Hurt to Love: Cillian’s Story Read online

  Hurt to Love

  Cillian’s Story

  Nikki J Summers

  Contents

  Other books by Nikki J Summers

  Author’s Note

  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

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Nikki J Summers

  Author Acknowledgements

  Copyrighted Material

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used for reference only.

  Copyright 2020 by Nikki J Summers

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned or distribute in any printed or electronic form without the express, written consent of the author.

  A CIP record of this book is available from the British Library.

  Cover Design: Sarah Paige at Opium House Creatives

  Editing: Karen Sanders Editing & Book Nook Nuts Proofreading

  Interior designed and formatted by: Irish Ink Publishing

  Stand-alone:

  Luca

  This Cruel Love

  (Jackson’s Story)

  Joe and Ella series:

  Obsessively Yours

  Forever Mine

  All available on Amazon Kindle Unlimited.

  Only suitable for 18+ due to adult content.

  CONTENT WARNING: HURT TO LOVE is a romance novel written in shades of darkness and light. There are mature themes included within the story that may make some readers uncomfortable. This includes: kidnapping, captivity, violence, abuse, post-traumatic stress, bad language and some dark and disturbing scenes.

  Please heed these warnings, and if you’re still intrigued to find out more about Cillian’s story, then enjoy this crazy ride.

  Nikki J Summers

  They think they’ll break me.

  They think I’m weak.

  An eye for an eye they said, but this isn’t my atonement. How can you pay for a sin you never committed? A sin, the depths of which you know nothing about.

  When will enough be enough?

  For eight long, torturous months, they’ve used every evil, fucked-up trick in their books to make me crack and splinter. But I’m not made of glass, transparent and ready to shatter. They think they’ll crush me, but I’m already dead inside. I died on the day they took me, dragging me into the shadows to play with their demons. I’m not even fit to have the title of toy like the others. They call me the dog, but if they think I’ll ever be loyal, they’re wrong. I have teeth, and when the time is right, I’ll bite back.

  They won’t hear my bark.

  They won’t hear anything from me.

  Ever.

  As children, we’re foolishly told that sticks and stones may break our bones, but words will never hurt us.

  I have a new one.

  Take my body, abuse me hour after hour. But with my voice, I hold all the power.

  It’s seven o’clock on a Friday night, and like some sad fucking loser, I’m heading over to my best mate Jackson’s apartment, because I’m starving and I can’t be arsed to do any grocery shopping or go out on my own to eat. That’s what brothers are for though, right? To raid their fridge and watch their big ass T.V. whilst you lounge around on their ridiculously over-priced couch. Well, I say brother. Technically, we aren’t related, but he’s done more for me than any of my blood relations ever have. He’s my brother from another mother.

  Whoever said blood is thicker than water never had a friend like Jackson. He has shed blood to protect me more times than I care to remember. I’d do the same for him in a heartbeat. You see, my story isn’t all moonlight and roses. Riveting, yes. But happiness and contentment, born from an idyllic childhood? Yeah, that’s the stuff of fairy tales. The kind my five sisters loved to watch growing up, probably because we lived in a world that was the polar opposite. Our childhood was brutal.

  My father never had favourites, and he was never sexist. He beat me and my sisters equally when we were younger. That was until I got too big to be pushed around, and then everything changed. I was free of that world. Was I a coward for leaving my sisters to face his wrath alone? Probably, but then I wasn’t given a choice. One day, I was defending them, beating the shit out of my old man. The next day, they were gone, and I was alone. Thirteen-years-old and left to fend for myself. A street-wise kid who was all mouth and bravado.

  If it wasn’t for a chance meeting in an alleyway during those dark times, my life would’ve taken a completely different path. Hell, I probably wouldn’t even be here to tell the tale. But Jackson found me one night, getting the shit kicked out of me by five guys I’d mouthed off to in the local park, and he saved my ass. I was a cocky little shit back then, still am if truth be told. But Jackson never gave up on me. He stood by me when everyone else had turned their back.

  I tried to track my family down. I did everything I could to find my sisters, but it was as if they’d vanished into thin air. I could never get a lead on where they were. So I’d resigned myself to the fact that my family was chosen, not born. That family was Jackson and his new wife, Ryley. He was the older brother I’d always dreamt of growing up. The one who’d fight my dad for me, like a knight defeating the evil overlord. Did I mention I grew up with five sisters? Those fairy tale analogies were ingrained into my psyche, thanks to them.

