Page 1 of Broken Doll (Dirty Doll Ops #1)

T he last time I got dragged out of a sex club, I came.

This time, I might die.

My stiletto snaps like a wishbone as the human refrigerator yanks me backward through Malvagio's fire exit, his grip so tight I'll be wearing his fingerprints as jewelry tomorrow.

If there is a tomorrow.

And no one moves a muscle or bats an eye at the spectacle of a woman getting pulled from the club because this place specializes in dangerous, kinky shit for people who need extremes to get off.

No joke, Malvagio is one of those places that embodies the Fight Club motto, if you know what I mean.

You have to be invited to get in and you don’t fuck up by losing your invitation because you’ll never get another.

But hot damn, once you’re in, it’s a smorgasbord of kink from every angle.

Like to gag on a cock while a masked person shoves a carrot in your ass and then pulls it out and makes you eat it?

Sure, no problem. Want to get your pussy licked while simultaneously gagging on a meat missile big enough to choke a horse?

Line up, baby.

BDSM, role play, water sports —you name it, it’s on the menu.

Except kid and animal stuff.

That’s where the owners draw the line.

Anything else? Freefall into debauchery, sweetheart.

But therein lies the rub…

no one’s gonna help me because they probably think I’m into whatever’s about to happen.

Some might say, this is a problem of my own making.

And to them, I’d say, touche .

His face flashes in the neon—granite-hard and emotion-free, the kind that screams government payroll—before my head cracks against brick.

The alley wall exfoliates my bare shoulders, shredding my three-thousand-dollar dress that had already done its job getting me into VIP rooms and between Derek's sheets.

Holy fuck, since when did government goons start snatching civvies from sex clubs? And for what? This is some fucked-up shit and I want no part of it.

I kick out with my good heel, aiming for his crotch. Amateur move. He slams me back, forearm crushing my windpipe with surgical precision. The kind of pressure that says he's done this to people who matter a helluva lot more than me.

"Ms. James," he says, voice like bourbon poured over broken glass.

"We can do this quietly or we can do this loudly. Your choice, but the outcome remains the same."

He knows my name.

Not "Dollface" or "Candy" or whatever bullshit alias I fed club patrons between martinis and blow.

My actual, driver's-license name that belongs to a woman who has to pay her taxes and wear a seatbelt.

Well, fuck.

My pulse jackhammers against his forearm. I taste copper—blood, fear, or that shitty lipstick I stole from Sephora, who knows. The alley reeks of piss and Dior Sauvage, the universal scent of men with something to prove and money to waste.

"Super original dialogue, Agent Asshole. Did you practice that in the bathroom mirror for your audition reel?” I spit the words through teeth clenched tight enough to crack. Smart mouthing men who could kill me has always been my favorite form of foreplay.

He shakes me hard. “Watch your mouth, little girl.”

“Ohhh, misogyny, the icing on the cake. Where's Derek?” I rasp against the forearm. My perverted wingman, partner-in-crime is nowhere that I can see and I’ve seen enough movies to know that that’s a bad sign.

My captor flicks his gaze toward the street. "Mr. Klein is... preoccupied."

The metallic click of a car door echoes off the bricks, and suddenly we're not alone. A second man—taller, slimmer, moving like a shadow—approaches. He carries something. Someone .

Derek's limp body dangles between them like a drunk prom date, his favorite Armani tie—the blue one I teased him about paying too much for—gagging his mouth. Blood trails from his nose to his chin in rivulets that look black in the alley's dim light. His eyes roll back, finding mine, wide with terror and confusion.

Derek and I have been through some shit—club bouncers with wandering hands, a jealous husband who tracked us to Chateau Marmont, that weird cult thing in Palm Springs—but nothing like this.

Never this.

He's the only person who knows the real me, not the sanitized version I show Isaac or the hypersexual caricature I perform at Malvagio. I guess you could call him my friend but I never really thought that deep about it. All I know is that it’s all sorts of fucked up that whatever is happening isn’t anything either of us asked for.

One minute we’re having a blast —Derek’s getting sucked off by a chesty blonde and I’m taking it from behind by a guy with the biggest cock I’ve ever had —like I said, good times, and the next, we’re getting dragged out the back door like international criminals with plans to off the president in our emails.

"What the fuck did you do to him?" My voice doesn't sound like mine—more scared girl than smartass. I hate it. "If you hurt him—" That’s when panic hits. Not for me—I’ve always figured I’d go out in some spectacular, newsworthy fashion—but for Derek.

Then I see it. A gap between Granite Face and the wall. Just wide enough for someone my size.

I slam my elbow into his solar plexus—a dirty club trick I learned from a bouncer who liked me on my knees—and twist out of his grip. My remaining heel hits pavement and I'm running, blood rushing in my ears, adrenaline making me faster than I've been since high school track.

Three steps. Four. Freedom's breath on my skin.

Then pain explodes across my back as I'm tackled from behind, palms skidding across dirty concrete like cheap sandpaper. My teeth clack together, the taste of blood flooding my mouth as Granite Face flips me over.

"That was stupid," he says, pressing something cold and metallic against my throat. Not a gun. Worse. A syringe, its needle pricking my jugular just enough to send shockwaves of terror through my body. One push and whatever cocktail they have for me goes straight to my brain.

