Dark Ties: Broken Saints Society 1 Read online

  Dark Ties

  Broken Saints Society 1

  Leia Thorne

  Copyright © 2019 by Leia Thorne

  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.

  Contents

  Quote

  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

  About Leia Thorne

  Beneath the broad tides of human history there flow the stealthy undercurrents of the secret societies, which frequently determine in the depth the changes that take place upon the surface. ~A. E. Waite

  Prologue

  Remi

  Five robed individuals surround me in the dimly lit room. The robes are dark-gray and intimidating. Alarming, honestly. Concealing the people who I’ve learned to trust. I know they’re masked behind the robes, their features hidden by the cloak of darkness, but it’s not enough to quell the fear.

  I stand amid the circle of Broken Saints. Candles casting tall shadows on the walls. A white blanket on the floor beneath my feet.

  I’m naked.

  Their eyes rake my exposed flesh.

  This is my initiation.

  When I’ve said my pledge, when I’ve revealed my deepest, darkest secret, I will become one of them. Welcomed into the circle of the elite. A member for life.

  One of the robes steps forward. “You, Remi St. James, have been invited into the sanctum of our trust. The secrets we share here tonight must forever remain hidden, veiled to the world outside these walls.”

  I recognize his voice, and a quiver of apprehension skitters down my back. This is the boy with the beautiful pale-blue eyes that drink me in, that I get lost within. The boy with the slanted, devious smile, the pop of dimples, and unearthly beauty that casted a spell over me my first week at Brighton.

  Now, he’s my judge.

  The urge to cover my breasts rises up within me, but I tamp it down, suppressing the shameful need to shield my body before him.

  “By pledging to the society, you swear to protect our secrets, to honor our traditions, and to place the members of the Broken Saints above all others.” He steps closer, and I swallow. “Do you swear it?”

  My heart knocks painfully against my rib cage. A thunderous boom detonates inside my skull. The moment of no return. My mouth parts, and I say the words…the only words that will break the endless, downward spiral that has claimed me for seven months…

  Chapter 1

  Gage

  Dr. Callahan clears his throat, prompting me to answer his question. I stare at the ceiling, the little white popcorn balls, forcing him to repeat himself. I know how much he hates doing so.

  “How do you think our sessions are going, Gage?”

  “Fine,” is all I say. He also hates my clipped responses.

  His office walls are covered with doctorates and accolades. A picture of his family displayed on his desk. He’s a renowned family psychiatrist, and yet he can’t afford to redo his old-ass ceiling? Or maybe that’s the point; he’s so invested in his work, in his patients, that he has no care for trivial things such as ceilings.

  I feign a heavy breath. “The truth is, Dr. Callahan, I feel like I’ve reached a plateau in my therapy. I don’t think I’ll ever get to the next level.”

  “Come now, Gage. There has to be something you’re excited about? It’s your senior year. This time is all about change and growing.” He glances at his watch. He’s about as invested in me as I am these sessions.

  Time to pull the plug. Stop wasting both our time.

  “Now that you mention it,” I say, sitting forward in the leather therapy chair. “There is this new girl at school…”

  “Gage,” he interrupts, voice stern. “I thought we agreed that romantic relationships shouldn’t be pursued until you’ve been in therapy for at least six months.”

  “Right.” I hang my head, then peek up at him through my wire-framed glasses. Twist my lips into a slanted smirk. “It’s just so…hard”—I stress—“being celibate. Even the word makes me ache.”

  I watch as his fingers curl tight around the notepad on his lap. He tries not to look at me. “Let’s explore that.”

  Yes, doctor. Let’s explore.

  How I ended up in this perv’s therapy room: I was caught with Ms. Ramsey in the lab between first and second block. Her black panties around my neck. Her thighs, too.

  Principal Barton made an example of Ms. Ramsey. Teacher-student relations of a sexual nature are seriously prohibited. She’s no longer teaching at Brighton Saints—or anywhere else, for that matter—and me?

  Well, I was a legend before I nailed the hot science teacher.

  There’s a joke in there somewhere about chemistry…

  But, as my father’s donations to Brighton would be sorely missed, Principal Barton decided it must have been the influence of a disturbed adult, and maybe—just maybe—I had a slight sex addiction.

  It was my third infraction since the start of senior year.

  My father’s lawyer agreed that therapy would set things right, and I was remanded to Dr. Callahan’s after-school sessions for the duration of my senior year. The three days a week that I’m stuck here is cutting into my extracurricular activities.

  The first afternoon in Dr. Callahan’s chair, I had him pegged. He wanted me to “talk” about the experience. A lot. Share the untoward, in-depth details of what is what like to fuck my science teacher. Then he wanted us to explore those details again.

  I know his type. Oxford button-up fastened all the way to meet his choking cornflower-blue tie. His simple yet expensive suit unassuming. He’s made a name for himself saving affluent troubled youths—but what gives someone like him the drive to do so in the first place?

  He gets off on it. That’s what.

