Breaking silence a stand.., p.1
Breaking Silence: A Standalone Rockstar Romance (Breaking Love Book 2), page 1
BREAKING SILENCE
L.M. HALLORAN
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2023 by L.M. Halloran.
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.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Photo by Lacey Williams on Unsplash
Editing by Emily Lawrence
lmhalloran.com
CONTENTS
Soundtrack
Trigger Warning
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
★ Stay Connected ★
The Fall Before Flight
Also by L.M. Halloran
About the Author
For the broken hearts that keep beating and those strong enough to love them.
♫ Soundtrack ♫
“Pieces”—Andrew Belle
“Die Young”—Sylvan Esso
“Running Up That Hill”—Meg Myers
“The Maze”—Manchester Orchestra
“Hurricane”—MS MR
“Seventeen”—Sjowgren
“Love is Madness”—Geographer
“You’re Somebody Else”—flora cash
“I Don’t Wanna Be In Love”—Dark Waves
“Waiting Game”—BANKS
“Slip Away”—Perfume Genius
“All For You”—Night Riots
and more…
Listen on Spotify
If you’ve read me before, you know I don’t shy away from serious and oftentimes heartbreaking subject matter. Breaking Silence is no exception. Here’s your warning:
This book contains themes which may be difficult for some readers, including: profanity, drinking and mild drug use, sexual assault*, suicide attempt*, anxiety, and the longterm effects of PTSD.
On a lighter note, our hero, Matt Sullivan, is an irresistible Golden Retriever with BDE. You’re welcome. *wink*
Mature readers only, please.
*offscreen
PROLOGUE
SIX YEARS AGO
I love a good horror film. Bring on the gore and make it realistic. I’m not squeamish in the slightest. With two younger siblings I helped my mom raise, I’ve dealt with my fair share of bodily byproducts, too.
But this… this is making me queasy.
Maybe because it wasn’t kids that made this mess, but grown-ass humans.
Kelly’s mutters of disgust mirror the sentiments in my head as she cleans on the opposite side of the massive living room. Something pink appears in my peripheral as she waves it in my direction.
“Look at this, Sophie!”
Taking a break from mopping vomit off hardwood floors, I look. And promptly wish I hadn’t. There’s a giant dildo in her—thankfully gloved—hand.
Weak sunlight filters through the windows behind her, catching and refracting subtly off the pink rubber. “What’s that all over it?”
Her face scrunches as she examines it. “Looks like glitter. Jesus, I really hope no one…” She trails off, then shakes her head. “You know the only thing I hate about these kinds of jobs?”
My lips twitch at the abrupt shift, which is a staple of her personality. “Scooping shit out of pools?”
She considers, then shakes her head. “That only happened one time. What I really hate is that these jobs break my pink glasses, ya know? Celebrity parties are a different level of gross. It’s like money and fame turn them into rabid animals, and booze and drugs unchain them.”
I smirk. “I think you mean rose-colored glasses.”
“Whatever, yeah.” She tosses the dildo into the giant black trash bag beside her, then looks at her watch. “I’ll finish up in here if you want to start on the bedrooms.”
“You sure?” I ask, glancing from the half-cleaned vomit to bottles on every surface, cigarette butts in plants, a suspicious dark stain on one wall, and a pillow smeared with what had better be whipped cream.
I’m sure the people here last night thought it was a great party, but from this side of things, it looks like an advertisement for rehab.
She grins at me. “Of course. The bedrooms are usually worse.”
I huff out a laugh. “Rude.”
Call me naïve, but I’m not sure how much worse the bedrooms can be. It’s not like I’m going to use a black light or anything, and I’ll be wearing gloves.
“You know my favorite part about this job, though?” Kelly asks as I’m stripping off my gloves for a fresh pair.
I lift my carryall of cleaning supplies. “What’s that?”
“The money, honey.”
We share a grin of complete agreement, though mine fades fast as I turn and head down the hall.
Kelly is paid extremely well, and she deserves every penny. While I’ve been locked into rotating, multiple-job hell the last two years since graduating college, Kelly went after what she wanted right out of high school. She built her company, Kelly Executive Cleaning, from unfailing tenacity and hard work, and has made a name for herself in the right circles.
Kelly would say she owes her success to simple luck—being in the right place at the right time. When she was a struggling twenty-year-old trying to make ends meet, she received a call from a panicking teenager who’d found her cleaning service on Yelp. That teenager happened to be the son of Audrey Fitz, Academy Award winning actress, and he’d been panicking because he’d thrown a party that got out of hand and had trashed his parents’ house while they were out of town.
