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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
Cover Design by Letitia Hasser for RBA Designs.
Editing by Jenny Sims for Editing4Indies
Formatting by CP Smith
Translation of Love (Of Love #1)
Desperation of Love (Of Love #2)
The Of Love Series Set
Unspeakable Lies Novella
Pieces of Him
“Why would I do that when I’ve already fucked you, Lucy?” Automatically, my brain plays back the highlight reel of the last couple of hours. The downright dirty sex in every imaginable position—the slapping of skin, the exchanging of fluids, and the nearly broken furniture. All in all, it was one of my more epic nights.
“Lizzy.” She corrects me, bringing my attention back to the here and now. I’d rather be back at the epic portion of the evening.
“That’s what I said,” I reply nonchalantly, giving the impression I have not a care in the world and what I’m doing right now isn’t the least bit fucked up.
“God, what is wrong with you? You can’t even keep my name straight.” She scowls, keeping the blanket secured tightly across her chest. Does she think I don’t know what’s underneath it? I had my mouth on pretty much every single part of her body. Some were nicer than others, but the breasts? The breasts were outstanding.
“Why would I need to keep your name straight? Will it be appearing on a marriage license next to mine anytime soon?” I ask, with a casual shake of my head. “Not likely.”
As I do up the last button on my shirt, I reach for my wallet on the nightstand, open it up, and toss a couple of bills down, all the while pretending that I don’t notice that the half naked girl in the bed staring daggers at me.
“The room is paid through the night; this should be enough money to make sure you get home safely.”
I watch with little interest as her tits sway when the sheet falls away as she pushes up onto her knees. She reaches for the money, crumples it up, and throws it at me. This one has a temper on her; the red hair should have tipped me off, but I was too busy staring at the fucking tits to notice.
“I’m not a whore, you asshole!”
“Seriously?” I ask, pulling on my suit jacket. I don’t know why I say what I say next. I’m honestly not trying to be a dick, but she’s combative, and I think I like that about her. I think I almost want to see her temper flare. “You might want to consider it because you take cock like a pro.”
I can almost imagine she resembles a volcano erupting as she lunges off the bed, hands out in front of her. Landing on my chest, her hands give me a shove. She’s tiny, but she packs a mighty punch, I’ll give her that. She almost manages to move me back a step, but I catch myself, locking my frame tight before she could actually connect.
“Relax, Leslie; I was giving you a fucking compliment.”
“It’s Lizzie, you asshole! Lizzie!”
“Right,” I say, taking a few steps back and looking around the room to make sure I don’t forget anything. Making sure there are no knives or blunt objects Lisa can use to do bodily harm. “Take care of yourself,” I call as I reach the door.
“You think you can just go around making girls think that you’re into them and then leave them after you’ve gotten what you wanted?” She crosses her arms over her chest and looks wounded, like a fragile bird I’ve done real damage to.
“I’ve had success with this in the past, yes.” I give her a nod, my stance firm, and my gaze cold and apathetic.
She shakes her head; her eyes no longer angry but filled with pity instead. This infuriates me. It enrages me to see her looking at me as if I’m someone she can look down at. I’ve had just about enough of her when she whispers, “What kind of a miserable scumbag of a man are you?”
“The kind you met at the
down the street and allowed him to buy you
drinks. The kind who
actually said there would be anything beyond tonight. The kind you liked well enough to come to a hotel with less than an hour after meeting him, letting him fuck your brains out while you called him God, baby, and daddy and loved it,” I say with a smirk on my face. “That’s the kind of man I am, but Laurie? What exactly does all that say about the kind of girl
Parting blow delivered, I leave her looking downright repentant, making her feel like the easy piece of ass that she turned out to be. Not that I’m judging because believe me, I’m not. Easy is what I prefer; it’s exactly what I need to get through the fucked-up day-to-day existence I lead. It doesn’t change the fact that I feel like shit as I ride the elevator down to the lobby. It’s nearing three am when I make it out of the hotel and onto the street. It always amazes me how people are always bustling around the city, even at this hour. New York doesn’t ever sleep; there’s always life to be seen and heard and experienced, and it’s one of the things I’ve always appreciated about living here.
Following my brief text message as I left the room, James, my driver, is waiting with the car idling by the curb. He spots me and moves to exit the car in order to come around and open my door, but I wave him off. I can open my own fucking door.
“Evening, Mr. Parker,” he calls as I slide into the backseat, shut the door behind me, and rest an elbow on the back of my seat.
“Did you grab my bag, James?”
“Yes, sir. Your apartment is locked up, and the plane is ready and waiting.”