  Nowadays? My life is more True Crime Channel and less Disney. I wasn’t complaining though. I worked with Jackson at his nightclubs, I had money, and I got what I wanted. And what I wanted right now was some homemade delights, courtesy of Sylvie, Jackson’s part-time housekeeper and full-time surrogate mum. She always left something delicious and home-cooked in his kitchen, and I always loved to eat the fucking lot. It was one of the perks of being his best friend. Plus, I bloody deserved this after the hours I’d been putting in lately.

  I pushed open the door to their apartment and couldn’t keep the smirk off my face as the dulcet tones of my man and Ryley going at it upstairs resonated around the apartment. I knew they were trying for a baby, but Jesus, it sounded like they were trying really fucking hard.

  Nonchalantly, I whistled my way into the kitchen, stepping over the discarded clothes in the living room. Thank fuck they hadn’t decided to go at it on the sofa. That would’ve killed my appetite for sure, seeing his ass on display.

  Just as I’d guessed, Sylvie had left a lasagne and a salad in the fridge. I clicked on the oven, ready t
o heat up the lasagne, and dug straight into the salad with a fork. No need to create more washing-up by using extra dishes, right?

  Minutes later, I heard the kitchen door fly open behind me. I turned around painfully slowly to see Jackson, standing in his boxers, and looking like he was about to knock me out. I grinned at him in greeting and crunched extra noisily on my mouthful of salad, just to piss him off even more.

  “What the fuck are you doing here? You need to stop this, Cill. You should give that spare key back to me.” He glanced back at the door he’d just bulldozed through.

  “What’s your problem, man? You’ve never minded me letting myself in before.” I shrugged, scooping up another fork full. Damn, Sylvie. That woman sure knew her food.

  “You could’ve walked in on something. Ryley could’ve come down here instead of me and been… naked.”

  “I did walk into something, but then I think the whole apartment block could hear you two. You know its great sex when even the neighbours are having a cigarette afterwards. Seriously though, you need to gag her. She’s very… vocal.” I couldn’t keep the smirk off my face seeing how pissed my comments made him. I loved it. He was way too easy to wind up, and winding people up was my jam.

  “What we do in our home is our fucking business. If she wants to scream my name through a megaphone, she can,” Jackson replied as he stalked towards me.

  “Cool it, dude.” I held my hands up in surrender, and to try to calm his predatory ass down. “I couldn’t give a fuck what you do in private. That’s your business. Trust me, if I gave a shit, you’d be the first person I’d give it to. Anyway,” I continued, hoping to steer this conversation away from a confrontational car crash towards a more empathetic, easy-going avenue, “I was just hungry and I never see you guys anymore. I was lonely.”

  I gave him the puppy dog eyes I knew always worked on Ryley. On Jackson? Yeah, that just annoyed him even more.

  “What if Ryley had been doing her yoga? I swear to God, if you ever saw that, I’d have to kill you.”

  He was gritting those teeth of his again like a crazy lunatic. I kept telling him he needed to chill out. He was way too highly strung. If he carried on like this, he’d have a coronary before he reached forty, and that milestone was looming very damn close for my old friend.

  “So, Ryley does yoga. What’s the big deal? I do go to the gym once in a while, you know. It’s not like I haven’t seen chicks do yoga before.”

  “Not like Ryley does it, you haven’t.”

  He was growing redder now, heavy breaths blowing out of his flared nostrils like some kind of savage dragon. It didn’t deter me though. In fact, it spurred me on even more.

  “And how does Ryley do it?” I crossed my arms over my chest and leant up against the kitchen counter. This I could not wait to hear.

  “Naked.”

  I almost choked out the last bit of Sylvie’s salad.

  “Naked?”

  “Yes, naked. In our living room.”

  “Holy fuck, dude. So you just waltz in after a hard day’s work and there she is, doing the downward dog, all ready for you. Fuck. I want one of those.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” He growled, clenching his fists and looking like he was seconds away from pummelling my face in.

  “I want a chick to come and do naked yoga in my living room. I wanna come home to that.”

  Typical Jackson, he took my comment completely the wrong way.

  “You think it’s okay to picture my wife naked and now you want her?”

  “I didn’t say I want her. I said I want that. I want naked yoga.”

  “Who wants naked yoga?”

  Ryley chose that exact moment to waltz into the kitchen, wearing a red satin robe and nothing else. The material clung to every one of her curves, leaving nothing to the imagination. I looked away, busying myself with the temperature of the oven so as not to anger the beast standing next to her.

  “Cill. Why did I even need to ask who?” She grinned, and Jackson snaked a territorial arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him.

  “Baby, you need to go back upstairs. You know what that robe does to me,” he whisper-growled into her ear, but loud enough for me to overhear and get the message. He wanted me gone. He needed his alone time.

