Table Of Content
Copyright © 2012 Bad-Boy Storyteller
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1479369667
ISBN 13: 9781479369669
eBook ISBN: 978-1-63001-230-4
“Sometimes you never know who is playing who until the damage is done.”
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Final Chapter
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
To my numerous friends and family members who stood by me during the
creation of Played—even Blueberry.
Prologue
As it plays out in his mind, he can see a rickety, wooden chair holding her
motionless body far from anything normal. Consciousness has mostly abandoned
her, leaving her at the whims of her captor, who moves patiently, circling his
work. The windows are boarded, and the only light glows from a shaded table
lamp, alone in a remote corner. Hope is long forgotten for the young woman as
she slumps naked, exhausted, drained, and resting from her torments. Standing
behind her he studies her body, leaning lasciviously close to her neck,
whispering to her in the silent room.
“Ugly…shameless…deserving.”
A deliberate smile creases his lips as he examines his labors. The bleach-
soaked ropes binding her wrists are now taking their toll, eating into the exposed
flesh fashioned from her struggling. Her mouth is pulled tight and wide, held
with a thin, black belt. Again he whispers.
“No one, not your lying prayers either, will save you…miss you…or ever
care.” Positioned still by her side, partially blocking the light, he pulls something
from his pocket, a chosen implement. With a pop he removes the orange cap
from the filled syringe, and a tiny squirt of liquid shoots into the air that is
teeming with revulsion and excitement.
“You’re a liar…fake.”
Containing his attack and savoring what is next, he sees himself placing the
needle into a crudely positioned IV taped to her arm and pushing the plunger
down. The shot of adrenaline will awaken her suddenly—but not from a bad
dream, rather to more unthinkable nightmares.
“I…I am justified.”
Methodically he has prepared; now he envisions. Her heart pounds from the
drugs and fear. Her body twists and contorts in pools of sweat. For the last time,
she will fight against the restraints, making her final pleas for mercy, begging
through the choking leather, her blood-drenched eyes desperately striving to read
his thoughts. But nothing she can possibly imagine will prepare her for the
hatred within him, driving him. He then stands immobile, clearing his broken
mind of any sanity, putting in order his final assault.
Chapter One
“We are going to take a short commercial break, but stay tuned to Seattle’s
KDEX 103.7 FM: talk radio that listens.” An after-Christmas liquidation
advertisement begins as Sarah Michaels turns down the feed into the well-lit
studio. It’s her place of refuge, where she’s worked for the past seven years
covering all the hot topics of the day from the recession and health care to
obesity in America. For Sarah it also serves as an outlet, an alternative home
where she can disgorge all of her built-up opinions and views of the world’s
problems—her true calling in life. And the success of the show has brought
about not only her picture riding along the bus lines, displaying her short, brown
hair styled around a tiny-featured face, but the renovation of the entire studio.
It’s built like any other, packed with stacks of high-tech components, all
emanating little flashing lights. A large stained-wood desk sits in the middle
with a hefty chrome microphone suspended above it, hanging down from the
ceiling. Underneath she sits in her new leather chair, staring at her schedule for
the day and refreshing her lip gloss.
“T minus ten seconds,” says Howard, the set manager, over the intercom,
waiving his hand, gay as can be, through the glass wall that separates the
operations room from the studio. Sarah smiles through newly glossed lips and
nods her head, assuring him she has it all under control. And in control she is.
Her understanding of the world’s controversial topics is superior to most,
sometimes even surpassing that of the experts that come on her broadcast. And
today, so far at least, her self-confidence is evident in her quick wit and sexy-
smooth voice— the same voice that has elevated ratings to the current estimated
audience of over a million listeners. A red, flashing number three pulses on the
equipment… two…one.
“Welcome back to the Sarah Michaels Show. I hope you missed me,” she
says, and follows with a flirty laugh. She then swiftly announces the time, 11:35
a.m., and gets to the topic of the day. “Our national debt is currently over sixteen
