I’m Paxton Wilder.

Twenty-two-year-old, five-time X Games medalist.

And I have more tattoos than scars.

I’ve never seen a stunt I couldn’t pull off–

Or a girl I can’t get off.

Until she walks in.

 

My new tutor is sexy, smart, more stubborn than I am, and one hundred percent off limits.

That’s right–the only rule this semester is Don’t Touch the Tutor.

For the first time in my life, I want someone I can’t have.

She’s the girl who obeys every rule.

I’m the guy who breaks them.

Our biggest risk is falling for each other,

But I live for risk…

“Is that what you want, Leah?” he asked, his breath hot against my ear, his breathing bordering on ragged.

I whimpered again, answering him with another push of my hips.

He drew back, denying me the pressure I was desperate for. “It’s what I want. Except I want you naked, so I can feel all of your skin against me, taste the tiny beads of sweat I’ll work you into.”

I tried to roll up again, but he brought his hands to my hips, pinning me to the bed. “Paxton,” I whined, trying to reach to kiss him, to get any part of him I could.

“Tell me, I want to hear you say it.”

“Why? You know I want you. Isn’t that enough?” I asked.

His thumbs caressed my hipbones, but I wanted more. Needed more.

“No. I want the words.” He leaned down, dragging his tongue across my lower lip. When I tried to get more, he pulled back, no trace of teasing on his face. “I want to know that I have you on the same fucking edge you’ve had me dangling on for weeks now, desperate to know how you feel, taste, sound when you’re coming apart.”

His words—those sweet, seductive, dirty freaking words turned me up another notch, deepened the pulsing ache I had right where his hips were pressed. How the hell could I keep up with this man?

“Words give you power over me,” I admitted. I tried to roll my hips again, but he held me pinned, immobile. “You’re already the one in control.”

He lowered his head, dragging his tongue from the line of my pajama bottoms, past my belly button, through the valley of my breasts and ending at my neck before he kissed me. There was an edge of desperation to his kiss that hadn’t been there before, like he could kiss my compliance from me.

He damn near did. I would have done almost anything to keep him kissing me like that, but it wasn’t enough. My body was on fire, demanding a release I’d denied it for way too long.

“Control?” he questioned as he pulled away, those blue eyes digging into my soul in a way nothing else could. “Okay, I like being in control, especially when I have you underneath me. But the power is all yours. You just have to realize that I will do whatever you ask, whatever you need. I might control your body, but you control every…part…of… me.” He punctuated each word with a slight thrust against me, the pressure enough to send tendrils of pleasure through my limbs as if he’d caressed my entire body. “Now tell me what you want. I am yours to command.”

“I want your hands on me,” I answered. Then, before he could ask me where, I showed him.

He stole me.

He broke me.

I’m being auctioned for Fifty thousand dollars.

Now, I don’t belong to anyone but strangely enough I wanted to belong to him.

It’s his eyes … I lost myself in them.

 

__________

 

Authors Note and WARNING: Dark Boundaries is a work of fiction intended for adult readers above 18. It contains dark and sensitive subject matter that may make readers uncomfortable.

Contains explicit language and descriptions of sexual situations.

STANDALONE, NO CLIFFHANGER, HEA

I live a life of darkness.

 

They sold my brother for money.

I was kept to make money for them.

 

I thought I escaped it all, but the monster is back.

I’m not worth anything to him anymore, so now he’s going after my brother.

 

There are only two things I fear; the darkness and water.

I’m not scared of pain.

I’m not scared of death.

 

I’m prepared to die and to make sure that monster goes with me.

__________

 

Authors Note and WARNING: Dark Boundaries is a work of fiction intended for adult readers above 18. It contains dark and sensitive subject matter that may make readers uncomfortable.

Contains explicit language and descriptions of sexual situations.

STANDALONE, NO CLIFFHANGER, HEA

This is not happening!

This can’t be happening!

That man just hit Riza! He could have killed her.

It’s all some horrible nightmare. We are not in the back of a van being taken to God-only-knows-where.

My stomach and ribs ache something fierce from where Warren kicked me. I tear my eyes away from Riza, who is still unconscious. I’m so worried about her. I pull Kelly closer to me, trying to comfort both of us.

The van slows down. When it comes to a full stop, it causes all my muscles to tense and quiver. I send up a silent prayer. Please, don’t let them hurt us!

The sound of metal turning on metal makes me press my back hard into the wall behind me. I pull Kelly tighter against my chest. The van door swings open. Garrett looks very unhappy as he glares into the back of the van.

“Put her with the others!” Warren commands and then he shoves a plump girl into Garrett’s arms.

“Let’s get back to the house. We need to get started,” Garrett says as he picks the new girl up and forces her into the back. She scrambles over Riza to get to the other corner. She looks terrified. I’m sure we all look the same, scared out of our minds.

“Can’t wait to break them in,” Warren says with a dark smirk.

Break us in? What the hell is he talking about?

My eyes meet Kelly’s terrified ones, and fresh tears spill over my cheeks. The realization of what happened and what is happening hits hard. Oh my God! We’re being kidnapped!

“Close your eyes,” Garrett whispers.

My eyes dart to his and I can’t believe they fooled us like that. He doesn’t look like a killer. I was actually starting to like him before they took us. They all look so decent. I would never have suspected any of them being able to hurt a fly, no less any of us.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers again. “There’s nothing you can do. It will be easier if you try to get some rest while you can.”

The bar is riding the line of slow and dead, which is depressing as fuck, because playing to an empty room is always a little bit of a letdown. Scotty doesn’t bitch—he doesn’t give a fuck who listens, as long he has a mic and his guitar with me to back him up.

Scotty could play to an empty room, and still be a happy motherfucker. He’s done it often enough.

Lamar swings by the bar with a fresh round of long neck bottles, and I stand from where I’m adjusting the drums to take it from him.

“Slow night.”

He shrugs. “It’ll pick up. You play, and it always does.”

