Kate

  12. Breaker

  13. Kate

  14. Breaker

  15. Kate

  16. Breaker

  17. Breaker

  18. Kate

  19. Kate

  20. Breaker

  Next from Alexis Abbott

  Also by Alexis Abbott

  About the Author

  Connect with Alexis

  Acknowledgments

  Romance Novels to your Email

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  Prologue

  My eyelids flutter open as a shaft of yellowish light filters across the room and floods over my face. My head is aching, almost pulsing with a dull pain.

  What happened?

  What did I eat?

  Do I have food poisoning?

  Am I even awake or is this just a startlingly lifelike dream?

  Why does this entire room feel like it’s rocking back and forth?

  I blink rapidly, squinting against the light as my eyes slowly adjust and parts of the room surrounding me begin to come into focus. Maybe I should sit up. Maybe that would make the world stop tilting.

  I lick my dry, chapped lips as I try to heave my body upright, but I feel my stomach lurch uncomfortably and I give up for the time being. Looks like I will have to remain horizontal for a minute or so.

  My left arm is tingling and prickling underneath me and I realize slowly that my cheek is pressed against a stained, threadbare pillow case. I fell asleep on my stomach, evidently, but that doesn’t make much sense. I hate lying on my stomach and usually I tend to be a side-sleeper, so I must have been awfully exhausted to drift off in this position.

  Even though my left arm stings as it comes back to life, I’m able to prop myself up slightly with my right arm.

  I wrinkle my nose.

  It smells weird in here. That’s another irregularity that stands out even though my mind is moving along at a sluggish pace. My bedroom in my parents’ house, still frilly pink and filled with stuffed animals I can’t bear to part with yet even though I’m eighteen now and presumably a grown-up, always smells like vanilla or patchouli. It’s kind of a personal quirk of mine—every evening when I’m doing homework or getting ready for bed, I light one of my many scented candles to set the ambiance in my space. The flickering flame and potent fragrance automatically puts my tension to rest and my body at ease. My candle-collecting is so well known in my friend circle that it’s pretty much the guaranteed Christmas or birthday present everyone chooses to give me.

  I take my scents very seriously.

  But this room doesn’t smell like vanilla or patchouli.

  It doesn’t smell like home.

  In fact, it smells like old laundry and stale takeout, made worse by the fact that someone obviously has never cracked a window in this place before. It’s like all the bad smells and bad vibes are trapped in this room with me.

  My left arm tingles awake and I grunt, dragging myself to sit up with my shoulders against the wobbly metal headboard of the bed. I look around me, taking care to only turn my head slowly. Everything is still spinning slightly, as though I’m trying to look at the world through several sets of bifocals. Or maybe a kaleidoscope like the one I bought at a museum gift shop when I was a little girl.

  “Ugh,” I murmur, laying a hand on my gurgly stomach. I feel nauseated and dizzy in a way I’ve never felt before. It’s far worse than the time I got the flu during final exams. It’s even worse than when my best friend Moxie convinced me to get on that spinny teacup ride at the county fair last year.

  Oh, Moxie.

  The memories of last night come trickling back to me like grains of sand through a sieve. My best friend, dancing and laughing under the neon lights. Bright pink and blue flashing across her face. Her cheeks flushed and the blonde curls that frame her face bouncing and slightly damp with sweat.

  We go all out when we go out.

  Moxie’s mom works from home so there’s always a parent around, watching us, but at my house there’s almost always nobody home. Nobody to tell us to dress more modestly. Nobody to stop us from staying out too late or talking to boys. I guess that’s one benefit of being a latchkey kid. Maybe the only benefit.

  I can hardly remember how the night began, much less how it ended.

  Where the hell is Moxie?

  How did I end up in this weird, smelly room?

  Who brought me here?

  Suddenly, I gasp with fear and peel the bedsheets away from my body. I heave a sigh of relief when I see that I’m still wearing all my clothes, even my tights. Not the most comfortable outfit to sleep in, for sure, but at least it probably means that whoever brought me to this room didn’t take all my clothes off. I reach up and tug the stretched-out elastic from my long, wavy auburn hair. I shake my head slightly to fluff out my tangled hair, but I quickly stop and close my eyes tightly against the wave of increased nausea that follows.

  “What did I drink last night?” I grumble to myself.

  Through the cloudiness in my mind, another question arises: where’s my phone?

  Come to mention it, where is my purse?

  I feel around in the bed and come up with nothing, and when I try to pull myself out of the bed I almost fall over in a heap, my legs buckling underneath me. I hastily clamber back into the bed, pulling my knees up to my chest. I shut my eyes as the room tilts wildly.

