Pretty Broken Doll

1. Shilo

Shilo

“ D ude, I think... I’m gonna puke.”

Cheezus Christ, again?

“Hang on, let me pull over,” I grumble irritably, quickly pulling the car to the side of the street. Seriously, why does this keep happening to me? Why are so many people in downtown Seattle such lightweights?

Honestly, it’s probably my own fault for sticking around a college area on a Friday night, but I’m trying here, okay? Can I get a break?

Drunk Party Bro starts to gag, not attempting to open the back door when we come to a stop, and I silently curse whatever powers that be for giving me my fifth wasted Uber rider of the night as I climb out and round the SUV. Freezing rain pelts my skin as I yank open the door, but I’m too late. Puke Face has already started vomiting up whatever noxious mixture he drank at the bar.

“You frickin’ kidding me?!” Pulling him out so that he’s hanging over the side, I barely jump back in time to avoid the backsplash on my fraying Chucks as he soaks the gutter. A good chunk of the stuff—emphasis on chunk—is pooling in the middle seat, but luckily, Dad went with the leather upholstery. Won’t help with the smell, though.

As he keeps emptying his stomach, I push damp strands of purple hair out of my face and try to focus on the positives, like my therapist suggested.

Let’s see...smelly car, cold wet hoodie, and a whole ten bucks from this ride, which won’t even cover the detailing I’ll need. And because I actually have a conscience, I still have to drive Pukey McGee another mile and a half.

Sooo many positives about leaving the house tonight. Look at me go, Doc.

“Sorry, man,” the guy slurs, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and I grimace as I grab a towel from the trunk.

“Just...wipe up as much as you can, please.”

The rest of the ride is awful. He starts crying. By the time I drop him at his dorm at UW, he’s a snot-nosed mess, and I couldn’t be happier to pass him off to his friends. I wonder vaguely what classes he takes, if we’re in the same program.

Not that it matters—my classes are all online, much to my parents’ and therapist’s dismay. But honestly, it makes sense. Why would a Computer Engineering student need to sit in a classroom instead of, you know, on a computer ? Self-explanatory, right?

I barely have time to wipe down the backseat before another pickup comes through. Great. Another bar.

Why am I doing this again?

Because Doctor Iskar said I need to ‘socialize’ and Dad’s charging me rent.

Oh, right. Still doesn’t mean I have to put up with drunk asshats.

I’m about to decline the ride when I see the tip, and my eyes nearly bug out of my skull.

Five-hundred dollars? For a fifteen-minute drive over to the Belltown area?

Well, shit. That’ll cover rent for a month. Or a new graphics card for my computer. Hell yeah.

Hitting accept, I pull back onto the main road, my wipers working overtime. August in the PNW is usually dry, but naturally, it’s pouring on one of the two days I drive for Uber, lucky me. Not that I mind. Me and the sun? We have issues. My ghostly complexion should be a hint. Just call me Elmer, ’cause I’m muthafrickin’ pasty.

Letting off the gas, I stop in front of the bar and double-check the address with a frown. This part of Seattle is sketchy at best. The building looks like something straight out of a horror film—square, concrete, one blinking neon window, and a nondescript door wedged between two abandoned storefronts. A dive, if I ever saw one.

I shoot a quick message to my rider, Ryann, asking them to sit in the front seat. There are a few people loitering outside, smoking and giving me looks that send a shiver down my spine.

Hurry the hell up, Ryann.

My hoodie is still wet and clinging to my small frame, so I turn up the heat despite the warm summer air outside. Shadows dance in the windows of the abandoned shops, tricking my mind into seeing monsters lurking in the dark, waiting to tear me apart. I must zone out because the passenger door suddenly opens, and I yelp in surprise.

My heart nearly leaps out of my chest as my rider slides into the seat next to me, frowning at my reaction, and I’m struck by the most intense hazel eyes I’ve ever seen. Green and gold blending together, swirling like a kaleidoscope beneath shapely dark brows and equally dark hair. Straight, perfect nose. Full lips. A stubbled jawline that could cut glass. All of this attached to a tall, muscled man in a fancy suit who’s looking at me like I’ve sprouted horns.

Holy shit, he’s frickin’ gorgeous. Adonis personified. A god of a man, right here in my passenger seat.

He clears his throat, a deep, rumbling sound that sends a jolt between my legs, and the panic of popping a boner snaps me out of my stupor.

“Sorry,” I squeak, throwing the car into drive and pressing too hard on the gas, causing the SUV to lurch forward.

The angel—uh, the man, Ryann…whatever—huffs in annoyance before grabbing the oh-shit handle. His legs spread to brace himself, and I catch a glimpse of his thighs stretching his pants. Jeez, they’re like tree trunks. Bet he could squeeze my head with those bad boys and pop me like a watermelon.

