Pieces Of You: Pieces Duet Book 1

  Pieces of You

  Pieces Duet Book 1

  Jay McLean

  Copyright © 2021 by Jay McLean

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For Myrtle aka Mary

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Want to read Mia’s story?

  Also by Jay McLean

  About the Author

  Prologue

  I hold on to pieces of her.

  Segments of the life she lived, fragments of a girl I’d fallen in love with.

  She flew in like a hurricane, forcing me to drown in her depths while shaking my foundation and tearing down my walls. And then came the aftermath: the never-ending storm—like constant cracks of thunder and blasts of lightning that paved a path toward our destruction.

  She was frustratingly defeating,

  and devastatingly desolate.

  Completely unforgiving.

  And beautiful.

  God, was she beautiful.

  Even when shattered to pieces.

  1

  Jamie

  My lungs burned as the hand covering my mouth shifted, making sure I couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. Or scream. I don’t know why she always went to that extreme. I never spoke when I was home.

  It was one of the rules.

  Don’t make a sound.

  Don’t exist.

  “Good girl, Jamie. Just stay quiet.” Mom’s warm breath fell on my shoulder while anger raged through me.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, hiding the heated tears that were forming, and repeated over and over in my mind: I will not break. I will not break. I will not break.

  I was nine years old, and this wasn’t the first time it was happening. I knew it wouldn’t be the last. I also knew that it wouldn’t kill me—but sometimes…

  Sometimes I wish it would.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am.” I could barely make out Beaker’s voice through my pulse pounding in my eardrums, rapid, manic. “I’m not sure where they went, but they’re not here.”

  “Can I come in?” Even at nine, I knew it wasn’t normal to know who was at the door based on the car in the driveway and the type of knock used. But I did. The woman at the door was the third social worker to come to the house that year, and every time one would show up, Beaker—my mom’s boyfriend—would have a story to tell.

  A lie.

  “Do you have a warrant?” That was Beaker’s go-to line. The final nail in my so-called coffin.

  Head spinning from lack of oxygen, I reached up, tapped Mom’s forearm—my signal that I just needed one tiny breath. She gave me a second’s reprieve before placing her sweat-covered palm over my mouth again.

  It was dark in the closet where Mom held me to her, but I could feel her bones trembling against her flesh. Against mine. She was more afraid than I was, which made sense. Her punishment was far greater than mine.

  At the sound of the door closing and heavy footsteps approaching, Mom’s grip tightened. Through the cracks of light in the closet door, I knew he was there. Watching. Waiting. He wouldn’t do anything—not until he was sure the social worker’s car had gone and she’d left entirely. When the closet door opened, I didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. And even though nothing was blocking my airways anymore, I still didn’t take a breath.

  That day’s weapon of choice was a leather belt already wound around Beaker’s fist. “Disappear,” he ground out. The devil’s eyes were the shade of slate, and he focused them on my mother, even though his order was for me.

  I looked up at my mom, finally releasing the tears I’d been holding onto, but I didn’t make a sound. I begged with my eyes, pleaded for her to come with me. We could disappear together. We could leave the hell of Satan’s wrath and just go.

  She didn’t move. Not until I caught a flash of movement from the corner of my eye. Beaker raised his fist, aimed at me, and my mom blocked the blow just like she always did. “Run, baby!” she cried out, and so I did.

  I ran out of that room and out of the house, and I cried silent tears along with my silent shame and regret, and even then, when my life was filled with nothing but lies—there was one thing in the entire world I knew to be true: my silence would kill us both.

  Holden

  “No fucking way.” Probably not the best words to throw out the day before I start my senior year of high school, especially since I’m sitting in the principal’s office with both my mom and said principal, but still: No. Fucking. Way. am I doing what they’re asking of me.

  Next to me, Mom gasps. “Holden, you cannot speak like that!” She actually has the audacity to sound serious. She’s the one who taught me to swear like a sailor. Not on purpose, obviously, but I’m pretty sure the first word out of my mouth was shit, and I sure as fuck didn’t get it from Sesame Street.

  “Your mother and I have spoken, and we both agree that this is a great opportunity for you,” Principal Hemmings says, his cheeks blushing red when he finally trails his eyes from my mom’s chest to me. He knows I’ve caught him leering at her, and it’s not like it doesn’t happen on the regular. It’s the only downside to having a young mom. Still, if he doesn’t check himself soon, I have no problem climbing over his desk and pulling his teeth out one by one.