True. But it’s been months since we had this low a turnout to work with.

Barrie’s is a dive and that’s putting it nicely. It’s a fucking hole in the wall in a college town, and has delusions about which college town it landed in. It wants to be a bigger deal than it is. But it’s our hole in the wall, and Lamar keeps the free beer coming as long as we keep the music playing.

There’s even a sticky dance floor, coated with spilt beer and other things I don’t want to name, and some nights, we manage to draw enough of a crowd that they pack that little floor and scream along to our cover songs.

And there’s another reason we keep coming back. The real reason I keep coming back.

I take a beer and glance at the little booth that sits empty and almost forlorn in the corner. It isn’t usually empty this late on a Thursday night. She’s usually here by now, and the absence strings nerves along my skin, making my foot tap anxiously.

Scotty is watching me, and I shove down the unease as I swallow more of the beer and tap my drums, a quick beat that pulls a low response from the small audience.

He gives them a sexy half smirk and I see a girl at the bar texting. I hit the drums again and he glances back at me. I cock an eyebrow at the girl and he grins, not the smirk he reserves for the audiences, but the shit eating grin I’ve seen on my best friend’s face so many times. The one that promises trouble and good times, and the distinct likelihood of getting laid.

A grin crooks one side of my lips, and I nod at him. Slam my sticks together twice before throwing myself into the beat of a popular summertime anthem.

Scotty follows my lead, crooning about summer and trucks, beer and good times and the girls who are pouring in off the street scream our names.

Scotty lives for this shit. He always has. For the high of the girls and the crowd, the ones who for a few hours make him forget that we’re two months behind on rent. That everything outside the circle of bright lights is a world of shit and heartache.

Because here, it’s not. Here we’re fucking untouchable, and as they sway to our music and the beat I’m keeping with my drum sticks.

He loves this. And I get it. Not because I care about the girls—I do, in a abstract sort of way. I love it because for a few minutes every night, between covering the bullshit on the radio, we roll out a song that no one has heard before. Sometimes, they love it. Sometimes, I come out from behind the drums, and croon to the room, a song that bares my fucking soul, and even with the lights so bright they’re blinding, I can see her in her little booth, hair pulled up and messy, eyes half lidded as she listens.

It’s the closest I’ve come to talking to her. Because I know better.

A girl like her isn’t meant for me. She’s poise and pearls, peaches and cream skin and private smiles.

I’m covered in ink and scars and hiding from my own fucked up past, and so far below a girl like her that it’s stupid to even consider it.

I do though. Every fucking time I see that tiny smile when I sing.

She doesn’t know I write for her. But I do. It’s the only way I’ve allowed myself to talk to her. At night, when Scotty and I stumble home drunk and high off the performance, when one of the barflies don’t end up in bed between us and—sometimes—on the nights when one does.

Scotty changes the rhythm and I shift, matching him as he slides into a ballad, crooning to the crowd. A group of sorority girls in a uniform outfit of tiny shorts, hooker heels, and tops that flash smooth curves are on the dance floor, writhing and singing along, and I wonder which Scotty will tap to come home with us.

She isn’t coming in. It’ll be the first Thursday night in almost three months that she hasn’t been here and it bugs me. I want her here.

Even knowing how bad an idea it is, how different we are—I want her here.

I miss a beat, stumbling on the rift and Scotty sends me a sharp glance, kicking in with a solo to cover me. I shake my head once, and he shifts his attention back to the crowd as we give in to the music.

It’s the third song of the second set, when I’ve shoved her out of my mind almost completely, that the door swings open, and she stalks in.

She’s out of place in a blue sundress and white sweater, an oversized bag at her side, her long red hair swirling around her face in a halo of angry curls.

She’s fucking gorgeous and the sudden release of tension is almost dizzying.

And right then, I decide. Fuck all the reasons it’s a bad idea. I’m tired of giving a shit about that. She can shoot me down if she wants—but first I’m going to give myself a shot.

***

“You’re girl was late,” Scotty rasps as we land on two stools at the bar. It’s late and the crowd of sorority girls has thinned to almost nothing, although a pair are nursing Cosmos and watching us speculatively.

Surprisingly, Scott’s ignored them completely.

“Need anything, boys?” Manda asks as she sways past, giving Scotty a flirty smile. He grins at her, letting his gaze sweep over her.

My best friend is a fucking slut. But with Manda, it’s all flirting and no action. She’d take him up on it—she’s made that very clear. But Scot doesn’t fuck where he works, and Barrie’s has been too good for us to risk screwing it up for a quick fuck.

Which is good, because I’d have to kick his ass if he touched her. She might be a little too friendly and a little desperate, but she’s a cute kid and I like her.

“Bourbon, Manda,” he says and she glances at me questioningly. I nod and she pours the drinks. Scotty glances at me. “What are you waiting on?”

I shrug and grit my teeth. Scotty twists and gives her a look over his shoulder. “Fine. Stay here and keep Manda company. I’m going to introduce myself to your siren.”

I jerks him back by the collar of his shirt before he can take more than two steps and throw him back against the bar. “Back the fuck off, Scott.” I growl.

He grins, a challenge and a taunt in that expression. “Then make your move, Rike.”

I snatch the bourbon from Manda and take a deep breath before walking to her table.

And wait.

For a long. Fucking. Time.

It takes almost a full minute for her to look up, almost long enough for my courage to fail. I’m ready to retreat when she blinks and looks up at me, her blue eyes widening a little as they find mine. She looks startled, and sleepy, and as gorgeous as she looked at a distance, is nothing compared to how fucking flawless she is this close.

There are freckles sprinkled across her cheeks and dusted over her nose.

I swallow a groan as she licks her lips and gives me a tentative smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I say, and then go blank.

Because in none of my fantasies did I ever consider we’d actually ever get to this point. And the smirks and smooth lines won’t work—not on her.

“What do you call a group of unorganized cats?” I ask and her eyes cloud, confused.

