There was only one problem.
He’s twice my age.
It didn’t seem to bother him until my world flipped upside down.
Everything changed.
The man I want can never be mine.
Because now… he’s my foster father.
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 permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Copyright © 2021 by A.R. Breck. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Books and Moods
Editing by Nice Girl Naughty Edits
Created with Vellum
Content Warning:
Illicit Hearts and Broken Virtues contains mature themes that might make some readers uncomfortable. Foul language, criminal activity, drug use, physical and sexual abuse are included in this book. People with triggers should read with caution.
Chapter 1
My alarm blares, and I roll over, pulling the chord on my alarm clock so it disconnects from the wall. Tugging the threadbare sheets over my shoulders, I shiver, goosebumps popping along my thighs as the chill in the air seeps beneath the covers.
Fuck, I do not want to go to school today.
Not at all.
I close my eyes, burrowing my head into my paper-thin pillow and roll toward the wall. It’s useless, though, because after minutes of shivering and shaking under my sheets, I realize there’s no way I’ll be able to fall back asleep.
“Screw this.” I whip the sheets back, leaping from my mattress and rush through the tiny apartment, straight into the bathroom. I can barely see my reflection in the mirror as I glance at it, filled with grime and splattered with toothpaste and dots of mascara.
I’m the only one that cleans this place. My mom and her revolving door of boyfriends don’t give a shit whether it’s clean or dirty as long as they have a place to fuck and do drugs. That leaves the housekeeping duties to me, but between school and trying to stay as far away from here as I can, that leaves a small window for cleaning.
I try to close the door behind me, but it bumps against one of my mom’s high-heeled shoes. Kicking it into the hall, I slam the door closed as another shiver works its way up my spine.
I can guarantee our heater is broken again. It’s rarely used here in San Diego, but we have a cold snap this year, and heat is damn well necessary. I asked my mom to call the landlord last week, but she most likely forgot about it. I refuse to call Bo myself. He’s a creep and a pervert, and every time I have him come over to check on something when my mom’s not home, he wants to check something out in my room. With me in it.
Yeah, fuck that.
I whip my tank over my head and tear my shorts down my legs. Turning the knob on the shower, the old pipes in our apartment squeak and groan. It takes a minute, the faucet sputtering before a weak river drips down.
Cold.
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I groan, another shiver making my limbs twitch. I jump in, a cry breaking from my throat as the ice-cold water beats down on my back. I wash my hair and body as quickly as possible, then turn the knob, hopping out and wrapping the towel around me that barely covers my butt.
My life is… less than favorable.
I grew up in San Diego and Los Angeles, hopping from apartment to apartment with my mom. She’s an aspiring actress, though I don’t know of anything she’s acted in besides amateur porn films. I also think she was probably stripping or selling herself for a while, though she firmly denies it. It doesn’t matter; I only have this last year of school until I graduate and I can get out of this shit hole.
Thankfully, I’m her only child. I never had to be a young mom to younger siblings or deal with an asshole older sibling. It was just me and her.
Yeah, my father, or more like sperm donor, couldn’t even be bothered enough to stick around and raise his own child. The moment he realized my mom wanted to suck every penny out of him and get as much child support as humanly possible, he disappeared off the face of the earth. Where he is, I don’t know. Probably dead.
Hopefully dead.
With a shaky sigh, I open the door, the water not even warm enough to slightly steam up the bathroom. I hop over my mom’s mess as I rush back to my room, my towel feeling more like a washcloth as I run through the cool hallway. It scratches like sandpaper against my cold skin. I head to my dresser, pulling out the first outfit that I can find. Not that there’s much in my dressers anyway. Half of the drawers are empty.
Any spare money my mom gets goes to herself and herself alone.
I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt as I glance outside. The palm trees sway in the slight breeze, and a homeless person walks with a Target shopping cart down the road, filled with trash bags upon trash bags of junk.
It’s almost Christmas, so I shouldn’t have such a negative outlook on life. But it’s hard to think positively when I know Christmas will be filled with me by myself and nothing to look forward to. I’ll be lucky if I even see my mom.
With a sigh, I comb through my hair with my fingers and grab my beaten backpack as I make my way through my apartment. If I don’t head to the bus now, I’ll surely end up missing it. And walking the three miles to school is the last thing I want to do.
Chapter 2
“Everyone have a great Christmas break! I’ll see you in two weeks!” Mrs. Holloway says, her eyes already flitting to her phone, and an eagerness in her voice that shows she’s ready to be done with school just as much as all her students are.
The classroom is almost fully cleared by the time she finishes her sentence, but I take my time packing up my backpack. I don’t have anything to do. I go to one of the nicer schools in town, and that means a long bus ride to my apartment before a full night of silence.
I don’t have many friends here. None that I allow to get too close. The friends I have used to be much closer, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve built a wall around me. I have enough shit on my plate, dealing with my mom. I don’t need to add drama of high school to that list.
With my books and pens thrown in my bag, I zip it up, and Mrs. Holloway snaps her head in my direction, a slight blush tinging her cheeks. “Iris, what’re you still doing here? I figured the entire school would be empty by now.”
I shrug my shoulders, a sad smile quirking my lips.
Her face falls. It’s not hard to know about my life. I’m the one who comes to school with the same backpack every year, wearing the same clothes and shoes. Half of the time, I’m flustered, turning in homework with bags under my eyes because my neighbors kept me up all night with their loud music. My life isn’t a cakewalk, and I think everyone around me is completely aware of it.
Mrs. Holloway grabs a pencil and a scrap of paper and starts scribbling on it. “How is everything going at home, Iris?”
I shrug. “Fine.” Adjusting the strap on my backpack, I look out the classroom door. Okay, now I’m really fucking slacking. I really can’t miss my bus. It’ll take me forever to walk home.