  “I’m sure you’d agree with anything my mother says,” I mumble, earning another gasp from Mom. “Especially when you’re looking at her tits when she’s speaking.”

  “Holden!” That came from both of them, in sync.

  Shaking my head, I sit up taller. “I’m not doing it.”

  “You are.” Mom’s words come with a tone of finality, and I can’t help but narrow my eyes at her.

  “I know you have a busy schedule, with football and basketball and baseball, and who knows what else, but I think this would be good for you,” Hemmings says, resting his elbows on his desk, his eyes on me, and nowhere else.

  After clearing my throat, I strum my fingers on the armrest of the cheap-ass chairs and say, my tone even, “I don’t know how many ways I can say this, but No. Fucking. Way.”

  The pain starts at my ear and quickly makes its way down my neck and then my entire face. A second later, I’m on my feet, screeching, and it takes a moment to realize that my mother is li
terally dragging me out of the office by my ear. I’m officially calling bullshit on all the times she’s asked me to open jars for her because the woman is way stronger than I’ve given her credit for.

  We’re standing in the foyer right in front of the office desk when she finally releases me. I’m quick to rub at the spot she’d just attacked; my eyes thinned to slits as I glare down at her. Then I take a quick glance around the space. Usually, the day before school starts, the office area’s filled with students checking their subjects and schedules and whatever else it is people who care about school do. Luckily for me, there’s only the office lady behind the desk and a girl I don’t recognize sitting in the short row of waiting chairs.

  If I were the type of person to get embarrassed, this would be one of those moments.

  The girl doesn’t even bother hiding the fact that she’s watching us, eyebrows drawn, her hazel eyes flicking between Mom and me. I wonder what she’s thinking. If she’s thinking at all. She sure as hell wasn’t when she got dressed this morning. She’s in a tweed skirt down past her knees and a white short sleeve blouse with the buttons done all the way up to her collar. Back straight, hands folded on her lap, and next to her black old-lady shoes is a worn, brown, leather messenger bag. She dresses like she’s eighty, but she doesn’t look a day over eighteen. Her eyes catch mine and widen slightly. For a moment—a split second—we just stare at each other. And, because I like to play games, I throw her a smirk and then a wink.

  Because why the fuck not?

  Jamie

  “What the fuck, dude?” the woman standing in front of G.I. Jock whisper-yells, but he doesn’t hear her because he’s too busy trying to… what? Flirt with me? Intimidate me? He’ll have to try a lot harder than that to get under my skin. After waiting a few seconds for a reaction from me and not getting one, he finally looks back at the woman.

  Going by their possible age difference and the way she’s speaking to him, I assume that she’s his much older sister. For a moment, I wonder where his parents are. I push away the question, annoyed that I even went there. G.I. Jock’s sister sighs, shaking her head. “I need you to work with me on this, Holden.”

  Holden. I flip the name over in my mind for no other reason than I like it. It’s a good name. Solid. Strong.

  “What is this even about?” Holden says, crossing his arms. “You’ve never cared about what I do before. Why start now?”

  “Because it’s your senior year and—”

  “Bullshit,” Holden cuts in.

  The middle-aged lady behind the large reception desk clears her throat, giving the siblings a look that clearly states this is a school, dipshits, and you’re being inappropriate.

  They both roll their eyes, moving two steps away from the desk and closer to me. Holden’s sister keeps her voice low when she says, “I need to start being more present in your life, and this is how I’m choosing to do it.”

  “How is this making you more present?” Holden retorts, his broad shoulders shifting when he shoves his hands in his pockets. “This is just giving me something more to do on top of—”

  “At least I’ll know where you are instead of you disappearing at all hours of the day and night doing God knows what to fuck knows who.” Ah, so Holden’s a player, and his sister doesn’t like it. I should’ve picked up on that the moment I laid eyes on him.

  “This has nothing to do with me, does it?” Holden’s tone changes when he says this. He’s no longer combative, no longer fighting her. It’s as if he’s accepting whatever fate his sister is asking of him. “It’s about Mia, right?” Mia? Hmm. I’m intrigued. This is the most drama I’ve witnessed since Mom used to make me watch a bunch of housewives on reality television.

  They have the same eyes, I note, and they use those eyes to stare each other down for way too long. The difference? Holden’s eyes get clearer while his sister’s fill with tears. “Stop it,” she whispers, teeth gritted.

  Holden doesn’t stop. “Because you didn’t know what was happening with her, and so you’re projecting that fear on me?”