She gives me a pretty frown and I grin, “A cat-astrophe.”

For a second, all either of us do is stare, and then she giggles. “That is literally the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

I grin, “So you want me to leave?”

Laughter dances in her eyes. “Have a seat, jokes.”

My heart shoves up into my throat at the casual nickname and invitation but I keep my cool smile in place as I slide into the booth across from her. She pecks at the computer a few more times, and then twists it aside and reaches for her drink—a whiskey neat.

She normally drinks for vodka cranberry, and I’ve fantasized about kissing that taste from her lips. My dick twitches and she watches me over the rim of her glass, lazy interest in her dark eyes.

“Y’all sounded good tonight,” she offers.

My lips tick up into a grin, “As opposed to most nights?”

A flush crawls up her cheeks. “No! You always sound good. I’m just—“

I laugh, and lean back in the booth. Her adorable embarrassment is too easy to provoke. “I’m kidding, Red. Relax.”

“So how did you get involved in this? The band?”

“Scotty needed backup and it was fun. Something to keep me out of trouble. Neither of us are very good at doing shit without the other.” I say, skirting away from just how true that is and how fucking co-dependent we can be.

“That’s cute,” she says, grinning.

“Yeah?”

“Guys don’t usually do the whole BFF bullshit—not like girls. It’s kinda cute to see a couple of dudes who are good friends.”

There’s a little part of me that wants to point out that we aren’t BFFs. That we were forced together out of necessity and kept together to survive. But I don’t. That’s a little heavy for now, and I don’t particularly want her thinking about my best friend at the moment anyway.

“So what are you doing here?” I ask, leaning forward and tapping the open laptop. “Most girls like you find a library to study in.”

Her eyes narrow a little, and I get the feeling I’m wandering into dangerous territory. “Girls like me?”

Her tone is tight and full of warning, but I ignore it, offering her a lazy grin. “Pretty. Smart. Too damn good to be in this shithole.”

Her lips twitch and I lean forward, into her space a little and whisper. “You’ve been here for months, Red. Distracting and out of place. So tell me. Why the hell do you keep coming back?”

Her eyes are wide and her breath is coming in short sharp bursts and if I lean forward another few inches, I could taste the lips I’ve spent months fixating on.

“I like the music,” she murmurs and I swallow my groan, because fuck if that isn’t the most perfect answer in the world.

“And the computer?”

A flush flares up her cheeks again and she ducks away. I lean back, giving her room as I take a pull on my beer. She’s fiddling with the swizzle stick that came in her drink.

“I write sometimes. And the music is the perfect inspiration.”

I was wrong. She could say something more perfect. I grin at her and say, “You might just be perfect.”

“Might?”

I hesitate and then shrug. “Need a little longer to figure that out, Red.”

Her eyes are still amused but a little wary as she watches me, a finger circling the rim of her glass, catching the drop of whiskey from her last sip. She lifts it and licks the Jack away, and I swallow hard, chasing my groan away with a cough. “Go out with me,” I say, suddenly.

“I don’t date,” she says immediately. She leans back and I want to drag her back to the edge of her seat, force her back into the easy warmth we were sharing even as she slams walls up between us.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because I’m busy and because boys are idiots and because school—I don’t need to be distracted.”

“You aren’t too busy to drop by and listen to me play every week for three months. And I’m not a fucking boy,” I says the last bit tighter and fiercer.

Her breath catches a little in her throat as she licks her lips. “Maybe I’m here for Scotty.”

For the first time in almost two decades, I want to punch my best friend. Because fuck if he’s going to get this girl too, after all the time I’ve spent watching her. I’ve never cared who Scot takes to bed. Usually we take them together—women are no different than any other thing in our world. But the thought of him touching her, or her on her knees in front of him. It makes me irrationally angry.

“Rike,” a sweet low voice purrs behind me and I blink free of my thoughts to twist and meet the gaze of the girl behind me. She’s all smooth curves and long blonde hair and legs for fucking days.

She went home with us a few week ago, and I knew even as she was in bed with us that it was going to be a problem.

“Scotty is flying solo,” I say, turning back to Red. I can feel the sorority girl at my back, the indignant fury from her. Red is watching her with curious eyes, gaze skirting between the two of us. I ignore the huffy girl behind me and say, “You aren’t. If you were, you wouldn’t be talking to me.”

Her eyes flicker with reserved amusement, and I lean forward, and whisper, “Please. Save me from the sorority.”

Her lips curve into a slow smile, something mischievous and mysterious in the twist of her lips, and I want to see that smile every day. I want to know why it’s different, and what makes it different from the smile she would give me half asleep and naked in my bed.

I blink, shake the thought. Focus on now.

God, she’s fucking with my head, hard.

“Go find a new toy, Lindsay. This one is mine tonight.”

That’s what her name was. Lindsay.

“You’ll like them,” Lindsay says, a smirk in her voice, and Red’s eyes slip past me, settling on the girl and hardening.

Fuck. That’s jealousy, and a part of me wants to fucking crow with victory.

Instead, I reach out and claim her hand, letting my fingers trace over the curl of her palm, bringing her attention back to me as I absently caress her hand. She watches me curiously for a moment.

“Friday. Pick me up.” She reclaims her hand and scribbles on a note card, sliding it across to me. Then she grabs her bag, shoving her laptop inside as she slides out of the booth and across the bar. She stops Lindsay, and murmurs something to the blonde girl.

Curious, assessing eyes flick to me, but Lindsay only nods and turns away from me. Red smiles, and ducks out of the bar.

I glance down at the note card. Her handwriting is messy and strong.

And her name is Peyton.

“No, no, no, no!” I beat my steering wheel with the heel of my hand. “No! You’ve got to be kidding me!” I pulled off the road, my tire bumping along.

I put my car in park and climbed out to assess the damage.

My feet crunched on the gravel scattered alongside the road.

Immediately, the oily burnt smell of my peeling tire met me.

Calling this a flat tire didn’t do it justice. This was complete and utter carnage.

