Home > Sicko

Author: Amo Jones


As most of you know, I don’t usually have trigger warnings in my books. My main genre is dark romance, so I’ve come to expect my readers to just know that they’re getting something dark and twisted once they flip the first page of an Amo Jones book.

This book is different. This is “my level” of Dark Romance. It is dark. It will have you squirm in some places, but not in the way you’re probably used to or expect.

There are scenes within these pages that will be uncomfortable for you to read. I didn’t water anything down. I wrote these characters as authentically as possible, because you, the reader, deserve that. I didn’t sugar coat something to make it easier to digest, I drowned every scene in tequila, and just like a shot of Patron, it needs to be swallowed before you feel its affects.

Please don’t take this warning lightly. These characters are like nothing I have written before, and this story is not one I’ve ever experienced.

This book is DARK, but every single word and scene that is in here is there for a reason. I’m not here for shock value. This is just a story that needed to be told in the art it has been displayed in.


If you’re still here, I guess you’re still wanting to read… so by all means…



To my darkness.


Because the bitch really came out to play with this one.



So I usually go ham on this section. Anyone would think I’d just won an Oscar, but girl, I’m tired.


This book sucked the soul out of me.


So, I just want to say thank you. To you, who is reading this book. Thank you for taking a chance on my world and allowing me to meddle with your mind for eight hours.


I’ll buy you a drink when I meet you.





There was a woman.

She stood maybe a whole foot shorter than my six-three. I wanted to study her at close range to understand why she fascinated me so much, but the rustling of leaves that were falling around my feet distracted me enough to forget to ask questions. I was too busy thinking about the circumstances that led me to this point in my life.

Rock fucking bottom with no foundation to rebuild on.

I squeezed the gas hose tight. Who the fuck was this woman? An oversized hoodie hung off her fragile figure carelessly, her long dark hair flowing over her shoulders in tasteful waves. I couldn’t get a good look at her face. She clearly did everything she could to hide it. Figured she wanted something since she hasn’t moved from where she’s staring, her body perceptibly turned toward me.

I nodded my head at her politely when I figured she wasn’t going to stop gawking. I was fucking paranoid too. After what just happened and what we endured, I needed to get the fuck out of here fast.

I watched as her face peeked up behind the rim of her hoodie and her big green eyes zoned in on me. She glanced into the back of my car before coming back to me. “You on the run, handsome?” Her voice was husky, as if she had smoked cigarettes her whole life. There was nothing suspicious about her at all, aside from the hoodie.

I chuckled. “Somethin’ like that.”

For a second, and I mean a very brief fucking second, darkness momentarily flashed over her eyes. Almost like a cloud that shaded over the sun on a clear summer day. As quick as it was there, it was gone.

The corners of her mouth tilted up in a smile. “Well, there’s a place on the outskirts of downtown LA. The bar is called Patches.” She assessed me. “No promises that they’d let a pretty boy like you stay, but you could always try.”

I stood there with the gas pump beeping in the background, my mouth slightly open. I went into the store to pay for my gas and before I could thank her, she was already gone.



I wish I could remember the day I was welcomed into the Kane family, but I was barely old enough to create vivid visions inside of my head. I was days old, dumped and left on the front doorstep of the local orphanage in a seedy area of San Francisco. I don’t know much about what happened, not because the Kanes didn’t want me to know, but because I’ve never wanted to ask. Being discarded as a baby by my parents is all I need to know. I was lucky that Mr. and Mrs. Kane were there the next day, wanting to find their brat of a son, a little brother that he could play with.

He got a sister instead.

Royce was three when I came home, and boy… was he not impressed about getting a sister instead of a brother.

Apparently, it took him forty-five minutes to talk to me, but then after that, we never stopped. Now I’m fifteen years old. You could say things have changed.

“Royce!” I yell at my frustrating brother as he circles the basketball court in our back yard, holding my phone up in the air. “Give it back to me right fucking now!”

He laughs so loud I want to shove my foot in his mouth. Royce has become increasingly annoying over the years, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that if I need anything, it would be my big brother who I would ask first.

He must have stopped mid-run because I slam into him, my face squished against his back before falling to the ground. The blue sky swims above me amidst the yellow rapture of the sun.

An arm hooks around my mid-back, bringing me safely back to my feet. “Nah uh, you don’t get to die on me yet, Duchess. You still owe me that twenty dollars.”

I push off his chest, ignoring how hard his muscles are beneath his shirt.

“Give me my phone!” I place my hand out to him with the other on my hip.

“I heard that one of these little freshmen at school wanna take my sister out on a date…” he teases, and it’s then that I hear another voice behind me.

Orson’s whistle pierces through my eardrums. “Damn, someone new to the rules? Didn’t know that you can’t take little Miss Jade Kane out on a date without going through her big brothers?” Naturally, my annoying brother also has annoying friends who also annoyingly have claimed my—so-called—annoying ass. I’m untouchable at school. It’s not helpful when you wouldn’t mind being touched.

“He’s new. I will let him down nicely,” I plead with Royce, watching as his thumb hovers over my phone. He wouldn’t actually go through my phone, but if a text happened to come through while he was holding it, then I’m almost certain he would—Ding.


He tilts his head. I watch in sheer horror as his eyes fly over whatever words have popped up.

He glares at me. “Who is this little fuck?”

“What’d he say?” Orson asks, running his fingers through his dark, curly hair. Orson is a six-foot-six half-Mediterranean French, half-American basketball god, and one of Royce’s best friends. I’m not actually sure how they became so close, since Orson is talented and managed to graduate from high school top of his class. Royce isn’t dumb, but he can be an idiot. Yes, there’s a difference. Orson also just got drafted into the NBA, which only adds to his ever-growing list of reasons why so many girls want him. I had a serious crush on him for the better part of my life, until I watched the girls he’d go for. All so beautiful. Way out of my league. His smooth brown skin and dark green eyes were killer, but when he flashed his pretty smile, all the girls dropped dead. He and Royce had that in common for sure, but that’s about as far as the similarities go.

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