  Holy cow, I feel like hell warmed over.

  I wonder if I got any actual sleep last night. Sure doesn’t feel that way, judging from the dull ache in my bones and the fact that I can’t stop yawning.

  I don’t even know what time it is, since the digital alarm clock on the bedside table is flashing midnight. Clearly it got reset during a power outage—which are fairly frequent in my small hometown of Stonedale, Wyoming—and the owner just never got around to setting it back. I can’t imagine doing that. At home, I am very particular about everything being in its correct place and in working order. Moxie always teases me about it, because she’s the total opposite.

  Again, it occurs to me that I have no idea how I ended up separated from her last night. I wrack my brain, trying to piece together the little flashes of incongruent memory I can conjure up from our night out. It started much the way it always did: the two of us jamming to music in my bedroom while we dug throu
gh my closet, putting together flirty outfits and doing each other’s makeup. Moxie does an incredible smoky eye, while I have the perfect steady hand for winged eyeliner. With our powers combined, we can pull off one hell of a great look.

  Another image floats to the forefront of my brain. The two of us dancing to a ‘getting ready’ playlist while my older sister banged on the wall to get us to turn the music down a notch. I’m the middle child, smack dab in between two older sisters, Leah and Samantha, and two younger brothers, Caleb and Trevor. My little brothers are twins, so they share a room, but we three girls each have our own rooms. Needless to say, my parents have their hands full, but I’ve always done my best to make it easy on them. I tend to be the problem-solver in my household, the diplomat who works out the conflicts and smooths things over.

  I’m a good girl.

  Sure, I may not be a genius like Samantha or a saint like Leah. I get average grades, but I rarely miss an assignment. I’m not going to a university, but I do plan to go to the local community college to further my education and get a decent job.

  A memory resurfaces out of the fog. Moxie bargaining with a bouncer to let me into a club even though I’m under twenty-one. She leaned on his arm and batted her eyelashes but he wouldn’t change his mind. I can perfectly recall the way he shook his head and refused to smile.

  Moxie is usually very persuasive. She can talk her way into or out of just about anything, a skill I have always admired from afar. I find it difficult to stand up for myself sometimes, much less talk myself up. But Moxie is different. Her name suits her perfectly, a fact which amuses the both of us to no end. It does mean, however, that she can be a little stubborn from time to time, and last night was the same old story. She argued with that bouncer for a good ten minutes while I stood forlornly off to the side, watching the twenty-somethings easily pass through the doorway into the dimly-lit club with the pulsing loud music.

  I remember why we were there in the first place: Moxie was supposed to meet up with this guy she met on a dating app, and she brought me along so I could chat with the guy’s friend. Typical double date, only they could all into the club and I am still too young.

  I can recall how disappointed and annoyed Moxie was, the way her impish smile turned upside down as she gave up trying to cajole the bouncer. She stepped out of the line and linked her arm with mine. Her eyes flashed light blue in the neon glow of the marquee as she leaned in close to my ear and whispered something.

  Oh, what was it?

  The words echo in my head.

  “Never mind. We’ll go somewhere else,” she murmured. She sounded exasperated.

  What happened next, though? I pinch the bridge of my nose, searching my brain for the next piece of the jigsaw puzzle. The answer stumbled to the stage in the form of a tall, handsome, well-dressed stranger with a smirk that could melt gold. He followed us out of the line of people waiting to get into the club, putting a hand on the small of my back.

  “Tough luck with that bouncer, huh?” I remember him saying.

  “Yeah, what a jerk,” Moxie agreed petulantly.

  “Don’t worry. I know a place where they’ll let you both in, no problem,” said the handsome stranger.

  I recall the way my heart began to pound, how my hands got all sweaty and clammy. I’m not used to attention from older guys like that. I only recently graduated high school, and I’ve known the same boys ever since I started preschool. In a small town, that tends to happen. Apart from the rare crush that never lasts long, I haven’t dated much at all. Moxie is far more experienced than I am, though, so I turned to her for guidance when that guy came up to talk to us outside the club.

  Moxie’s mischievous grin burns brightly in my mind. She took the guy’s arm and nodded. He led us away from the club. We got into a taxi. I don’t remember how long the ride was or where exactly we ended up, only that I didn’t recognize that part of town. The whole way there, Moxie flirted with our mysterious new friend, leaning into his space and giggling at his every dumb joke. I remember now—by that point I was already tired. Watching my best friend argue passionately with the bouncer on my behalf was more than enough excitement for one evening, and I had a bad feeling in my gut.

