Pretty Stolen Dolls
Pretty Stolen Dolls
Copyright © 2016 Ker Dukey and K Webster
Editing: Word Nerd Editing
Formatting: Champagne Formats
Cover Design: K Webster
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments from Ker Dukey
Acknowledgements from K Webster
Note from Ker and K,
Pretty Stolen Dolls
has themes that some may find offensive. If you’re a sensitive reader please read with caution.
We ask that you please take care when sharing your reviews, and hopefully enthusiasm for this title, to not spoil any parts for others. Thank you for choosing to read this book and we hope you enjoy every chapter.
For all our stolen, lost, broken, damaged, hurting, wounded, dirty, and pretty dolls out there.
Miss Dukey had a concept that was sick, sick, sick.
So she called K. Webster to come quick, quick, quick.
Webster came with her smirk and evil mind,
And she said, let’s give them a book that is one of a kind.
So they teamed up together with plots, plots, plots.
With darkness and passion there would be lots, lots, lots.
As they wrote, sinful, dark, and some filthy muck,
They agreed their readers would call them twisted as fuck.
We love you guys.
Jade
Eighteen years old…
D
ADDY ALWAYS TOLD US TO
be careful. Not to talk to strangers, no matter how friendly they appeared. To question everyone. With two naïve little girls growing up in a wicked world, he wanted to educate us and explain the evil that ran rampant on the news channels. He forced us to watch the happenings of the world far from what seemed like our own, educating us on the beasts walking the earth with faces just like ours, just like his—even in middle America. We lived on a quiet street in a quiet neighborhood in a quiet town, but that didn’t mean the monsters of the world weren’t always lurking.
They’re everywhere,
he said,
not just in the shadows.
He wanted us to perceive the world with narrowed eyes and closed hearts.
And so I did. I’m my daddy’s girl, through and through—a skeptic by nature. Suspicious. Standoffish. Untrusting. I heeded his instructions to the letter and kept my sister and I both safe.
Until I didn’t.
Until the day my world spun, turned on its axis, and everything was stolen from
us.
Or should I say, until
we
were stolen from the world.
Four years ago, I let my guard down for one man. I allowed the curious girl within me to forget the most important message our dad taught us:
not all monsters hunt in the dark
. Dropping my constant guard for the attention of soft, golden brown eyes and a crooked smile, the walls I held strong, weakened, stealing my equilibrium and sending my hormones into chaos. At fourteen years old, I was weak in the knees for a man much older than me.
Benny.
At least, that’s the name he told me. He lied about that…
he lied about everything.
Benny’s Pretty Dolls.
I relive that day over and over, fantasizing a different outcome, but I always end up here. My heart still stammers at the memory of first seeing him. I’ll never forget that day.
My feet are sore. I should have worn my other sandals like Macy. She skips ahead through the narrow, crowded aisles of the flea market, stopping to gush over anything remotely shiny along the way. How she can be so energetic in this heat astounds me, but that’s our Macy—full of life and openly sharing it with the world. Sweat trickles down over my lip and the burst of salt stirs over my tongue, reminding me how thirsty I am. My dress sticks to my damp flesh like an extra layer of skin. It’s somehow hotter under the shelter of the tents versus the blazing, unforgiving sun. I swipe away the sweat on my upper lip with the back of my hand and send a nasty glare to one of the grown men with an overhanging tummy, flicking his hungry gaze over my younger sister while licking his fat lips and adjusting his slacks. Pig.
We need to leave.
I’m worried like Daddy taught me. My heart thunders in my chest with the need to drag my sister back home where Momma is expecting us for supper in the next half hour.
Of course, Macy won’t be deterred easily.
Always curious, smiling, and eager to know the world.
The flea market is the highlight of her week and the only freedom outside the perimeters of our street Daddy allows us to have. Every Saturday, she clutches the dollar she earned from helping with random chores around the house and pines over the items she can’t afford before settling on a simple toy within her price range, which she will later break or lose and I will have to replace with something of my own to stop the tears she will shed.
As for me, I’m the saver.
Each and every dollar.
Just like Daddy taught me.
One day, I want to go to one of those big cities we always see on the TV shows Momma watches and find those lurking monsters. I’m going to be a policewoman and protect more than just my sister.
I’m not impulsive or rash.
I can wait.
Unfortunately, my sister can’t.
“Oh my goodness, Jade,” she says with a squeal, sending a bright smile in my direction, which reflexes my own at her excitement. “Look how beautiful they are.”
I bare my teeth at the man with the potbelly and salacious grin who happened to be walking in the same direction as us for the last ten minutes. He watches my sister as she bends over to pick up a doll from the table. When he notices my death glare, he has the sense to look ashamed and turns away.
“Twenty-eight dollars,” she murmurs, a twinge of sadness in her voice.
Jerking my attention to my sister, I smile when I see the doll. It’s a twelve-inch porcelain doll with silky chin-length hair and wide hazel eyes—an exact replica of Macy.
“Oh,” I gush, “she’s beautiful, but too expensive. Pick something else, Macy.”
Macy frowns and nods before setting the doll back down on the table. We’re just about to walk away when a voice halts us.