I looked behind me, at the trail of tire pieces leading straight to my car, like a path of breadcrumbs.

It was starting to get dark and this wasn’t exactly the safest road.

I was also a twenty-year-old girl, ripe for the picking.

I kicked the side of my car. “I don’t have time for this!”

I stalked around the back, to the trunk, lifting it and looking for the necessary tools to change a tire.

Which was pointless because, unfortunately, I didn’t know the first thing about changing a tire. My father had made sure that I only knew how to do a woman’s work.

I slammed the trunk closed and stalked back to the driver’s side, pulling at the ends of my hair. I glared at the offending nail, that had to be four inches long, sticking out of the tire. How many nails did people drive over a day and I was the one to get a flat freakin’ tire?

Not cool.

Not at all.

I opened the door and reached for my phone to call my roommate to come pick me up.

The sky was darkening and I didn’t want to be stranded here.

I wrapped my lightweight jacket tighter around my body, as the wind gusted around me, blowing leaves off of the nearby trees. I watched the red, yellow, and orange leaves fall down and scatter over my car. One, unfortunately, got caught in my hair. I reached up and pulled it out before letting it drift to the ground.

Gravel crunched behind me. I turned quickly, to see a guy getting out of a black car that looked like something old, but classic.

I hadn’t even heard him pullover.

I backed a step away, thinking he might be a murderer, or a rapist.

But when I got a look at his face I was stunned.

He was tall, with a lean body, but muscular. He had short, dark brown, almost black, hair and the greenest eyes I had ever seen. Five o’ clock shadow covered his cheeks and chin. My eyes trailed down, over the white t-shirt glued to his chest, and stopped there. I could see black ink underneath the white shirt and licked my lips. The fact that he had tattoos only made him hotter. To protect against the cold, he was wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt.

“Uh—can I help you?” He asked, smiling pleasantly at me, and putting my earlier fears about him being a murderer or rapist completely to rest.

Help? With what? I needed help?

“Huh?”

He grinned crookedly, tilting his head. “With your tire. Do you need some help?”

He had the deepest, huskiest, voice I had ever heard. I shivered at the sound. I was pretty sure I’d be happy for him to help me with a lot of things, and none of them included my tire.

“Help would be great,” I blushed, ducking my head.

He chuckled. “You do have a spare, right?”

“Yeah, it’s in the trunk,” I pointed, like he didn’t know where the trunk was.

He grabbed the spare, and all the necessary tools and sat down, next to the ruined tire.

“I—uh—would’ve changed it myself, but—uh—my dad never taught me,” I ran my fingers nervously through my wavy brown hair. “He said something about it not being appropriate for a girl to do and if I ever got a flat tire, I better hope Prince Charming came along. My dad’s very—uh—old fashioned,” I stammered.

He looked up at me. “Does that make me Prince Charming?” He grinned.

“Oh—uhm—Prince Charming is fictional, so I guess not, and he-uh-usually rides a white horse or something… I think.”

Somebody, stamp AWKWARD across my forehead already.

The guy threw his head back and laughed. “I guess a shiny black ’69 Camaro doesn’t count as a white horse. You watch a lot of Disney movies or something?”

“No,” I blushed tomato red. “At least not anymore.”

“You’re funny,” he squinted up at me, shielding his eyes from the orange glow of the setting sun.

“I hope that’s a good thing,” I muttered. Unfortunately, I wasn’t trying to be funny.

“It’s a very good thing-” He paused, waiting for my name.

“Oh—uh—Olivia. Olivia Owens.”

“I’m Trace,” he reached a hand up to me and I took it. It was warm and calloused, swallowing mine whole. “Trace Wentworth,” he grinned when my hand jerked at his touch.

Everyone wanted Cedar Reynolds. Everyone wished they were her. There was not a person alive who knew about Cedar and didn’t wish somewhere deep inside, maybe when nobody was looking, that they could one day be even a quarter as cool as Cedar was. To have her confidence, her fearlessness, her style. Goddamn, that girl was so ahead of the game that Anna Wintour would base the season’s trends on Cedar.

She was the perfect combination of open and mysterious, of fun and serious, of silly and sexy. She ruled Manhattan with a smile and while wearing six inch heels.

Cedar Reynolds was everything you wanted. She was a fireball of success. But like fire, if you got too close, you would burn.

Nobody is fireproof.

Not even Cedar Reynolds.

–

All everyone could talk about was Harold Feingold’s impending death. In hushed whispers, behind closed doors, using code words when out and about. It was how things like that were done. Just walking around and taking bets as to when one of the most powerful men in Manhattan would die was a terrible idea, no matter what way you looked at it. But he was dying, and they were talking.

With the fame that comes from holding nearly a monopoly on hotels in New York and being rumored to have connections to every group of organized crime in the city and a few unorganized groups as well, people are going to talk.

Harold Feingold was the American dream personified. There were three authorized biographies of his life, and he wasn’t even dead yet. If he equally distributed his money to every person living in Manhattan, they would all become millionaires. Not that he ever would, though. Harold Feingold was a believer in hard work for everyone. That old rich man who would spew vitriol about the homeless ruining the landscaping of his city because they were too goddamned lazy to get a fucking job? That would be him. And when you’re worth more than one billion dollars, you can say the sky is green and people are going to listen.

And now he was dying, because that’s what old bitter men eventually do. The poison that powered their lives finally catches up to them, and at the end, they’re nothing but shriveled skin and brittle bones and so many private sighs of relief. People hoped that Feingold would go that way. Old and frail, soiling himself and in general being an embarrassment to society in general would be a rather fitting way for him to go, but there he was. Incredibly ill, but with an iron back and the same fucking grin on his face when he efficiently and effectively destroyed your life.

But he was dying, which was the point, and also the question. Harold Feingold was the richest man in the whole damn state of New York, and he had no descendants. He had three ex-wives, all of whom he paid ungodly amounts of money to look and act like an ex-wife of his would look—rich, beautiful, successful, but just not quite good enough for him. Three ex-wives, and no children or stepchildren. There were rumors about illegitimate children, but nobody knew for sure.