, I think to myself. This is exactly what I want to do with the next few months of my life. Yes, I’m being sarcastic. The last thing I want to do is get on a plane to spend God knows how many months in the fucking South. I owe a special thanks for this shitty fact to my father, the asshole who knows no bounds to just how much of a dick he’s capable of being. As a matter of fact, the only good thing about this trip is not having to deal with my father’s bullshit for a prolonged period of time. Maybe I will thank him, after all.
When I pull up outside the hotel that’s supposed to be my home for the next few months, I’m surprisingly shocked at how utterly pathetic it looks. I’m in complete disbelief that my father would voluntarily buy this dilapidated hotel—and I use the word hotel loosely—and ask me to transition it into the Parker Hotels family.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath, as I look around for the valet. It doesn’t take me long to realize that there is no valet, so I park my own car in the garage across the street. Grabbing my bags from the backseat, I lug them down two flights of stairs, across the street, and into the hotel without a single human being around to help me. Clearly, customer service is not their forte. As I look around, I realize I have just entered the depths of hell. This poor excuse for a building reminds me more of a crack house than a hotel. Rugs stained with God knows what, chipped paint on the wall, and second-hand furniture that’s so bad, I doubt I could even get a thrift store to pick it up. If I have any doubt in my mind regarding how my father feels about me, it’s gone now … the fucker hates me.
Parker Hotels International is the sixth largest hotel chain in the world—pretty impressive but not good enough by my old man’s standards. It had been in the top three back in the heyday of the hospitality industry when my grandfather was at the helm of the company. Dad’s been trying for years to break back into just the top five. He’s made it his mission in life to see that goal come to fruition. I, for one, couldn’t care less about any of it. Travel and hospitality have never been my dream job. Although I don’t hate it, per se, I think I might enjoy it more if my father wasn’t trying to run my life while priming my older brother to take over the brand when he finally retires or kicks the bucket, whichever comes first. My money is on death, but that’s just me. I think I’d actually find my job enjoyable if I could do my own thing and not have to answer to or live up to the family name. That, however, would never happen. Trying to live a life apart from the Parker name would be an automatic disownment, and disownment equals no inheritance.
I let out a frustrated sigh as I stand at the front desk, waiting for the woman who’s having a conversation about what it means when the guy she had dinner with two nights ago hasn’t called her yet. She looks up at me through perturbed eyes when I clear my throat.
“Jessie, I’ll have to call you back,” she says to the person on the other line as she ends her call and tosses her phone on the counter. “Welcome to The Godwin Hotel, may I help you?” I don’t like the tone of her voice. It’s not rude, just indifferent, like she’d rather be anywhere else but here. Like I’m interrupting her precious time. I’m suddenly glad that news of my family’s takeover has been kept under the radar. I think I’d like to save the special job of terminating this girl for myself ... In fact, I’m looking forward to it.
“I’m checking in.”
“Oliver Parker,” I reply, keeping my answers brief and cold, just like her.
“I have you booked in the penthouse suite for an extended stay. I’ll just need a credit card for your file.” She makes no eye contact, no small talk, no where are you joining us from, how was your trip, what brings you to Savannah, Georgia—no hospitality at all.
Handing over my credit card, I take a good look at her. She’s a pretty girl, brown hair, green eyes, definitely fuckable, but her attitude problem leaves a lot to be desired. She hands my credit card back and slides my key card over to me.
“Enjoy your stay.”
No directions to my room, not even a fucking map, just
enjoy your stay.
This chick is a real piece of work. I know I shouldn’t. Ethically, I shouldn’t, but the transfer of this place doesn’t happen until tomorrow morning, so technically, I’m not her boss yet.
“Did you put out?”
“Excuse me?” she asks, looking absolutely horrified by my brazenness.
“You know, with your date the other night. Did you put out? Because if you did, I can pretty much guarantee you that you’ll never hear from him again.”
I turn and walk away to the dilapidated bay of elevators, leaving her standing there looking a brilliant mixture of angry, embarrassed, and shocked. That’ll teach her to air her dirty laundry at work, wherever her next place of employment should be. I’m careful to stand in the center of the elevator on the ride up to my floor because I’m honestly scared to touch anything for fear of catching something. It takes three attempts for the key card to actually unlock the door to my room.
Even the doors have given up working in this hellhole.
When I finally make it inside my room, I’m not entirely sure if I’ve walked into a hotel room or a crime scene. I’m almost positive I can make out the faint outline of a victim’s body on the carpet, and the overwhelming smell of cigarettes and body odor invades my senses.