  “Have you been experiencing wet dreams?” he asks. I can almost hear his excitement, the way he licks his dirty, old man lips after the question.

  Technically, he’s not that old. 40-ish, maybe. But older than I aim for.

  “No,” I say, “but I have been beating off a hell of a lot more. I just can’t seem to get satisfied. What’s wrong with me?”

  He leans forward. “Nothing is wrong with you, Gage. You’re a healthy young male. It’s perfectly normal for your hormones to be this active. We just need to resolve your lack of impulse control.”

  “Like fucking my science teacher over her desk in the middle of the day?”

  He clears his throat. “Exactly.”

  “She wanted it,” I fire back.

  His head tilts. “No one’s arguing her irresponsibility in this.”

  “So I should find a more acceptable place to stick my dick?”

  He wipes his brow. “That’s not what I’m saying—”

  “I can tell when someone is attracted to me.” I ease to the edge of the seat, unfasten my blazer button. “I can almost smell the pheromones in the air. Attraction gives off this sweet scent. Like icing on a cake; I can taste it on my tongue.”

  He blinks. “Gage…are you aroused right now?”

/>   I push the heel of my hand against my crotch, situating myself. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  He leans in closer. “Don’t be. Like we’ve discussed, erections can happen at any time, when least expected. Even when not stimulated. It’s what—”

  “It’s what I do about it that matters,” I finish his sentence. Then I give him my most seductive, wry smile. The one I used on Ms. Ramsey. The look that makes every girl at Brighton Saints squeeze their thighs together. “God, it hurts.” I rub my crotch harder. “Maybe if it just wasn’t so big…”

  I lower my zipper.

  “Jesus… Gage. What are you—?” But his words die as I unleash my cock.

  I give the shaft a hard squeeze. “I just need to release the pressure. I’ve been so stressed out, Dr. Callahan. And this feels so good. Stroking my cock…”

  I watch the hard dip of his Adam’s apple as I slowly stroke my shaft all the way up to the head. He knows this is bad—so very bad. Technically, though, it’s not illegal. I’m eighteen. But it’s morally unsound. He’s a professional in charge of my mental health.

  But just like every other person in my life, when it comes to what I want, they fold. Or bend over desks. If I walked right up to him now and shoved my dick in his mouth, he’d suck me off with happy tears in his eyes.

  “Damn…that feels so good.” I bite my lip, playing my highlight reel in my head. Sawyer undressing in front of her window last night, teasing me the way she does. I imagine grabbing her by her pretty little throat and shoving her down on the bed…

  “Dr. Callahan…should I finish? Oh my, god… I need to come.”

  “Yeah…yes. Finish,” he stutters out.

  “Ah… Fuck—”

  I come. Hard.

  Hot seed spills over the top of my hand. When I open my eyes, Dr. Callahan is so still, I wonder if he had a heart attack. His mouth is parted, eyes unblinking. I think I see drool leaking down his chin.

  I reach for the box of tissues on the end table. After I clean myself up, I stand and fasten my slacks, then button my dark-blue uniform blazer. I walk toward the doctor, and he finally awakens from his trance.

  “Gage, please sit back down.”

  “No. I think that should complete our session for the day.” I stop before him, forcing him to look up at me. “Matter of fact, I think I’m cured, doc. Why don’t you jot that down in my file?”

  Now that the show is over, his senses return. He’s all business again. “If anything, I’d say that…display proves you’re far from treated. Sit back down.”

  I was hoping he’d be more appreciative. I’m sure none of his other patients give him this much enthusiasm in sessions. But it always comes down to pride with adults. Threaten their reputations.

  I pull out my phone and double tap the home button, bringing up the recorder. I play back a few seconds of the recording—the perfect place where he tells me to finish myself off.

  “Damn, would’ve been even better with video, huh?” I say, tucking the phone away. “But I’m sure this will be enough to prove unethical doctor-patient blah blah. What’s it called?” I shrug, using the tissue to wipe off my other hand. “Regardless, malpractice suits are a bitch.”

  “You little bastard.” He’s shaking now, his face blanched.

  I ball the tissue and stuff it in his breast pocket. Then say, “Full release of sessions. Today. Thanks, doc.”

  As I leave his office, I wink at the receptionist on my way out. I push outside, my glasses tinting to adjust to the bright afternoon, and spot Sawyer seated on the trunk of my black Audi convertible. Short plaid uniform skirt hiked up her thighs, long legs crossed, as she plays on her phone.

  I shove my hands in my pockets and head toward her, thinking about my very last session with Dr. Callahan. Impulse control. The fucking nerve. I’m the epitome of control.

  Here’s the deal: I have a quota to meet.

  There are only three kinds of people in this world. Worker bees, royals, and elites.

  Dr. Callahan is a worker bee. Sure, he might be a high-achieving little bee, making a comfortable life for himself. But with one threat to expose his secret, all of his pseudo power was stripped away.

