I sell drugs. Heroin to be specific. And I'm fucking good at my job. Enough to fight my way to the top position, controlling all of Austin's supply.
So what if I had to kill the previous boss to do it. I do what has to be done. Never cared about consequences because I never had anything to lose.
Until I met Miri. My doll. She's my weakness and somehow, my enemies found out about her.
If they hurt her, they will regret the day they ever heard my name. Boss. They call me Boss for a reason. What I say goes, including the price on the heads of anyone who dares to fuck with what belongs to me.
Heather C. Leigh is the author of the Amazon best selling Famous series. She likes to write about the 'dark' side of fame. The part that the public doesn't get to see, how difficult it is to live in a fishbowl and how that affects relationships.
Heather was born and raised in New England and currently lives outside Atlanta, GA with her husband, 2 kids, and French Bulldog, Shelby.
She loves the Red Sox, the Patriots, and anything chocolate (but not white chocolate, everyone knows it's not real chocolate so it doesn't count) and has left explicit instructions in her will to have her ashes snuck into Fenway Park and sneakily sprinkled all over while her family enjoys beer, hot dogs, and a wicked good time.
My favorite authors are Dan Wells, Ken Follett, and Stephen King.
I'm a heroin addict. A junkie. A whore. I'll do anything to get my next fix.
Anything.
Including walking right onto the property of Austin's most ruthless and feared drug lord to beg for some H. I don't know his name, only that people call him Boss. Oh, and that he won't think twice to put a bullet in my head.
But like I said, I'll do anything to get my next fix. Even if it costs me my life.
Or changes it forever.
Review
Excerpt
Fighting the intense, gut-clenching fear, I tightened my grip, using his strong muscles to keep me upright as he washed my feet. The cloth skimmed up my legs one at a time, his hands scrubbing over and over as the foam rinsed away days of dirt and grime. The boss skipped my clothed midsection, straightened to his full height, and repeated the process with my arms, spending extra time on my dirt-caked hands and nails, and the track marks on my arms, only moving on when my skin glowed pink.
Next, he lifted my long red hair off my neck and slid the cloth across the top of my back and shoulders, then around the front to wash the exposed part of my chest where my tank top dipped low. I glanced down as his enormous, bruised and scabbed hands worked over my skin, only then realizing my white tank was completely transparent and I wasn’t wearing a bra. Instinctively, my hands flew up to cover my breasts. He chuckled, a smooth, deep sound so seductive it could easily charm a roomful of people and melt every pair of panties in a five-mile radius.
“A little too late for that, doll. Seein’ as I’ve already got a good look at everything.”
Something about his cocky drawl, the crooked smirk on his face, and that single raised eyebrow felt like a challenge. My courage, boosted by the decadent lull of my best friend, heroin, had me meeting his gaze head-on. Determined to show the boss I wasn’t a cowering scaredy-cat, I fingered the hem, tugged the wet tank over my head, and tossed it to the floor with a loud splat. The man’s eyes widened, which only fueled my desire to make him eat his stupid words. Still staring directly into those sapphire eyes, I stuck my thumbs in the waistband of my shorts and shoved them down, stepped out, and kicked them aside. Completely naked, I stood my ground and raised my own brow in return, hands on my hips.
Our eyes were locked a few more seconds before he threw his head back and burst out laughing. The action made him look years younger than I originally believed. “You are somethin’ else, you know that, doll?”
Instead of answering, I snatched the soapy washcloth from his hand and quickly finished washing my newly exposed skin.
“Here.”
Jerk.
The boss scrambled to catch the cloth I whipped at his chest before turning to storm out of the shower. I yelped when he grabbed me by the arm and yanked me toward him. The blazing heat of his chest was pressed against the bare skin of my back and I trembled from head to toe. The boss held tight and lowered his mouth to my ear.
“First, don’t ever fucking throw shit at me again.” Chills broke out across my skin at his angry threat. “You will not disrespect me in my own house, especially after I fucking took you in instead of killing you the second you set foot on my property. Got it?” When I didn’t answer, he squeezed my upper arms until I whimpered.
“Y-yes. I get it.” I struggled to keep from screaming out of pure terror. What was I thinking? Mouthing off to a drug lord while naked in his shower and a house full of his goons one floor below. I couldn’t possibly be more vulnerable.
After digging his fingers in for another long moment to prove he was in charge, the boss released me and spun me around as he picked up another bottle. “Your hair is fucking disgusting. It needs to be washed.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste and once more, shame flooded me with heat. This man had a way of making me feel as though I was less than human. He held out the bottle, shaking it in my face. “Either you do it, or I do, doll. But you’re not getting out of here until you’ve cleaned the junkie stench off.”
The backs of my eyes stung and my face caught fire. I couldn’t look at him as I took the bottle and poured some shampoo into a shaky hand. He washed himself quickly then stood with his arms crossed over his wide chest as I lathered my hair and rinsed off under the spray.
