*~*If I Break by Portia Moore Promo – Excerpt & Giveaway*~*

Genre:   New Adult, Contemporary Romance

…April 26, 2011

Here he comes. My very own Prince Fucking Charming, Cal Scott. He walks in, his eyes quickly skim the packed suitcase in my hand and briefly rest on my face. He lets out an exasperated sigh, tosses his keys on the table, then takes off his coat. His eyes fall on the empty bottle of wine I finished today. A smirk spreads across his face before he passes me headed into the living room.

I expected his lack of response, but it hurts all the same. I’m pretty sure he regards me more as his personal high-class escort than his wife.

I clutch my suitcase, full of the very few things that are mine. He can keep the cars, the money, and the penthouse—the things he believes should comfort me in my loneliness. All the material things in the world can’t make up for the growing disconnect between us. The four-carat yellow diamond on my finger is a beautiful but painful reminder of the vows he broke.

I look over at him, now slouched on the couch with a self-assured cocky grin plastered on his face, the same one he wore the day I met him. I walk into the living room. He’s watching a basketball game on his obnoxiously big television screen like he hasn’t a care in the world.

He glances back at me, still not speaking, and my anger boils over. If I was a man, I would kick his ass. I pull out the calendar stuffed in my bag marked with the very few day’s he’s been home on it, and force it in his lap.

“Don’t start this shit, Lauren. I texted you,” he says with obvious exasperation.

My questions come rapid fire as I walk in front of the television, waving my suitcase in his direction and trying my best to obstruct his view.

“You texted me? That makes it okay? Do you see my bags at the door and the one I’m holding? Do you not get it? I’m leaving, Cal. Fuck you and your texts!”

He shifts his position on the couch and gestures to the empty wine bottle I forgot to discard. “I’m not talking to you while you’re drunk,” he says dismissively.

“Yes you are!” I insist, moving closer to him.

“Weren’t you leaving?” he asks sarcastically, his face is stern, while his eyes smile.

He’s not taking me seriously, so I lean down and growl in his face, “You are such an asshole!” He kisses me—right on the lips and laughs. He fucking laughs! I try to slap him, but he’s quick and my fingertips barely graze his face.

“I fucking hate you!” I roar and storm away from him. I start to take off my engagement ring. I want to throw it at him but then I realize I like my ring. It’s fucking gorgeous. So I throw the stereo remote at his head instead before I march to the door.

He’s off the couch, coming after me, but I keep walking. He grabs my arm, turns me to face him, and takes my suitcase.

“I’m done, leave me alone!” I yell, struggling to break free from his iron grasp. Suddenly, I’m picked up and swung over his shoulder.

“Let me go! Stop it!” I cry, but he doesn’t listen. I’m failing miserably in my attempts to escape.

“No more bottles of wine for you, Mrs. Scott,” he utters, unfazed by my protests.

“Let me go!” I scream again, punching him in the back as he carries me up the stairs and into our bedroom where he drops me unceremoniously on the bed.

“Sleep this off,” he says simply.

Who the hell does he think he is? I rush towards the door, but he quickly slips out, shutting the door behind him. I get to the door a split second later and yank on it. It’s locked. The bastard has locked me in.

“So, you’re kidnapping me now? You’re adding that to your resume along with ‘shitty, emotionless husband’? You can’t keep me here! I’m leaving you! I’m tired of this! You’re never home! I didn’t sign up to be the only person in this marriage!”

My outburst is futile. I can hear the play-by-play of the Bulls game echoing up the stairs and I’m certain he’s turned up the volume on his stupid ass giant TV in order to drown me out.. I sit on the floor and cry until I can’t cry anymore, until I am too tired to do anything but sleep.

I adjust my eyes as I wake. My head is pounding. The bottle of wine I consumed is coming back to haunt me. I realize I’m no longer on the floor, but in our bed, with the covers over me.

The moonlight shines through the window, rather than the sun my conscious brain last saw, I’ve been out of it for a while. I place my feet on the plush carpet, leaving my bed and heading out onto the terrace to enjoy the fresh evening breeze. Looking over Chicago’s glittering downtown, I think about how many nights I have spent out here alone, staring at the skyline and wondering where my husband is. I feel sick.