All that money.

All that power.

And nobody had a fucking clue where it was going to go.

That’s how Harold liked it. And that’s how it stayed until the day he died.

And then all hell broke loose.

–

Cedar’s job as the curator and hostess at the Feingold Gallery of Exceptional Art had her waking up long before she wanted to. Sleeping in until nine was unheard of for her, unless she was somewhere on vacation. Even though the gallery didn’t open until eleven, Cedar was up and out long before then. When you’re New York City’s reigning queen, you never walk around with a hair out of place, with a nail chipped, or God forbid, in last season’s clothing.

But today was different. Cedar had gotten the phone call at six in the morning, hours before she normally woke up. She was at home, as always, even though she had been out the night before with Lawrence, who was still trying to get her to make things more permanent. And even though he was a Foster-Herrington, he wasn’t worth the trouble that would come along with a relationship. Not to mention he wasn’t nearly good enough in bed to make up for having to date him.

Her private line rang as she was headed toward her gym. Her private line, a number that only five people had.

“Cedar?”

It was Mr. Morris. Which could only mean one thing, because Mr. Morris never called. Ever.

“No,” Cedar whispered, her voice still hoarse from waking up.

“I’m sorry.”

“Dammit.”

“He passed away fifteen minutes ago. I called you as soon as I can.”

“Dammit.” Cedar clutched the phone tightly. “How could he?”

“I know.”

But he didn’t know, the idiot. How could he?

“He left instructions for a funeral,” Mr. Morris continued, his voice rough from a lack of sleep. He was Harold Feingold’s lawyer, which was more of a full time job than he had ever imagined it would be. The old bastard was dead, and he was still working around the clock. “He wanted you to arrange it.”

“He mentioned it to me,” Cedar said. “Earlier this week.” Dammit, why did he have to die today? Could the timing possibly be more inconvenient than it was now? Harold never gave a shit about inconveniencing others, but neither did Cedar. It was one of the reasons she liked him—genuinely liked him, and didn’t just tolerate her for where she got because of him.

“Excellent. Are you going to be at work today?”

“Of course.” Cedar headed to the gym. There was no point in throwing her schedule off entirely because someone died.

“I’ll send over the information for the funeral arrangements he wanted you to take care of.”

“Of course.” Cedar programmed the treadmill and started to walk.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Cedar,” he said awkwardly.

“I’m sorry for yours,” she replied, and almost meant it.

–

The gallery opened at ten on Tuesdays, and Cedar was there, fifteen minutes before, making sure everything was perfect. Some of the girls didn’t understand why Cedar insisted on having a job—hell, she had more than enough money already, and who wanted to wake up that early? But running the most coveted art gallery in New York was more than just a job for Cedar, it was how she kept her title as the Queen of New York City. The Feingold Gallery was the most exclusive art gallery in the entire city, if not in the entire country. And the only people who okay’d new pieces of art or new artists for the gallery were Harold and Cedar.

Having all that power made up for the early mornings and the sometimes very dreary and pointless days at work.

Traffic was terrible on the way to work, which could only be a bad sign about the rest of the day. Already, text messages were pouring in, sending condolences to Cedar, letting her know how sorry they were and if there was anything at all they could do to help her, she should just let them know. Most of the texts were pure bullshit, and if Cedar actually did need help, she would never dare to ask them. But the thought was nice, even if the thought was just that she should still think they were nice and wonderful people.

Cecil was already waiting for her, holding a tray of coffee in one hand and typing frantically on his phone with the other one. “Oh my God, Cedar, are you okay?” he asked as she stepped out of her car. “I heard the news and then there was crazy traffic this morning.”

“I’m fine,” she said, pulling out the key to the enormous front door of the gallery. “And traffic was terrible.”

“You’ve never been earlier than I have been to work,” he said, following her into the building. “I was freaking out.”

Cedar rolled her eyes as she flipped on the lights. “No reason to freak out. I’m here now.”

“Should we do something today? Because of his death?”

Cedar shrugged. She had enough shit to do for this funeral. She didn’t have time for any whiny things today to mourn Harold’s death. He was dead. The end.

God, if only she knew what was on his will. She would make his damn funeral, she would follow all his fucking instructions, she would pretend to cry at his funeral, and maybe then she’d learn what was in his will. If she had to fuck Mr. Morris to do it, she would.

“We’ll see,” she said. “Maybe we’ll change the decoration or something.”

“Put black fabric on all the mirrors?”

A bit overdramatic, yes, but maybe that’s what they needed.

“Maybe.” Cedar hung up her coat and put her bag down on her desk. “Check to see what kind of fabrics we have. Also, I want an inventoried list of all the artists displaying here now.”

“Do you want their social medias to be checked?”

“Obviously,” she said briskly. “They should constantly be checked, Cecil. You know that.”

“That I do, and they are.” Cecil placed the cup of coffee he bought for her on her desk. “You have an appointment at ten fifteen today. With Morgan Hyvent.”

“Which magazine is she from again?”

“Vogue. It’s for the article they’re writing about you.” Cecil had gotten dressed with extra care today. He always did—he worked in the mecca of art in the most fabulous city in America. And even though the clientele here was nothing but the most powerful, it wasn’t every day that someone from Vogue came. It was too bad it wasn’t Anna herself, but she didn’t go around interviewing folks for her magazine. Even if it was Cedar Reynolds.

“Well, then, we need to have the fabrics up before then.” Cedar checked the time and winced. Goddamn traffic this morning was fucking up her plans for today. Not to mention the fucking funeral she was going to have to plan. Not like she couldn’t do something like that in her sleep—she definitely could. But the issue was that she had to, that it had to be more perfect than anything she’d ever done, because the stakes were higher than they’d ever been.

Whoever would inherit was probably going to be there, she thought.