“Again,” he demanded. I bit my lip to keep from telling him to fuck off and did as I was told.
When the last suds swirled down the drain, the boss was silent as he reached around me and cut off the water. He carefully folded the washcloth, laid it on the edge of the sink, and stepped out of the shower enclosure. He handed me a towel, and picked one up for himself. I tried not to watch as he rubbed the fluffy white cloth over all of those tan muscles, but it was futile. Staring, I was mesmerized by the sight as the boss wrapped the towel around his waist and shucked his wet briefs from underneath. I gulped, knowing he was now naked beneath the soft terrycloth, a mere foot away.
When the silence became uncomfortable, I clutched my own towel to my chest, dug up what little courage I had left, and turned to face him with a huff. “We showered together and I don’t even know your name.”
He quirked that damn eyebrow again and smiled, white teeth gleaming in the middle of his dark designer stubble. If I didn’t know he was a widely feared drug lord and a pushy, high-handed, scary motherfucker, I’d find his expression almost charming.
“Boss.”
“I know you’re The Boss, I want to know your name.”
“My name is Boss,” he repeated. “Or Boss Man. Either one works.” As if he didn’t have a care in the world, as if forcing unwilling women into a shower were an everyday occurrence, he shrugged and brushed a hand through his wet hair.
I rolled my eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me.” This guy was so damn frustrating. He shot me up with H, dumped me in the shower, humiliated me, washed me, but wouldn’t tell me his name. Whatever. I turned my back to him.
Big mistake.
Two large hands wrapped around my shoulders, and I was jerked back against his body once more. Both of us were currently clad only in towels, his slung low around his waist and mine tucked under my armpits. There wasn’t as much skin-on-skin contact as in the shower, but this felt much more intimate. Slowly, Boss spun me around to face him, and I had to muffle a frightened cry. His blue eyes were narrowed to slits, nostrils flaring. The transformation from playful to furious was immediate and absolutely terrifying. For the first time since I’d showed up on his lawn, I was truly, without a doubt, scared shitless.
This man, the one in front of me—so different from the man who laughed in the shower—is what I expected from the drug lord I heard rumors about. Horrible rumors of unspeakable acts of violence. A ruthless man to be respected and feared.
Boss pressed the length of his half-naked body against me, and growled, teeth glinting behind curled lips. “That’s the second time you turned your back on me after mouthing off. I’m only going to say this once more, Miri, so listen carefully.” He lowered his head and his breath ghosted across my neck. I shuddered and a whimper escaped my throat, the result of a horrifying combination of lust and fear. “You are my guest. You snuck onto my property and you’re goddamn lucky I didn’t let Milo shoot you on sight. No, I saved you, took your ass in, gave you your fucking heroin, and washed a couple weeks’ worth of filth and scum off of you using my very expensive body wash that, incidentally, I never share with anyone. I expect you to be grateful for my hospitality and treat me with some goddamn motherfucking respect, got it?” His hands tightened around my arms incrementally as he spoke. His message was quite clear as his touch became more and more painful. I knew his thick fingers would leave bruises on my pale, fragile skin.
Legs shaking, I nearly pissed myself when faced with the lethal side of this man.
“I want to hear you say you understand, Miri.” Boss let go and stepped back until his eyes bored holes into me from beneath heavy brows.
Filled with terror, my heart pounded and my breath caught in my lungs, rendering me speechless. His eyes narrowed, not happy with my silence. Somehow, I managed to choke out two words.
Heather C. Leigh is the author of the Amazon best selling Famous series. She likes to write about the 'dark' side of fame. The part that the public doesn't get to see, how difficult it is to live in a fishbowl and how that affects relationships.
Heather was born and raised in New England and currently lives outside Atlanta, GA with her husband, 2 kids, and French Bulldog, Shelby.
She loves the Red Sox, the Patriots, and anything chocolate (but not white chocolate, everyone knows it's not real chocolate so it doesn't count) and has left explicit instructions in her will to have her ashes snuck into Fenway Park and sneakily sprinkled all over while her family enjoys beer, hot dogs, and a wicked good time.
My favorite authors are Dan Wells, Ken Follett, and Stephen King.
The Broken Doll Series is a dark romance duet about a heroin addict who falls in love with the drug lord holding her captive and drops on September 13th!
Synopsis
I'm a heroin addict. A junkie. A whore. I'll do anything to get my next fix.
Anything.
Including walking right onto the property of Austin's most ruthless and feared drug lord to beg for some H. I don't know his name, only that people call him Boss. Oh, and that he won't think twice to put a bullet in my head.
But like I said, I'll do anything to get my next fix. Even if it costs me my life.
Or changes it forever.
Excerpt
“Don’t worry about the dishes.” Boss’s southern drawl was less obvious this morning, but I still picked up a hint of it here and there. “My housekeeper will take care of them.” He buttoned his jacket, turned to leave the room, and I panicked.