Back inside and the bedroom door is now unlocked. I open it, only to find that all the lights in the penthouse are off and it’s silent. He’s gone again, which doesn’t surprise me. Being inside alone feels suffocating, so I walk back out onto the terrace.

The loneliest time of my life didn’t begin until I married the one person I would have given my life for. His touch awakened every nerve in my body, his words and promises hypnotized me, and in his arms, I felt safer than I’d ever felt anywhere else. For so long, I couldn’t breathe without him.

Nothing is certain now. The bond between us, once so real—so tangible, I believed in with every ounce of my being, in tatters. Whatever we had has been lost, our home void of warmth and love and is instead filled with anger and a war of words that continues to be recycled over and over again. Any hope I had for us now lives in the past and that is really fucking depressing.

I laugh at my naiveté and wipe a few tears from my cheek. Dammit. I promised I wouldn’t cry over him anymore, but what’s another promise broken to myself? I try to not to care so much, but I’m not fooling anybody. I know I still do.

The front door opens. I walk back inside and into the hall and look over the banister to see that he has a dozen pink roses in his arms. I watch him place them on the table before I go back into our room, saying nothing.

Returning to the terrace, I survey the city. After a few minutes, the terrace door opens and I sense him walking up behind me, his scent giving him away before he’s even near me. He’s wearing my favorite cologne. As smoothly as ever, his strong arms wrap around my waist.

I hate the fact that I still get chills when he touches me. I wish I would cringe instead. I hate it even more that he knows the effect he has on me. His lips find the back of my neck, making his way to the crook of it, while his hands caress my stomach, lingering lower before finding the button on my pants. He begins to undo them. I hate him so much sometimes. I hate even more that no matter how mad I am, somehow, some way, my body always betrays me and forgives him.

Taking my hand, he turns me around to face him. He knows exactly how his beautiful gray eyes affect me and he uses it to his advantage.

I know he feels me giving in. He knows I’m faltering because he smiles at me with that subtle, self-assured grin of his before he leans down, places his lips on mine, and parts them. When I don’t pull away, he slides his tongue in my mouth, playing with mine, daring me to resist.

I don’t.

A soft moan escapes my lips. What the hell am I doing? I was supposed to be leaving him tonight. His grip tightens on my waist. He knows he has me, and damn it, I know it too. I hate that he knows it first. I hate even more that he knows me so well.

I pull away and look up at him, frustrated with how he can read me like the back of his hand.

“I hate you sometimes,” I say bitterly, but even with my tone, the moment he looks at me, he’ll know I don’t mean it. Those freakin’ eyes of his have hypnotized me out of my better judgment—and my clothes—since I’ve known him. They tend to see right through me.

“I know,” he says before pulling me into one of his intoxicating kisses that make me feel like I’m floating.

He lifts me up and carries me inside to our bed. This is what he does, after all. He’s the master of manipulation, the king of allure. He knows me inside and out—and probably better than I know myself. That I allowed that to happen at all was my first mistake. My second was falling in love with him. But how could I resist someone who’s so irresistible? How could I run away from something that had already caught me? That’s what happened to me. I was caught before I even knew I was being hunted, and by the time I realized it, it was far too late.

He has me addicted, and that’s how he wants it. How the hell did I let this happen?

….April 15th 2008

Sometimes days at work can be fun and easy. Other days it can suck, and today is a day that sucks.

“So, that’ll be two Vodka tonics, a Long Island Iced Tea, and four Beers?” I ask trying to hear over the pulsating music that comes with the territory of waitressing at one of the hottest nightspots in Chicago. The Vault: where the music is always loud, the drinks aren’t watered down, and you’re guaranteed to catch a glimpse of the hottest celebrity in town. Still, after six months, I haven’t adjusted to it. Initially, waitressing was going be a part time thing, only for a couple of weeks. Slowly, weeks turned into a couple of months, here I am at six months and counting.

Not that I’m complaining. The tips are great, I get paid pretty well. I’m now used to what I call “after-hours” people. They’re your classmates, coworkers, and relatives—but in their sluttiest clothing, three times more makeup, and drunker than you’ve ever seen. Most girls would kill for this job; I know for a fact the waiting list for getting an interview, is about a mile long.

Still, I can’t help feeling tired of it. It’s better than working at a fast food restaurant, but the atmosphere is intoxicating. I’ve seen so many girls swept away by it in my short time here. I’m thankful I haven’t fallen prey.