A one-woman army, Kelly had made his problem go away; at least, the destroyed house part. The kid had forgotten about security videos, which caught some, if not all, of the insanity that night. He’d also forgotten that his parents monitored his bank account. Two days later, Kelly received a call from Audrey herself. She’d seen both the damage and the aftermath and had been seriously impressed.
The rest was history.
These days, Kelly has five employees on her payroll. In addition to her team having steady work at upscale residences and businesses around Seattle, she’s personally on speed dial for some of the biggest names—or rather, their lackeys—in finance, tech, sports, and entertainment.
When the rich throw parties, especially in rented houses, Kelly makes it look like they never happened.
The only reason I’m here is because we were together last night, enjoying margaritas at our favorite Mexican place, when a call came in from a harried PA whose client needed immediate cleaning in the morning. The offered price: $400/hr.
With a gleam in her eye, Kelly had accepted, then promptly told me I’d be joining her. When I’d laughed her off, she’d said “pretty please” with a face I couldn’t resist, then told me her other staff were all booked, the house was three-thousand square feet, and she didn’t want to do it alone… and I’d take home a thousand dollars for five hours of work. When I still wasn’t completely swayed, she said she’d pay me under the table.
There were a million other things I could, should, be doing on my only day off this week, but she knew—and I knew, even though she’d never rub it in my face—that I needed the money more than I needed to catch up on sleep and errands.
Sighing, I stretch my already sore back and trudge upstairs and down a dim hallway to the closed double doors at the end, figuring I might as well start with the biggest room and work my way back.
My mind floating between where the money will go—bills first, the rest to my mom—I push open the doors and blink into the darkness. I fumble on the wall for a switch but come up empty. Shifting to allow ambient light from the hallway past me, I spy the distinct outline of a bed and a nightstand with a lamp.
Despite my brain informing me the master suite, while obscenely large and dark, is empty of threats, my heart rate doesn’t care. For a few seconds, I consider fetching my cell phone from downstairs and using the flashlight to find a light switch. I also eye the distant curtains—blackout, floor-to-ceiling—but making the trek to them feels impossible. Not to mention I’d s
Suck it up, idiot. You’re being ridiculous. You’re not some weak, snivelly kid.
The pep talk isn’t effective, and my panting has fogged up my glasses. I take gulps of air that thankfully don’t make me gag. Faint alcohol fumes mix with an even fainter hint of oceany cologne. No vomit, at least.
You can do this. Go, go, go.
I drop my supplies by the door and force my feet to walk fast toward the closest side of the bed. My eyesight continues to adjust, proving what a loser I am: the room is clearly uninhabited and not even that messy. There are some blobs on the floor that I’m guessing are clothes and shoes, and the king bed’s comforter is piled up on one side. The main debauchery definitely took place downstairs.
My fingers fumble with the lamp, but I can barely feel anything through my cleaning gloves. My glasses slip down my nose. With a huff of annoyance, I strip off my gloves and continue my search for the elusive switch. There’s no little plastic dial at the bottom of the bulb, no switch around the square base.
I should have gone for the damn curtains.
“Fucking rich people lamps,” I mutter, running my fingers down the chord, trying to find a rotating mechanism.
Then I hear it. A rustle of bedding right beside me.
I freeze.
My neck cracks as I turn my head toward the bed. My sight is abruptly enhanced—thanks, adrenaline—and I see the white comforter move. As I watch, a muscled, tattooed arm snakes out from beneath it and reaches for me.
My muscles tremble, unwilling to obey my commands to run. I can hear my breath, harsh and panting, but my mind is oddly quiet. Fawn response, some deep, rational part of me observes.
A tanned hand moves closer, fingers searching, reminding me of Thing from The Addams Family. A tiny squeak escapes my throat as it finds my hip, sealing onto me like a monstrous suction cup.
“There you are,” comes a deep, sleepy rumble.
The rest happens fast.
The comforter lifts and so does the beast beneath it. I’m tugged forward, a thick arm snaking around my ass, another hand spinning me in place. A second later, I’m hauled into hot darkness, my back to his front.
There’s too much of him, too much happening—the searing rope of his arm around my middle, his legs rising beneath mine, the distinct press of an erection against my ass.
It’s my worst nightmare come true.