His weight crushes my chest, knees pinning my arms. "Next time you try something like that, this goes in your eye. Understand?"

I nod, the needle's point scratching my skin with each tiny movement. So much for action hero moments. All I got was bloody palms and another man on top of me who isn't asking permission.

"Choice time, Ms. James," he says, easing the pressure on my throat just enough that I can suck in air that tastes like bad decisions. "The easy way or the messy way?"

A flash of clarity cuts through my thoughts like a straight razor. These aren't your garden-variety psychos or Derek's coked-up poker buddies with boundary issues. These are professionals. Military-grade. Black-ops precise. And they want something specific from me.

But what? I can promise you…I’ve never dabbled in anything remotely this serious before so why me?

If they wanted me dead, I'd already be cooling in a dumpster with my tongue stapled to my chest as a warning to others.

Fuck it, if I’m gonna die, might as well go out with a bang.

I smile, all teeth and no warmth. "You had me at 'messy,' but I'll take door number one.”

Their grip shifts but doesn't loosen as they drag me toward an SUV so black it's like a hole cut in the night. The kind of vehicle that screams "nobody will hear your screams." My broken heel skitters against dirty concrete like a dying insect.

"What about my friend?” I jerk my chin toward Derek, whose once-perfectly-styled hair now resembles a post-hurricane nest. “What are you going to do with him?”

The granite-faced man doesn't even blink. "Mr. Klein is no longer your concern."

They fold me into the vehicle like origami, the leather seats ice-cold against my thighs—the kind of cold that reaches for your bones. I catch one last glimpse of Derek, Mr. Three-Hundred-Dollar Haircut and Daddy's Credit Card, slumped against filthy bricks before a hood drops over my head. It smells like bleach and other people's final moments.

The SUV growls to life. I count the turns—left, right, straight for seven minutes, right again. Something I saw in a movie but seems legit useful right about now.

Through the hood, I catch fragments of conversation.

"Package secured. En route to primary location."

Not a kidnapping then. An extraction. Like I'm a fucking wisdom tooth. The distinction matters.

Wouldn’t it be wild if I was some deadly spy cell waiting to be activated? Except my memory’s been wiped and replaced with some bullshit story so I could melt into the benign, boring life of an upper middle-class housewife without drawing attention to myself.

That’s no less plausible than the reality that I’d just been dragged out of a club by some unknown faction, being driven to God knows where.

I catalog my life's fuckups for potential reasons this is happening: No cartel connections. No corporate espionage worth this level of response. I've always been careful to be the collector of secrets, not the creator.

You don't survive in the Hollywood cesspool without learning which skeletons stay buried and which ones make useful leverage. Funny thing, when people get naked, you’d be surprised how quick they are to spill their deepest, darkest secrets. It must be the illusion of vulnerability that gets people singing like a canary.

Except me, I could be buck ass naked and I ain’t spilling shit about my personal life.

And before you get it twisted —just because I live in L.A. doesn’t mean I’m trying to find fame or some stupid shit like that. Actors are assholes, getting off on their own ego.

No thanks .

Also, a lot of them like to think they’re kinky but they’re not. Pillow princesses, the lot of them, acting like they’re doing you a favor while their getting their dick sucked.

My husband, Isaac, doesn't have enemies—doesn't have enough personality to make any. The accounting firm where he crunches celebrity tax returns isn't exactly on terrorist watchlists.

Unless—

The thought slams into a wall when I feel the needle in my neck. Not a doctor's polite prick but a prison-yard stab. My muscles turn to warm pudding. Reality slides sideways.

Voices float above me like I'm at the bottom of a swimming pool filled with bourbon.

"She still conscious?"

"For now. Two minutes till drop."

"Why’s she so special?"

"Above my pay grade but the order came straight from Killion’s mouth so I’m not going to question it."

Killion . The name hooks into my dissolving brain like a fish barb.

As consciousness bleeds out, I think about Isaac. He'll come home to an empty house tonight. He'll notice I'm gone sometime tomorrow, probably , but that’s the shitty part about hiding things about your life—people don’t notice when you stop showing up.

I lie a lot to my husband. Girls’ trips that are really just fuck parties; guys numbers hidden behind the facade of a fast-food restaurant; a burner phone for the really nasty shit that I’m into.

I’m a lot of things to a lot of people but one thing I can’t claim is faithful wife.

Is this my karma? Seems kinda excessive even by L.A.’s standards but whatevs. If this is how I go out, so be it. It was fun while it lasted.

My last coherent thought: The last time I felt this light-headed, Isaac had proposed on a Malibu balcony. I'd said yes because it seemed easier than saying no and because his father's connections implied Isaac would make good money for me to spend.

Some choices aren't really choices at all. But darling, the ones that are? Those are the ones that'll kill you.

When I was a kid, my momma used to say if anyone ever tried to steal me, they'd bring me right back within the hour because I was such a pain in the ass they couldn't handle me. "Like returning a rabid raccoon to the wild," she'd drawl, cigarette dangling from her lips, bourbon in hand.

Well, Momma... I'm about to find out if you were right.

As darkness crashes over me like a rogue wave, a strange calm settles in my bones. Whatever these government types want from me, they're about to discover I'm not just another easy mark.

I’m Landry fucking James. I’ve swallowed bigger threats before breakfast.

They underestimated the wrong woman.

Now I’m about to be their worst fucking mistake.