“Can you have one of the beers poured in a glass, with extra ice?” the girl at the table I’m serving asks weakly.

“No problem,” I give her a reassuring smile.

“I swear to God, you are such a little ‘priss’ sometimes,” her friend who is sitting across from her announces loudly for everyone to hear. Obnoxious bitch. My customer’s skin flushes a bright pink, and I feel sorry for her; if I weren’t working, I’d be her. God knows I have enough obnoxious friends.

“Are you guys hiring?” The guy sitting with them asks. A question I get five times a night.

“I know we’re looking for a bartender. My manager’s name is Ryan. Call tomorrow afternoon. His assistant takes calls then and can set you up an interview if you have experience.”

“Cool! Thanks,” he says his excitement apparent.

“You must love working here: good music, hot guys, and you get to dress up every night. Very cute shoes, by the way,” the obnoxious one adds.

“It’s okay,” I shrug and walk away.

Truth of the matter is, the cute shoes kill my feet every night. Dressing up was fun until they implemented the butt-crawling shorts that became mandatory. But it pays well and college tuition isn’t cheap. I squeeze my way through the crowd and head to the bar area. My friend Steven the bartender is standing with my ex, Michael, worst mistake of my life. I slide my drink slip over and count down the minutes to when my feet will get to rest.

“It’s really packed in here tonight, isn’t it?” Michael yells to me over the music. Our relationship didn’t exactly end on friendly terms. In fact, this is the first time I’m even contemplating responding to him since our breakup two months ago. The best I can do is remain civil with him but it’s so hard.

“When isn’t it packed in here?” I reply abruptly. Well, I said I’d be civil; I didn’t say polite. His smile drops. It’s not like he needs me to be nice to him. He has enough women being nice to him; in fact, the reason we broke up was because I caught him in the storage room, being too nice to some girl.

“Hey, Lauren. You look like you could use a break,” my friend Angie comes to the rescue handing her drink slip to Steven.

“A break? More like a vacation,” I chuckle taking the tray full of drinks from her. My customer ‘Extra Ice’ is the only one sitting at the table now. Her expression looks less than jovial. I smile hoping to lift her spirits a bit.

“Here are your drinks,” I say sitting them down.

“Thank you,” she replies, taking the glass of ice. She pours her beer over it, glancing up at me. “I’m probably the first person you’ve seen do this,” she laughs.

“It seems all my friends have abandoned me for the dance floor,” she explains, probably afraid of offending me.

“What a great birthday this turned out to be,” she mumbles before taking a sip of her beer.

“Happy birthday!” I say probably a little bit too enthusiastic.

“This one’s on the house.” I offer.

“Thank you.” She lifts her glass and goes back to getting acquainted with her drink.

I know the feeling of being in a place you’d rather not be. Anyway, it’s sometimes better not to think about it. I head back over to the bar. My watch informs me I have two hours left, which might as well be an eternity. It’s strange how I can be so bored in such an exciting atmosphere. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I’m always in this atmosphere. Out the corner of my eye I see Michael flirting with a petite redhead. He’s always flirting with a petite something. I was the petite brunette. I can’t believe I still care who he’s flirting with; maybe care is the wrong word, irritated. I’m irritated with the fact he’s flirting with other women.

“Hey L,” Angela pinches my side, and slides another drink slip to Steven who passes it to Michael since he’s standing there being worthless.

“Don’t take a second look,” she whispers in my ear before disappearing into the crowd. I realize I must have been staring.

“Hey, Mikey, why don’t you stop chatting and actually do some work since you’re here?” Angela leans across me and waves a drink slip at him. He shoots her a sarcastic smile and saunters over to us.

“Nice to see you, too,” he replies, looking over her slip but passes it back to Steven.

“Hey, Lauren, look what I have for you!” Trish, another waitress shouts, holding up a Long Island Iced Tea and showcasing it to me.

“What’s that?” I ask curiously.

“Compliments of a gentleman from VIP,” she smiles, handing the glass to me. I set it down. I make it a habit not to accept drinks from guys while working.

“Ooh, VIP. Now you have to take it,” Steven teases me with a wink.