Which meant that the stakes were a hell of a lot higher than they were before. As if they could possibly be any higher.

Billions of dollars were at stake here. Not just billions, but her reputation. And Cedar was hard pressed to figure out which one she wanted more, the billions or the reputation. She wanted both, obviously. She wasn’t stupid. If she was stupid, she would never have gotten to where she was right now.

“We’ve got three different kinds of black,” Cecil said, spreading them carefully on the desk. “All of them completely cover the mirrors, and this one was the most expensive.” He pointed to one. “I think your dress was made from this material.”

“Which dress?”

“The one you wore to Wanda’s opening.”

“Oh, that one.” The one that made every newspaper and magazine cover her dress and leave Wanda’s actual art as a side note. Didn’t make Wanda happy, but that was what happened when you didn’t take care of yourself. “Use that one, then.”

“On it.” Cecil bustled from the office, leaving Cedar alone in her office. Fucking finally. Cecil was okay—as an assistant he was the best that you could get in the business. He was just too damn cheerful and positive all the time, not to mention naïve. He worshipped the ground Cedar walked on—they all did. Which was great, but his naiveté was a pain in Cedar’s ass.

She walked through her office slowly, adjusting pictures here and there, and starting the coffee and tea. Coffee and tea in her office weren’t just a casual ask if someone wanted a drink, it was a calculated move. And Cedar was going to pull out all the stops when it came to Vogue journalists. Court them, flatter them, leave them in awe and writing an article dripping in praise for her. And if not? Well, that’s what was nice about having all of Manhattan at her beck and call. She could destroy anyone with a phone call, and if she had to destroy this one, she would. It would be far from the first time.

Cedar turned on her computer, rearranged her jewel covered pens, and took out her Filofax. She lit a candle, her signature scent, one that the company made special for her. They sold the Cedar candle, which she had designed, but wasn’t the one she used. Exclusivity was the key to impressing. If you couldn’t have it, and Cedar did, it was just an extra thing for her to use to lord over people.

Phone plugged in, on silent, turned just enough that the reporter would be able to see how often she got a message, but not close enough to be able to read any of it. Everything was calculated. Everything was always calculated. You didn’t end up the most feared woman in New York if you didn’t plan well.

And Cedar planned well.

The sun shone through the windows, forming a halo around Cedar’s hair when she sat in her chair. She was ready for the interview now, and she still had another forty five minutes to go.

She flipped through her Filofax, and found the page of notes she had taken when Harold told her he wanted her to organize his funeral. She had laughed at him then, because Harold was never going to die. He was too mean, too horrible, too powerful, to ever die. People like him never died—they just kept going and going.

Cedar was never going to die. Or age. Girls like her lived forever.

–

What was in the will? It was driving Cedar crazy, even though she would never, ever admit to it. The day at work had flown by—between the interview, meetings, and her and Cecil calling and calling and calling to arrange the biggest goddamn show of a funeral that New York had ever seen. And through the whole day, all Cedar thought about was the will.

He probably left money to his housekeepers, they had kept their mouths shut through a hell of a lot of the shit that comes along when you have more money than God. And just because he was dead, it didn’t mean he wanted anyone writing any tell-alls about working for him. Harold Feingold on paper was a saint, and nobody who worked for him was going to be the one to change that. Mr. Morris was hired for life, and he was hired to make sure nobody decided that Harold Feingold’s death would be a good reason to talk about what actually happened in the house.

Money to… who else? Cedar had no idea. Maybe some to charities, just so people wouldn’t talk. Some for the gallery, even though it had been earning its costs since Cedar had opened it.

But the bulk of it, she had not a fucking clue.

Cedar stripped in her bedroom, and walked to the connecting bathroom. The bathtub was already full, and she stepped in slowly, sinking into the bubbling foam. A glass of wine was on a tray, along with her vibrator, cucumber slices, and an eye mask. Her housekeeper had left a few minutes before, and Cedar was blessedly alone in her house. She was free for the evening, something she hadn’t planned on. But Harold’s death was more important than the party she was supposed to be going to tonight, and she had to show that.

She was going to soak in the bath until her skin pruned, she was going to drink wine, and she was not going to answer her phone at all. She could say it was because she was so upset about Harold’s death, but really, it wasn’t. He was old, and old people died. It was upsetting, yes, but not as upsetting as she made it out to be.

If she didn’t inherit at least a large share of his estate, she was going to be upset.

Upset was going to be the mildest word to describe how she would feel.

Cedar was twenty six years old, and had been close to Harold since the day she turned eighteen. Eight years of being his protégé and of being the only sort of confidant he had should be more than enough to inherit.

She sank back into the bubbles, but not enough to get her hair wet. She was going to relax for now. She could worry about everything later. She had time.

–

Sitting at her desk a little later that evening, Cedar did the same thing she did every night—something nobody knew she did, and that she would never even think about telling anyone. She Googled herself. Well, she didn’t actually Google herself as much as she logged into a secret account and checked the Google alerts for that day.

Being Cedar Reynolds was a full time job, and that included making sure that all the PR about her was positive. Some people said no publicity was bad publicity, but Cedar was not one of those people. Yes, bad publicity made people talk about you, but some things didn’t need to be publicized. And luckily, they weren’t.

Morgan had tweeted about their meeting today, which Cedar thought was kind of odd, but she was nothing but singing praises of Cedar and the gallery so it was okay. Talking about how strong Cedar was in the face of such a tragedy. The president had commented on Harold’s death, and was said to be coming to the funeral. Who the hell was saying that, Cedar wasn’t really sure, because she hadn’t heard back from anyone at the White House, and neither had Cecil. He would have let her know right away because that’s what she paid him money to do.

She scrolled through the rest of the Google alerts, finding nothing else interesting. One article about Harold mentioned her in the context of poor orphan Cedar, which made her roll her eyes and take down the name of the person who wrote the article. It was true that Harold had taken her under his wing when her parents were killed, but it wasn’t like she was a poor little orphan.