  “Don’t be long,” she purred, and he slapped her ass as she sauntered back out of the kitchen. “And don’t eat all the lasagne,” she called over her shoulder to me.

  “Yeah, whatever,” I mumbled, knowing that once I started eating this bad boy, I wouldn’t be able to stop.

  “It’s Friday night, what are you doing here? You’re not gonna find the love of your life hiding out in our apartment, eating our food and watching Netflix. Maybe you could try online dating?”

  What the fuck was Jackson on about? Did he even know me?

  “Online dating? Are you serious?” I cleared my throat dramatically for effect. “Twenty-eight-year-old, six-foot hunk of hotness with a kick ass physique, dark sexy hair, green eyes, fucks like a champion. I’d jam their servers and blow up the internet.”

  Jackson shook his head, but he knew I was right.

  “Perfection like this,” I circled my face with my hand, “needs to be appreciated in the flesh. An online app just wouldn’t cut it.”

  “I think a bit of modesty might be attractive too.” Jackson narrowed his gaze on me. “You need to get out more.”

  He was right; I did need to get out. But not to meet anyone. I just needed to get laid.

  “Fine. I’ll do that.” I fake grinned back at him, overly nodding like one of those dogs in the rear window of a granny’s car, then I rolled my eyes like a teenage girl. “I just need to finish this lasagne first. It’ll give me the energy I’ll need for when the ladies of this city find out I’m out tonight. It’ll give me stamina.”

  Jackson let out a low, deep chuckle, and I gave him a wink and a smirk in return. But my wicked grin hid a pitiful truth. The God awful fact that I was going through a dry spell. The driest fucking spell I’d ever known. Maybe I’d been too focused on work, and keeping Jackson’s plates spinning for him, but my life, my sex life? That was pretty much non-existent. It had to change. There was only so much self-love a man like me could handle without going completely insane. Variety in my sex life these days meant using the other hand. I needed a fucking release, literally, and with a real, live woman.

  “And don’t go to one of our clubs either. You know you’ll end up working instead of relaxing,” Jackson said, giving me a pointed look.

  He knew me too well. I was easily distracted, always. Fish had nothing on me.

  “I won’t. I haven’t been to Club X for a while.” I cocked my eyebrow suggestively and huffed out a smile. “Maybe I need to give that place the pleasure of my company tonight.”

  Jackson rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what kind of ‘company’ that place offered, and headed back out of the kitchen.

  “Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out,” he shouted, and left me to my Italian feast, courtesy of the wonderful Sylvie, and my debased thoughts about what a night at Club X could bring my way.

  Club X was a place unlike any other. Sure, it had the exclusive clientele like other clubs in this city, a strict dress code, and an invitation only policy. But what went on in this club was completely private and tailored to the diverse and somewhat eclectic tastes of its patrons. It was a club that made you sign an NDA before you even got through the fucking door. In short, it was my kind of club.

  The entrance was low key. There were no flashing neon signs to advertise where it was. It didn’t need advertising; it lived off word of mouth. Situated in an old Georgian mansion house on the outskirts of the city, the building itself looked innocent enough, regal almost. But there was nothing regal about this club. It was pure hedonism. Or Sodom and Gomorrah, whichever way you looked at it.

  Two doormen, dressed all in black and wearing ear pieces, were all that stood between me and a night of deba
uchery, courtesy of Club X.

  “Haven’t seen you here in a while,” one of the men said in a bored monotone voice, as he unlocked the reinforced metal door behind him.

  “Let me guess, you missed my sparkling humour and devastatingly handsome good looks?” I smirked back at him, but he didn’t crack a smile. To be honest, I was surprised they’d even bothered to talk to me at all. These two were men of very few words.

  “Like a fucking hole in the head,” the other guy piped up, and then they parted like the red sea, standing to the side to let me through.

  “Fellas, I won’t leave it so long next time.” Condescendingly, I patted them both on the arm then walked past them into the club. “Thanks for the catch up. It was… stimulating.”

  They grunted and closed the door behind me, securing my place in this cocoon of decadence for the next few hours. I wasn’t complaining. An evening partaking in my kind of pleasure would put my world right back on an even keel. Like hitting the reset button. Plus, I needed the anonymity and superficial connection that this club offered; it worked better for me. I thrived on the mystery. And why not? People came here with one expectation. Pleasure. I could deliver that, for sure. Anything else? Well, let’s just say I preferred not to have expectations in any other part of my life. When people expected things from you, they became disappointed. I wouldn’t ever disappoint them again. How could I when my role was to be their clown? It was a role I filled exceedingly well.