“Isn’t it a bad policy to accept drinks from customers?” Michael butts in. We all stare at him in disbelief; he’s been known to accept a lot more than drinks from customers.

“Well, you know, Ryan expects us to be extra nice to VIP customers. Plus it is your favorite, Lauren,” urges Angela.

“The guy is a cutie, too,” Trish adds.

Michael’s glare is hard in my direction but totally having the opposite affect on me than he probably wants. Staring straight back at him, I moisten my lips, put them on the straw and suck up a good, long sip.

I turn back to Trish. “Tell him thank you, and that it’s my favorite.” The disappointment in Michael’s face makes me giddy.

“Oh, he knows. I told him. It’s his birthday too,” she adds before disappearing into the crowd.

“L, you should go tell him happy birthday,” Angela urges me with a nudge.

“I’m not doing that,” I say indignantly.

“Oh come on. Why not? A little flirting can do you some good?” she laughs.

“It’s desperate and unprofessional. I sent him my thanks for the drink. That’s all I’m doing,” I declare making my way from the bar.

I would rather work than hear her urging me to talk to some guy like she does every night.

I glance at my watch. It’s 1:30. My bed is calling. I hope my roommate Hillary isn’t home because when she is this time of night, she usually has a companion, and they make way too much noise. I’ve invested so much money in earplugs, it’s crazy. I put my on coat to leave, seeing my manager-Ryan heading my way —it’s too late to go in the other direction—well without being completely obvious.

“Lauren, I’m so glad I caught you,” he’s beaming and his tone seems—dare I say?—nice. He’s hardly ever nice and I place a bet with myself he’s going to ask me to stay another hour.

“Hi, Ryan,” I reply warily, beginning to change into my flat shoes.

“Oh, you’re leaving,” he says with a pout resembling that of a two year old only not as cute.

“Yes, I’m off now,” I remind him praying he won’t ask me to stay, or worse, tell me to stay.

“Would you mind doing me a tiny favor?” he asks, walking over to me. I knew it was coming, I still haven’t learned to leave faster. What am I supposed to do, tell my boss no? My body screams hell yes! My mind directs me to smile weakly.

“Sure,” I give in with a sigh.

“A very good customer of mine wants to meet you. He’s been eye-humping you all night,” he explains while helping me take my coat off.

“What?” I snap, before even getting a chance to censor my tongue. He is my boss, and, as always, a little A-hole-ish, but who the hell does he think he is?

“Just say ‘hello’ and nothing else. He’s a reporter for The Tribune. He can bring a lot of exposure to the club,” he says urgently.

“I don’t know,” I do know. I don’t want to do it!

“It’s just a quick drink. It is his birthday after all, and the VIP room is filled with people. Just a drink.”

“If you’re too tired, maybe I’ll switch your shift. Maybe you’d rather have Monday night instead of this tiring Saturday shift,” he suggests slyly. That’s low. Monday is the absolute worst night to have in the club. It’s slow, so that means fewer tips, and I have a class Tuesday mornings.

“Okay. I’ll do it,” I say, finally giving in. I hang my coat back up and start to follow him out, but he stops me at the door before I can even cross the threshold.

“How about I give you time to put on your other shoes and let your hair back down?” he winks. I bite my lip in frustration. Fuck you, Ryan. I go back to my locker to get my heels.

“I’ll meet you upstairs in a few minutes,” he smiles before leaving and pops his head back in the doorway. “A little lip gloss wouldn’t hurt either,” he quips before disappearing. Jerk-off.

I slip out of my gym shoes and let my ponytail back down. I purposefully don’t put on any lip gloss. Just a quick drink then bed, I tell myself and try not feel like such a pushover.

***

The VIP room is buzzing with people but empty compared to the other floors. With a three bottle purchase for a table it makes sense though. Dan the VIP security guy is standing at the entrance. He’s pretty intimidating for anyone wanting to start any issues. At almost 6’4 at least 290 pounds and a headlock that have brought many to their knees he’s a good guy to have on your side. He’s flirting with two girls who are trying to talk their way in for free but he gives me a quick nod of acknowledgment. I take a deep breath and remind myself I need my job. Having a drink with a guy for my boss isn’t that bad. Wait, that even sounds wrong. Being pimped out was not apart of my job description. I hope this guy isn’t a complete asshole drunk or sober. Even if he isn’t I hate the dating scene. I’ve had two serious boyfriends: Daniel, my high school sweetheart, and Michael, who as it turned out wasn’t that serious with me after all.