But she could play one if she had to. With things like that, she always played the victim, and was careful to make sure she did. People liked you more when they believed you had a vulnerable side. Cedar’s was complete and utter bullshit, but nobody had to know that.

She got out of the tub, hair piled on the top of her head, rivulets of water running down her stomach and collecting neatly onto the mat. There was nothing about Cedar that wasn’t neat. Nothing. And if there was, it was ruthlessly dealt with until it was no longer an issue.

Cedar wrapped herself up in her robe, and slid her feet into her slippers, a pair of silk lined heels. Flats were for peasants, and any potential heiress of the Feingold fortune was not a peasant. Her housekeeper was, though, if her outfit today was any indication. And the fact that she was working as a fucking housekeeper, for God’s sake. Cedar thought about possibly instating a uniform to her house staff, and wrote a note to herself, reminding her to talk to Jean-Paul about designing a uniform. She had a reputation to uphold, and having a housekeeper in shitty clothing was not a way to do it.

A few more phone calls and emails were sent before she went to bed, satisfied. The funeral wasn’t until the next week, but it was going to be the most amazing funeral that New York had ever seen.

–

It was raining on the day of Harold’s funeral. Everything was overcast, and just gloomy enough to drop a layer of grey on the city. “Appropriate weather,” said one sober news anchor the morning of the funeral, “to mourn the death of one of the biggest men of New York.”

It was appropriate, and it worked wonders for the mood, but it did nothing good for Cedar’s hair. She had her makeup artist come over early in the morning, and helped her with a face that said “I’m mourning the loss of a person very dear to me, but I look fabulous while doing it”. Her outfit was going to be reported in every major newspaper in the country, because that’s who she was. And so she dressed appropriately. And had memorized the eulogy she was going to give, which was mostly lies. But nobody really cared. The funeral wasn’t actually a place for people to mourn the death of Harold Feingold. The funeral was a place for people to reassure themselves of their importance and their place in society. Not just anyone was invited to Harold Feingold’s funeral, because not everyone was worthy. The journalists had a separate corded area to watch and observe but to never forget for even a second that they were never going to be good enough to actually be invited to anything like this. Cedar had made sure only the reporters she approved of were coming to the funeral, and the rest of the paparazzi were located behind a line of the best security guards money could get.

It wasn’t just a funeral. It was an event.

And even though nobody attending the funeral would ever admit to it, going to Harold Feingold’s funeral was the same as going to a showing at the Gallery. It wasn’t for the reason they said they were going, and even if it was something they normally wouldn’t have ever done, they were more than happy to go. Get dressed in an outfit that people wouldn’t forget, mingle with the right people, and glory in where you were in life.

If you had to buy an extraordinarily expensive piece of art or cry a few tears, well, that was the price of admission for these kinds of things.

The casket was there when Cedar made her way into the church, followed by the insistent flashes of the paparazzi, silently clamoring for the best angle of her. Cedar Reynolds was a commodity, and even the paparazzi knew that. So, she wasn’t an actress or a singer, or anything else like that, and even though she wasn’t a Rockefeller or Astor or Thames, she was Cedar Reynolds, and everything she touched turned to gold. They all knew she wasn’t to be trifled with, and none of them had the guts to even try. They knew what happened to those who did, and none of them wanted to go down that road.

Cedar had made sure to have the photographers positioned to get everyone’s best side and angle, and after she discretely posed for the pictures on the way into the church. Harold wasn’t Christian, but there was something about the Thames-Harrison Church that felt like it was the best place for him to be eulogized.

It was the most exclusive church in the city, and nobody could just come to the church, let alone throw a last minute funeral. But Harold was Harold and Cedar was Cedar, and the church was more than happy to offer the building for the occasion.

Stained glass windows filtered in murky light, lending the whole building a feeling of slight gloom. Candles flickered, and it seemed like the building itself was mourning the loss of Harold Feingold.

Cedar walked slowly up the aisle of the church, toward where Harold’s body was lying in its casket. It was a closed casket funeral, because Harold did not believe in death, or dead people. He was cremated, because he didn’t believe in organ donation, either, but there was a casket, nonetheless. It was something large to bury, because tossing ashes in the wind was crass and hippy, and Harold had been neither of those.

Cecil rushed up to Cedar. “Everything’s under control,” he said quietly. “The Mayor is running a little bit late because of traffic, but he’s supposed to get here soon.”

“He damn well better get here soon,” Cedar snapped. “Fuck traffic, he has a eulogy to deliver, and I will not delay the funeral because he decided not to leave early enough. Doesn’t he have a police escort or something?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s only the president,” Cecil said. “I’ll check.”

“You do that,” Cedar replied, and, remembering where she was, continued down the aisle in search of the preacher.

Cecil sighed and texted the Mayor’s secretary. Not on his private cell, where Cecil would send dirty texts, but on his official Mayoral phone. The things he did for Cedar, seriously. Going through the back door of the church instead of the front, and didn’t even get photographed by anyone. Which was a damn shame, because he had dressed to the nines today. He better get a serious bonus for this shit. He wouldn’t, though, because that wasn’t how Cedar worked. Which sucked, but on the other hand, he was probably one of the best paid personal assistants in the city. Cedar wasn’t necessarily nice to him, but she sure as hell paid enough to make up for it.

His phone buzzed. No police escort. Fuck, Cedar was going to rip off his balls.

–

Cedar glanced around the rapidly filling church with satisfaction that would never show on her face. The Mayor was going to be here in another three minutes, and everything was running according to schedule. As it should be. The seating plans emailed the night before was a stroke of genius, in her opinion. Everyone was sitting where she, and partially Harold, had decided, and hopefully nobody would think of doing anything stupid, like flirting with the people they were fucking in front of spouses. Any other event it was no problem, and added to the entertainment for the night, but that wouldn’t be tolerated today.