  “That’s enough, Holden,” she says, only this time, her tone is authoritative. It’s impressive, really. She’s quick to wipe at her tears before lifting her chin defiantly. “So what if I want to keep a closer tab on you and—”

  “So just say that, Mom,” he cuts in, bringing her in for an embrace. Whoa. Mom? This is a plot twist I was not expecting. And neither is the sincerity in the way he holds her, the way he strokes the back of her head as he brings her into his chest. “If you need me to do this to take away your guilt, Ma, then I’ll do—”

  The office door opens, and a man appears. From the research I’d done on the school, I assume this is Mike Hemmings, the principal. Hemmings’ eyes go from Holden and his mom to me sitting here, completely enthralled in what’s happening in front of me. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Hemmings tells them. “But I have other students I need to see today, so…” He looks as awkward as I feel, and he didn’t even witness what I did.

  Holden’s mom pulls away while Holden nods and states, “I’ll do it.”

  Hemmings returns his nod with a flat, “That’s good.” Then he smiles, first at them, then at me. “Jameson?” he questions.

  I get to my feet, run a hand down my skirt. “Yes, sir.”

  He opens his door wider. “Come in.”

  “Thank fuck that’s over,” Holden murmurs as I pass him, throwing an arm around his mother’s shoulders and spinning her toward the exit. Right before I step foot in the office, I hear his mom’s reply, “No shit.”

  “I’m Principal Hemmings,” the man dressed in a neatly pressed suit introduces himself as I move around him. He closes the door after me and points to the chair on one side of his desk as he makes his way to the other. I notice the shine on his black dress shoes while his cologne wafts through the air. Sitting in his high-back chair, head bent to look down at what I assume is my file laying open on his desk, he asks, “Are your parents here with you, Jameson?”

  My heart skips a beat. Two. “Jamie’s fine, and no,” I sputter, my voice barely audible as I link my fingers on my lap and push my palms together. After clearing my throat, I add, “I take it you haven’t read my file?”

  Hemmings glances up but keeps his head down. “No, I’m sorry.” He seems sincere enough. “It’s been a helluva day. Can you give me a moment to skim it?”

  I press my lips tight and nod once. When his eyes start shifting from side to side, reading the cliff notes of my academic life, I take the chance to get a good look at him. He’s in his late forties, with dark-brown hair combed and styled to the side. His desk is immaculate, just like his clothes. I wonder if the way he displays himself for the world is an extension of who he is—or if he’s faking it just like I am. I don’t have a lot of time to ponder that thought before I notice his eyes widen, and I know he’s just read the part in my file that will no doubt label me for my last year of high school. When he looks up, frowning, his eyes can no longer focus on mine. “Emancipated?”

  3

  Holden

  “I’m proud of you,” Mom says, sitting opposite me at the kitchen table while we try to fake some form of normalcy over our bowls of cereal. I can’t even remember the last time we sat down for breakfast together, but it’s important to her, so I’m trying—which is all I could promise her. She’s either going through some form of a mid-life crisis, or everything that happened over the past few years is catching up to her. From the divorce and the relocation to the death of someone she considered a second father to the downfall of my best friend—a girl who my mother wishes were her child.

  I get it. It’s a lot to take in, and besides my grandparents, there aren’t many people in her life. When my parents split, Mom moved us to Tennessee, where her parents were, and Dad stayed in North Carolina to continue running the family business. She has no real friends. No real life. I’m all she has. So, I sit, and I smile, and I watch her eyes cloud with tears as she looks ov
er at me and says, “I can’t believe I have a high school senior.”

  I want to roll my eyes. I don’t. Instead, I plaster on a smile. “It’s crazy, right?”

  “It seems like only yesterday I pushed you out of my vagina and held your conehead, alien body for the first time.”

  A chuckle bubbles out of me. This is the mom I know—the one who raised me. “That’s not gross at all, Ma,” I murmur.

  Her lips kick up at the corners as she pushes her bowl to the side, replacing it with the felt mat displaying the half-completed jigsaw puzzle we’d started a few weeks ago. I can’t remember a time in my life when puzzle pieces didn’t take over a section of the kitchen table. It had always been our thing—Mom and me. When I was a kid, it was our after-dinner activity, and when Mia wasn’t around, or Dad was busy working, we’d settle at the table with a hot chocolate each and spend hours focused on hundreds of pieces of tiny cardboard shapes.

  My eyes catch on a completely blue piece, and I move it to the part of the puzzle where it’s nothing but the sky. It connects perfectly, and I smile when Mom says, “I hate that you can find them so fast.”

  “It’s not a competition.”