“Watch the fucking road!” He snarls as the car bounces, and I jerk us back on track just before hitting a mailbox.

Ah, shit.

“Sorry!” I squeak again, my voice still sounding like my balls have retreated into my body, and I slap my chest to get a grip. It’s suddenly way too hot, so I tug on the front of my hoodie to fan myself. From the corner of my eye, I see him watching me like I’m one step away from a nervous breakdown.

Which... might be true.

I’ve found guys attractive before—hell, I’ve watched more gay porn than is probably healthy—but I’ve never actually been with one. I wasn’t exactly popular in high school, and I haven’t left the house much since the Great Graduation Disaster three years ago. Hence the ‘socializing’ therapy homework.

But this man? This...beautiful specimen of masculinity sitting in my dad’s Subaru? I’m fighting the instinct to hump the steering wheel right now. How embarrassing.

I blame the meds. They say SSRIs affect the sex drive, so that’s probably it. I’ll have to call Doctor Iskar tomorrow and inquire further because my virgin ass has never felt this way before.

Eventually, he looks away, and I let out a breath. Weirdly, I kinda want him to look back at me, which is nuts because I’m usually trying to blend into the background. Contradictory to the purple hair, but you can blame my older sister for that.

As he pulls out his phone, I find myself talking without actually hearing the words. “So what’s with the bar you were at?”

Am I hoarse? Why do I sound like a forty-year-old chain smoker?

He doesn’t even look up from his screen as he responds. “What about it?”

Clipped tone. Baritone voice, smooth like honey. A hint of an accent. So frickin’ hot.

“I mean...kind of a sketchy place for someone dressed as nice as you.”

“Sketchy places are good for sketchy activities.”

Well, that’s... not ominous at all.

Cutting him a sideways glance, I lick my lips at his inked forearm. “And did you find what you were looking for?”

There’s a beat of silence, rain pelting the windshield, and I feel his gaze slide to my face again. “No.”

“Oh.” I nod like a bobblehead. “Well, there’s always next time.”

Don’t even know what the hell I’m saying, but look at me, Doc. An entire conversation with someone who isn’t related to me. That’s progress.

He doesn’t reply, only drops his head back with a heavy sigh, and I force myself to keep from ogling. “So, Ryann, huh? Interesting. I’ve never seen it spelled that way before.”

“It’s Irish.”

“Ah, that explains the accent.” Glancing over to switch lanes, I fan myself again. His lap is just the perfect size to crawl into. Curl right up and make a home there, like a house cat. “Did you come from Ireland?”

“Obviously.”

Wow, not much of a talker. I’m not usually one either, but I’m nervous as hell right now, and I turn into a real chatterbox when I’m anxious. Honestly, I hate it. It used to make things worse for me in high school because my brain doesn’t know how to shut up. So I just bite my lip and nod.

After a few quiet minutes, though, he speaks, running a hand through his dark strands. “My family came stateside when I was a kid. We go back every few years to visit.”

“Very cool,” I give him a crooked smile. “My favorite actor is Irish. You know Cillian Murphy?”

He blinks those hazel eyes at me, unimpressed, and the sweat on my neck spreads to my palms.

I try again. “Uh, from the show Peaky Blinders? Inception? Batman Begins?”

Nope, not a single reaction other than a twitch of his lips.

Okay, then. See, Doc, this is why I don’t try because I’m frickin’ weird .

Luckily, we’re pulling up to his destination, and I don’t have to stew in my awkwardness for long. The address leads to a luxury high-rise, and I expect him to hop out here. Instead, he gives me a gate code.

We drive into a parking garage, and I park in his designated spot. As he opens the passenger door, I give a half-wave, relieved to finally escape.

But then he pauses and raises a brow at me. “Are you coming?”

“Wha-huh?” I gape at him in confusion.

Sighing heavily, he tilts his head back before reaching over to grab my junk.

“Do you want to get off or not?”

I jolt with a yelp, glancing down at his hand cupping my hard dick through my sweats. A flush creeps up my neck because, holy shit, I didn’t even realize I had a boner.

Oh, jeez, what the hell?!

“Let’s go.” He climbs out of the car, his tall frame unfolding like some kind of Greek god, easily over six feet. I stare for half a second, watching those powerful legs stride toward the elevator, before my feet kick into gear and I follow, still in a daze.

Holy smokes. Well, Doc, you said I should do something unpredictable and spontaneous, right? Put myself out there?

I don’t think this is what you had in mind, but... here we are.

Fingers crossed it doesn’t blow up in my face.