  I just wanted to go home, but I stuck around, thinking that I needed to stay and watch over my friend. After all, she had been tossing back shots, pregaming from my parents’ liquor cabinet.

  I, on the other hand, was stone cold sober. And exhausted.

  We walked up to a rough-looking biker bar. From my sheltered perspective, the place might as well have been Sodom or Gomorrah. There were strippers. There were men in leather vests. There were guys arguing at the bar and getting overly competitive at the pool table. The juke box blared the kind of hard rock and roll my parents never played on the radio.

  Moxie said we would only stay for one drink.

  I believed her.

  But one drink turned into two, which snowballed into three. Since I’m only eighteen, I just sipped my cranberry juice like a good girl. Eventually, I got up to go to the bathroom. When I came back to the bar, my stomach flipped. Moxie was nowhere in sight. Neither was her handsome new friend. I vaguely remember trying to call her multiple times, and I never got an answer.

  She had abandoned me, which was totally out of character for her.

  I must have looked scared, because a guy at the bar pulled me aside and mentioned that he saw Moxie leaving with the man. He also told me that he saw the man put something in her drink. His face swims in my head, annoyingly blurred out. I wish I could remember. Oh, if only I could remember…

  The next thing I recall, I was on the back of his motorcycle, the wind whipping through my hair. That’s why I pulled it into a ponytail. But it was hard to do. I was uncoordinated, my hands unusually shaky. I felt sleepy, like my thoughts were all slowed down to a near-halt. I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t even make sense of what was happening around me.

  But all I drank was cranberry juice. What in the world could have affected me so strongly?

  “Unless…” I mumble.

  Unless.

  Unless he drugged me.

  No. Of course not. That only happens in movies, right?

  What are the chances that both Moxie and I were targeted by two separate guys in the same night? It seems impossible. Especially in a small town like Stonedale. Everyone knows everyone. Who would do such a thing?

  I assure myself that the man just wanted to help. That he took me back to this place—his place—because I was sleepy and alone and he wanted to save me.

  The nausea is starting to go away, thank god. I drag myself out from under the sheets, taking one heavy, plodding step at a time until I cross the shadowy room. I grab the doorknob and try to turn it, but to my confusion, it doesn’t turn. I try it over and over again, but it dawns on me gradually that the door is locked… from the other side.

  Did that guy really lock me in here? Why would he do that?

  Panic floods through my veins, and I’m so on edge that I let out a little yelp of fear when I hear a crackle of thunder outside. I dizzily wobble over to the window, blinking to try and focus my eyes. To my complete surprise, the world I see outside the window is not what I expect. Instead of the rolling green plains of Stonedale, I can make out the dry, cracked brown earth. The sky above is a dark gray, the clouds gathered ominously. I see lightning rumble across the sky.

  It could be day. It could be night. I’m not sure. All I know is that this place is not familiar to me.

  This is not Stonedale. This is not my home.

  “Where the hell am I?” I wonder aloud.

  Suddenly, a deafening crash of thunder erupts, making me fall back with fear. In fact, it hardly even sounds like thunder.

  It sounds more like a gunshot.

  Kate

  Tears sting in my eyes as I claw uselessly at the wooden window sill. There’s a thick block covering up where the access should be, and it’s hammered in place with several of those long,
sharp nails. I press my palms against the glass and immediately it clouds up with the humidity from my clammy hands. I grunt as I try my hardest to press it up and slide it open, despite the fact that I know full well that pane isn’t going to budge. Not when the whole contraption is nailed down like this.

  But I can’t stop fiddling with it, the feeling of desperation and fear building up in my gut and adding to the cocktail of dizziness, disorientation, and nausea that are already plaguing my confused, weakened body.

  I wonder if I can somehow break through the window. Maybe I can take that stupid, flashing alarm clock from the nightstand and bash it through the window pane. It’s raining heavily outside now, the clouds gathered thick and dark in the sky, blotting out any semblance of sunshine and making it even more difficult to assume what time it is currently. I bite my lip, eyeing the alarm clock. Do I really have the raw strength and dexterity to successfully slam a small plastic alarm clock through a thick double pane of glass?

  I don’t have to ruminate for long to determine the answer is no. Besides, there’s almost no chance that the window pane would shatter the way I want it to. In fact, I would probably only succeed in shattering the clock and risk hurting my hand.

  My mind plays through the scenario over and over again, trying to figure out any possible maneuver that might result in a broken window. But I know, deep in my gut, that it wouldn’t work out that way, no matter how desperately I wish for it to happen as I imagine it.

  Things in real life almost never pan out the way they would in movies and television. I may be a little young and naive, but even I am not childish enough not to know that.