“Wait!”
Boss pivoted until his shrewd gaze landed on me. Once again, when I was the sole focus of those intense blue eyes, my voice failed. His eyebrows rose as if to ask, what the fuck do you want?
I cleared my throat and stood behind my chair, fingers gripping the wood slats. “Ummm, what should I do?” One of my hands found its way into my hair. I wrapped a curl around my finger over and over. “I mean…” I took a quick glance around the huge kitchen. It was incredibly uncomfortable just to be in this stranger’s house, but to be here without him somewhere nearby, knowing other men were all over the place? My anxiety level skyrocketed.
Boss snapped his fingers and a man in a black suit, pressed shirt, and black tie appeared from who knew where, to stand at Boss’s side.
“Boss.”
“Jase, bring Miri back to her room.”
I swallowed thickly. He was locking me back up. The illusion of being treated kindly splintered to pieces as reality sunk in. I wasn’t a guest. I was a prisoner.
“Miri, I have work to do and will be otherwise occupied for a few hours. One of my men is out shopping for some clothes since it seems I have nothing in the house that will fit you.”
I stared at the floor, not knowing what to do. I wanted to scream at Boss for thinking he could lock me up and keep me here, but really, where would I go? I needed H, and Boss was willing to give it to me. It was knowing I had no choice in the matter that had me shrinking back from Jase as he moved to take my arm.
“No!” I stepped away and tensed every muscle in my body, poised on the balls of my feet, ready to bolt.
Boss grimaced, and spoke in a low voice to his man. “Jase, wait here.” Suddenly, a hand clamped tight around my wrist. I was tripping over my own feet to keep up as Boss dragged me through the kitchen and down the hall to the regal staircase.
“Wait! Please, don’t lock me in.”
My plea went unanswered. I dug in my heels when we reached the bottom step. Boss spun around and shot me a glare so dark I nearly passed out from pure terror. The kind man from the kitchen was gone. Boss, the violent drug lord, the bloodthirsty bastard I heard about on the streets, curled his lip in a derisive sneer. Without a word, he grabbed me by the waist and threw me over his shoulder. My head dangled down his back and my long hair obscured my vision.
“Stop!” I curled my hands into fists and pounded uselessly on his backside. “Put me down!”
I may as well have been a fly buzzing around his head for all the good my protesting did. Boss climbed the stairs and stalked into “my” bedroom to rudely toss me onto the bed. I scrambled to my feet before he could shut the door.
“You can’t do this!” Panicked, I struck out and clawed at his neck and face, terrified at the thought of being locked away in this room.
Lightning quick, Boss pinned my wrists in one hand and shoved me down on the mattress, his heavy body holding me in place. I kicked out at him, aiming for his groin while screaming for help. Boss trapped my legs between his thick thighs and hovered over me, his furious face bright red and just inches from mine, welts from my nails standing out in stark relief on his skin.
Boss squeezed my wrists until I whimpered. “Don’t test my patience, Miri. You came to me, you begged me for help, you entered my fucking house. You want more of my drugs? You need to learn how things are done in this world, doll. If you can’t deal with the consequences of your actions, you shouldn’t have started shooting heroin and you most certainly shouldn’t have come here. Now,” he growled. “…this room will be your new home and if you value your life, you will not question a single word I say.” His grip on my wrists tightened to the point I cried out. By now he was so close, our noses almost touched. “Remember, I don’t owe you shit. If anything, you owe me.”
Boss gave me one last terror-inducing glare before releasing me and stepping back. He raised a hand and touched one of the scratches on his neck. When he examined his finger and saw blood, his face darkened.
“That was your one mistake.” He looked down and inspected his clothes. “You’re lucky it didn’t get blood on my suit. Make another mistake and you won’t live to see tomorrow.” Boss spun on his heel, left the room, and slammed the door. The click of the lock sealed my fate.
My mind was filled with so many questions—Why was he doing this? What did he want from me? How long would I be here? But I couldn’t focus long enough to come up with any answers. I was too busy shaking from head to toe, gasping for air and fighting the tears stinging my eyes.
What did I get myself into?
I’d jumped out of Mason’s frying pan, directly into a roaring bonfire named Boss.
Heather C. Leigh is the author of the Amazon best selling Famous series. She likes to write about the 'dark' side of fame. The part that the public doesn't get to see, how difficult it is to live in a fishbowl and how that affects relationships.
Heather was born and raised in New England and currently lives outside Atlanta, GA with her husband, 2 kids, and French Bulldog, Shelby.
She loves the Red Sox, the Patriots, and anything chocolate (but not chocolate, everyone knows it's not real chocolate so it doesn't count) and has left explicit instructions in her will to have her ashes snuck into Fenway Park and sneakily sprinkled all over while her family enjoys beer, hot dogs, and a wicked good time.
My favorite authors are Dan Wells, Ken Follett, and Stephen King.