I’ve been on a handful of dates with guys since I moved here from Michigan. Many of which turned out to be complete disasters. I’ve grown to hate the whole situation; the obligatory awkward conversations and my date’s disappointment when I don’t put out after the first date. The guys I run into are nothing like the princes in the stories my aunt read to me when I was a little girl. My adult theory –The Prince Charming myth is the other curse God created to punish Eve and every other woman for biting that stupid apple. Looking around the room I spot Ryan sitting in the corner talking to a short, blonde woman accompanied by a man in blue dress shirt and black slacks.

Ryan sees and waves me over. As I get closer to the guy, I have to agree that Trish was right—he’s cute, in an Abercrombie and Fitch sort of way, dirty blonde hair and green eyes, even a coy smile, but that still does doesn’t mean I like being coerced into talking to him. When I reach the table Mr. Abercrombie and Ryan stand up while the woman just smiles in my direction.

“Lauren, I would like you to meet Jason Daniels. He’s doing a story for The Tribune’s entertainment column. And this is his partner, Marie.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jason shakes my hand, a huge grin on his face.

“Very nice to meet you,” he repeats again, almost nervously. After a few awkward seconds we all sit down.

“How about I have Diana make you one of my favorite drinks, Marie?” Ryan asks gesturing towards the VIP area of the bar. I keep myself from rolling my eyes, I guess he wants Jason and I to have alone time because Ryan can easily have Diana at our table in less than a minute with just a gesture.

“I would love that,” she links her arm between his and leaves me and Jason alone. He seems to be tongue-tied at the moment; awkward conversation avoided maybe?

“Would you like to sit down?” he finally says. Crap, no such luck, he’s not mute. I smile graciously as I sit in the plush leather booth.

“Did you like the drink I sent you?” he smiles.

“Yes, it’s my favorite.” I look down, trying to avoid the awkward silence filling the air. “Even though I’m the one that should be buying you the drink, I hear it’s your birthday.” I say with forced friendliness.

“Yeah. The big 2-4,” he laughs.

“How does it feel?”

“Not too different from 23.” He laughs and sips his drink. “Oh, would you like something, another Long Island—?” he starts, but something has caught his attention across the room, maybe it’s his girlfriend. This is probably just wishful thinking on my part but with my luck who knows.

“Would you excuse me for a minute?” he says leaving me to sit alone. I wonder if this fulfills the requirement of a drink, as far as Ryan’s concerned. I wonder who he was looking for —I guess the blonde who was with him, maybe more than just friends? Drumming my finger on the table I wait for my new friend to come back.

Ryan arrives a few minutes later and I’m still at the table alone I see he’s the same.

“Where did Jason go?” I wasn’t aware that I was supposed to be babysitting him.

“Umm, I don’t know. He told me he’d be right back in a minute. Look Ryan, I have an exam I have to study for this weekend and I really need to get some sleep,” I explain, getting up to leave.

“Wait! Please, just five more minutes, I’ll go find him,” he begs holding my arm.

“Fine,” I relent.

“I’ll be out on the terrace while you look for him,” I compromise.

“Okay. Back in five minutes,” he promises before hurrying off and I sneak away to the terrace of the club. It’s my favorite place in Chicago. It makes me feel free when the wind blows just the right way and the lights of the city sparkle in the night. It reminds me why I’m not in my old comfort zone in Michigan. This may be my lucky day since there are only two couples making out in the corner, it’s usually more. I stroll to the other side so they can have their privacy. You can see all of Chicago from right here. I could stand here for hours just looking out over the city.

I glance at my watch and notice that it has been around five minutes. I decide to head back to VIP before Ryan has a panic attack. Right as I’m making my way back into the club, Michael heads towards me.

“This must be my lucky day,” I mumble sarcastically to myself, but loud enough that he can hear me.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks as I walk past him.

“Actually, I’m meeting someone.” I smirk at him before continuing on my way.

“What? Who? I mean you just got off,” he stumbles over his words. I guess I surprised him. I just smile adding a shrug but he calls after me, “Well, when you’re not busy, I need to talk to you.” I don’t even look back.