“Why’re you dressed?” he murmurs, thrusting gently against me. Another squeak bypasses my closed throat as warm lips find my bare neck beneath my ponytail. He breathes deeply, then stiffens into an unmoving rock behind me.
“Julia?” His voice is clear now. Awake.
All I can do is shake my head.
“Fuck!” He scrambles backward, all the way across the bed. There’s a huge thump as he falls off the side and hits the floor.
My muscles finally unlock and I gasp, then rocket off the bed and sprint for the door. Tears of relief bead in my eyelashes.
His raised voice floats after me. “Oh my God! Wait—I’m sorry! Who are you? What the fuck is happening right now!”
I fly down the stairs and don’t stop running until I reach the kitchen, where Kelly is loading the dishwasher. She glances up at me as I round the island and the blood drains from her face.
“Jesus, Soph! Are you all right? What happened?” She grabs my arms. Her mouth keeps moving, but I can’t hear her over the dull roar in my ears and the crashing of my nervous system. All I can do is shake my head and point over my shoulder.
She looks up and stills, her gaze locked on the entrance to the kitchen, at a height I numbly realize means he must be standing there.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, deep voice dripping with remorse. “It was dark. I thought she was my girlfriend. Fuck. What can I do? Is she okay? Who even are you people? Did Phil hire you?”
Kelly’s expression turns nuclear as it shifts back to me. “What did he do?” Her voice is calm, but rage burns in her eyes.
I swallow and force out, “Nothing. Honest. He just surprised me.”
She scans my face, my hair, then takes stock of the state of my clothes. What she sees, coupled with how long I was gone, softens the dangerous glint in her eyes. With a firm but gentle hand, she guides me behind her. I’m four inches taller than her, but her show of protection makes something in me relax.
“Our apologies, Mr. Sullivan,” she says with false cheer. “We were contacted last night and given the code to get in. Obviously, we were under the impression no one would be here.”
I feel his eyes on me, and I can’t help glancing up. I almost choke at the sight: he’s just as tall as I thought, around six-four, and tattooed liberally from his neck to his feet. Dark, intricate ink meets the waistband of his black boxers, which do absolutely fuck-all to obscure the natural size of what’s beneath them. My eyeballs burn and I jerk my gaze back up to mussed blond hair and a face that is known the world-over since his band’s rise to superstardom four years ago.
Matt Sullivan.
Lead guitarist for the indie rock sensation, Breaking Giants.
Smoky blue eyes sear mine. “Are you really okay?”
I nod, a jerk of my head.
His attention shifts to Kelly. “Give me five minutes to get dressed and I’ll get out of your hair.” His gaze flickers back to me, snagging on the dark ponytail draped over my shoulder. Suddenly, his voice lowers and hardens. “Are we cool? Or do I need to call a lawyer?”
Kelly bristles but glances at me. “It’s up to you.”
“No,” I whisper, then say more clearly, “No.” I can’t seem to look at him, so I focus on Kelly. “It was my fault.”
She opens her mouth, but he speaks first.
“The hell it was.”
I’m so surprised by the impassioned tone of his voice that I look at him with wide eyes. His nostrils flare like he’s angry, but oddly, I somehow know that whatever he’s feeling has nothing to do with me, but rather with my reaction to him.
He takes a deep breath, his voice gentling, “I’m really sorry I scared you. You did nothing wrong. The room was dark. You thought no one was there, and I’m the asshole who grabbed you.” He pauses. “You can kick me in the balls if you want.”
I blink. Kelly snorts.
Matt smiles, a slow grin full of mischief and challenge that makes his eyes sparkle and transforms him from some ethereal superstar into someone real. My lips twitch involuntarily in response.
“Thanks, but that won’t be necessary,” I manage, my voice still weak but firm.
“Okay, well, the offer stands if we ever run into each other again. Sorry again. I’ll leave through the garage. Give me five.” He turns and strides away, giving us an eyeful of his muscled back and its large, unfinished tattoo, a vibrant waterscape: stormy skies and sea, a Viking longboat, sea serpent, sirens on rocks…
A tattoo I recognize.
Because I drew it.
1
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this?”
I roll my eyes and settle back onto the tattoo bench, adjusting the pillow under my head until I’m comfortable. My right arm is stretched over a padded surface perpendicular to my body, and my brother Josh stares down at my blank inner bicep like it’s gold.
“Quit drooling and get to work,” I tell him on a yawn. “My shift starts at one.”