  Ever wonder why the leaders of the world and politicians (the royals) are so cruel and corrupt? That’s because somewhere along their timeline, someone plucked them out, dusted them off, and gave them an opportunity.

  The trade? Their soul.

  Their lives were followed closely, select individuals placed in their path, their secrets revealed and recorded. So that later, when they were given a position of power, the elites could pull the strings. They are the puppet masters. Law changes. Tax breaks. Complete access and control over government and economic wealth.

  The cost if the royal didn’t own up to their end of the bargain? Well, you’ve seen the click bait. Presidents and their mistresses. Embarrassing college photos surfacing. Even more dangerous, sinister secrets ruining careers and tarnishing reputations.

  Most assume that people are chosen for these elite secret societies in college. They’re half right. Skull and Bones. Seven Society. Illuminati. The list goes on. But honestly, by this time, it’s already too late to mold an elite. That’s why so many leaders are shot down in flames.

  No, the truly elite—the ones with the real power—are selected well before college. They’re tasked with a mission, and if they prove themselves worthy…

  Let’s just say, the world is their oyster.

  How do I know this?

  I’m a legacy.

  As I approach Sawyer, she peeks up at me through strands of platinum-blond and snaps her pink bubble gum. “Did you handle it?” she asks, going back to her phone.

  “Yeah. I handled it”—I laugh—“ironic way of putting it.”

  She looks up and sneers. “Gross, Gage. Don’t tell me you wanked off the pervy doc.”

  Now annoyed, I push her knees apart and shove my hips between her thighs. “That would turn you on, wouldn’t it?”

  Her too-beautiful features shift into an amused expression. She spreads her legs wider, walks her fingers up my chest. “Maybe. I always thought Dr. Callahan was attractive. In that authoritive way. I can just envision him panting, trying not to enjoy himself… Oh, the torture he’d be in.”

  I roll my eyes. Sawyer had sessions with him last year. Her parents’ divorce.

  “Too bad he’s not into chicks.” I grasp her hand as it nears my neck. “I’m sure you could’ve gotten us both out of therapy forever.”

  She sniffs hard and pulls her hand free of mine. “So how you’d get out of it?”

  I lean in close to her ear and whisper the naughty tale. Her breathy laugh tickles my cock, arousing me all over again.

  “You did not,” she says, a dare in her sea-green eyes.

  “I did.” I slip a finger beneath her tank top strap, pulling the top away to get a peek. “Want to finish me off properly in the backseat?”

  Her amused expression falls. She slaps her top closed against her chest. “I’m not one of your sluts, Gage. Come on.” She pushes me back and slides off the trunk. “Rush scored some molly. I told him we’d meet up at the treetop.”

  I watch her saunter her sexy little saunter to the passenger-side of my Audi. She pulls her blond layers up into a ponytail, and my pants tighten. “Hell, Sawyer. What’s a man have to do?”

  Her laugh floats to my ears, and I curse as I yank out my keys.

  No, Sawyer isn’t one of my sluts. She’s my best friend. As twisted and devious as me since grade school. And she’s been teasing me nearly just as long. She views sex as power. Her reasoning is, if we ever have sex, she’ll lose her control over me, and I’ll lose my respect for her.

  This is true on both accounts.

  But that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun with the game.

  “One day I’m going to get you in my backseat,” I tell her as I slip behind the wheel.

  She drops her sunglasses over her eyes. “One day, dear frie
nd, is a cold day in hell.”

  I crank my car, nearly blowing a load all over again at the sweet purr of the engine. I have plans for this year. Big plans. And Sawyer is a part of them. “Buckle up, baby. Hell is about to freeze over.”

  Chapter 2

  Sawyer

  The treetop isn’t really some dinky tree house club, despite what Gage’s stupid name for it implies. In the affluent suburb of Crescent Valley, there are only so many places we can “hang out”. None of them affording any privacy.

  There’s the mall. Which most of my cheerleader friends like to go nearly every day. But there’s only so many Starbucks a girl can drink. I don’t need the calories, thanks. Then there’s Dylan’s Jukebox, a safe club, where underage kids can mingle. The town made sure that Friday night was no alcohol night (rad! #sarcasm).

  We still go sometimes, during breaks, when college is out and Palmer and I can scope out college guys. But mostly, this sleepy little town offers nothing for us. It’s a transitional place. Educate, mold and shape, then move on to Ivy League, then to Mommy and Daddy’s business in the city.

  That’s why Gage decided we needed our own place.

  He declared himself the leader, or king, or head douche (as I sometimes like to call him), way back in sixth grade. I let him flaunt the title, quoting my mother and the only piece of advice she gave me worth a damn:

  Let men think they’re in charge, sweetie. Every queen had to suck a king’s dick to get things done.

  Yeah, she won’t win any mother-of-the-year awards, but unfortunately, that’s the way the world has been since the dawn of fucking time.

  Gage parks at the diner, his usual parking space. We could park at the treetop’s parking garage, but it’s better not to raise suspicion. The treetop is one of two penthouse suites at the top of Leighton Tower.