What Michael doesn’t understand is I don’t care what he needs. He lost that privilege when I caught him banging some girl in the storage room of the club. He didn’t even have the decency to screw her in his car like a respectful douche bag would do.

I’m seeing red as I make my way down to the VIP room. I’m in total disbelief at Michael’s audacity and sudden resurgence of trying to weasel his way back into my presence that I don’t even notice the person in front of me that I crash into. A second later I feel cool liquid spread down my blouse, best day ever!

“I’m soooo sorry,” I say embarrassed. This is completely my fault and I’m even more furious that it’s Michael that caused me to do it.

“It’s okay,” a deep voice replies and it sends a shiver up my spine.

“I’m sure your shirt costs a lot more than this drink,” it says again, and I’m afraid to look up, only hearing my heart beat in my ears. When I work up the courage to finally see whose voice is causing my heart to try to escape my chest I find a tall, ebony-haired stranger looking down at me.

And God he has the most beautiful pair of gray eyes and a amazing smile that’s housed by the most perfect lips in the history of man kind. I mentally remind myself not to swallow my tongue and breath. Is he real? Or have I been knocked unconscious and being fanned with a cover of GQ magazine. This encounter will probably turn out to just to be a figment of my imagination.

The more I look, no stare. I’m actually staring now, he has to be an illusion. I search for a flaw taking in every inch of him, from his chiseled features, his chocolate brown hair falling right over his eyebrows, strong broad shoulders are hidden beneath a dark gray blazer and black fitted shirt. No flaw found. He’s unsettling beautiful.

“I-I’m sorry. I can be so clumsy at times,” I choke out internally cheering my mind for taking control again.

“Let me get you something for that,” he responds, disappearing into the crowd. I panic, what if he doesn’t come back? What if he does come back. That scares me even more but a minute later here again with a cloth in hand and I’m still not prepared to think like a civilized person instead of a cave woman.

“Thank you,” I reply sheepishly taking the cloth from his hand. smiling at me like he knows a secret that I’m not in on.

“I’m really sorry about your drink. I can get you another one,” I offer, staring up at him. He has to be at least 6’2.” I subconsciously take a few steps back, so I don’t have to look up at him like a little girl.

“You’re good,” he assures me coolly. No, he’s good apparently, since no matter how hard I try I can’t bring my eyes to leave his face.

“I work here, it’ll be no problem,” I reply. His gaze is intense, almost intimate, but his smile so charming or rather, welcoming—like he’s luring me; and for a moment, time slows down. All of the noise around us has disappears, and it’s just the music and my breathing.

I wonder if he hears it?

He steps closer to me and I notice in those perfect gray eyes, the iris is surrounded by subtle green tint but beautiful as they are, they’re upstaged when he lets the right corner of his bottom lip free he’s been holding captive between his stark white teeth. His tongue sweeps across those delectable lips adding the perfect amount of moisture and right then a wave of heat flushes through my entire body. I cringe to myself referring to a body part as delectable, a stranger’s at that but there is absolutely no other way to describe them.

“I know.” His words jolt me back to reality and I lean forward a bit the return of the noise making it more difficult to hear him and a second later he leans down towards me his face near my ear and my breath hitches.

“Your shorts gave you away,” he says into it and just as quickly he’s back in his own space.

“These God forsaken shorts,” I’m so embarrassed and begin pulling them down. He nods his head, a grin now on his face as his eyes travel down my body.

“No, thank God for those shorts,” He’s biting his lip again and I feel myself changing all shades of pink.

“ …and I was actually coming to get a closer view of the woman I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of since you walked in, anyway,” he explains, looking directly in my eyes with a smile that could melt the Arctic– with that I almost swallow my tongue. What am I supposed to say to something like that?

“She’s Lauren,” I can’t help but whisper. Wait, that wasn’t right. Wake up, genius! I scream inside my head.

“I mean, I’m Lauren,” I laugh, hoping the music covers my ridiculous answer and that I won’t drop dead of embarrassment right here. Thankfully, my brain cells are released from my hormones’ grip and direct me to extend my hand.

He smiles almost as if he’s amused. I guess I’d be amused too if I could reduce a college-educated woman to a bumbling idiot just by licking my lips.

“I’m Cal,” he replies.