If the net worth of all the people in this church were added together, it would be enough to put a significant dent in the national debt. Significant. The air smelled of money, privilege, and power. This may have been New York, land of the immigrant and city of the diverse, but in this church, it was New York, land of stock options, and city of real estate deals with a side business of who even knew. In this church, diversity meant that the only people in the room whose net worth were under one million dollars were corded off and sitting with pads of paper and a pen, scribbling notes about everyone whose net worth was more than they could imagine making a year.

Good, thought Cedar. Good.

Mr. Morris came up to here. “Cedar.”

She inclined her head. “Morris.”

“The Mayor is here and should be seated in a few moments.”

Cedar checked her watch. Perfect. “Excellent. Vanguard is starting, he’ll make his way to the front now.”

The musicians were in place. The sun was struggling to break through the clouds and was failing miserably. Some of the most powerful people in the United States were sitting in the lush seats, waiting for the service to begin.

This is what money can get you, thought Cedar. This is what real power gets you. And even though death wasn’t a thing she was going to contemplate for herself anytime soon, this is what she was setting her sights on.

Tomorrow, the newspapers would be full of pictures. Magazines were rushing to get out special editions, eulogizing Harold and remembering all he’d accomplished.

Being sweet didn’t get you any of this. Being nice, actually nice? Those people were the ones who were still working as reception somewhere in Queens. Being honest? Actually honest? Those were the people who lost their businesses, whose homes had been bought by Harold and sold for a fortune.

This was what you got when you went after what you wanted.

She looked at Vanguard, and nodded slightly. The head of the New York City Stock Exchange walked to the front of the church, and cleared his throat. There was immediate silence, followed by the sound of the front door being shut.

“We gather here today to celebrate the life and mourn the death of Harold Feingold,” he began, his voice echoing through the church.

Cedar relaxed a little bit, and took out her handkerchief. The world was Cedar’s stage, and this was another scene she would nail.

–

It was raining when they lowered the casket into the freshly dug plot of ground. Cedar cried softly into her handkerchief, making sure her mascara didn’t run. The gravestone was already in place, since Harold had ordered it when he got his first diagnosis, and the image of the ten men on Harold’s board lowering his body into the open grave, with Cedar standing alone crying a few feet back would be the one splashed on every cover of every newspaper, magazine, and website for the next week.

“Saying Goodbye to a Legend”, read one headline.

“Mourning a New York Giant”, read another.

Cedar was fawned over in every article. Flowers began to pour into the Gallery from all corners of the country, and Cedar’s staff spent all week redistributing them to different hospitals, nursing homes, and homeless shelters.

The reading of the will wasn’t going to be for another two days, and Cedar was going to lose her shit if she didn’t figure out what was in the will sooner than that. Fucking Morris was a waste of time, he wouldn’t reveal anything. Which was why Harold hired him, but that wasn’t any help for Cedar.

Nobody knew. Nobody, although a lot of people thought they did. The media did nothing the week of Harold Feingold’s death but talk about him, Cedar, and speculate exactly who was in the will, and what they would inherit.

“Of course it matters who inherits,” Cedar was quoted as saying. “Harold had an incredible amount of businesses that need the right person to make sure they keep running and keep hundreds of New Yorkers employed.”

Did she care that it wasn’t going to be her that inherited it all? They asked. Rather rudely.

She had smiled, and told them that she had more than enough to do as it was, running the Gallery and bringing only the newest and freshest artists to the New York art scene. She didn’t have time for any sort of real estate business or such. If she did inherit? She’d make it work.

She was Cedar Reynolds, the magazines gushed. She could make anything work.

Twenty four hours before the reading of the will, and Cedar was biting heads off her staff left and right. Cecil sent out a mass text to all the staff members at the Gallery, telling them that the next shipment of flowers were to be sent to St. Mary’s, but only if the flowers were red. Subtext? Stay out of Cedar’s way. It was code red emergency, and nobody wanted to be caught in that.

The last time someone did, they were escorted out by security, and last the staff at the Gallery heard, they were still looking for a job. A year and a half later.

Cedar pressed five on her speed dial and listened to the phone ring until it went to voicemail.

Why the fuck wasn’t Morris picking up his fucking phone? Cedar resisted the urge to throw her phone through the window. Maybe it was an emergency. She’d called him twice already today, and had a perfectly legitimate excuse for both of those phone calls. Just because Harold was dead it didn’t mean that he could just ignore her like that. The fucking nerve.

She fumed, and put her phone very carefully back on her desk. If he wasn’t going to pick up, well then, she would deal with things her way. And tomorrow, she would be at the reading of the goddamn will, or she was going to break into his office and read the damn will herself.

Tentative knock on the door. Cedar gritted her teeth, and then relaxed. Fucking up your teeth because you were upset wasn’t worth it. “Yes?”

“It’s Cecil. Whitney called about her new piece, and wanted to know when she should ship it in.”

“When she should ship it in?” Cedar snapped. “Did you approve of it?”

Cecil looked horrified. “Of course not.”

“I didn’t think you did. I trained you much better than that.” Cedar shook her head and turned to her computer. “She’s going to have to be dealt with, that one. Fine, her last pieces sold well, but she is nowhere near a place where she can assume—assume!—that she could just send something in without me okaying it first.”

Cecil waited quietly. It was never worth it to interrupt Cedar when she was like this.

“Email her and tell her that she needs to follow protocol that she agreed to when she signed the contract, and send us pictures along with a detailed description. And that if she tried to be presumptuous like that, it would take us a bit longer to consider her new piece of work.”

“Of course, Cedar.”

“Good.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Cecil asked, hesitant.

“No, but I would like a bottle of green juice.”

“Your usual?”

“Yes. And schedule an appointment for a massage for me at five, please.”

“Miguel?”

“Of course.”

“No problem.”

“There shouldn’t be a problem,” Cedar muttered as Cecil scurried away. This fucking will was driving her crazy. Why couldn’t he have just said something before he decided to up and die? How could she plan if she didn’t know what was going to happen?

She reached up and gently massaged her temples. By tomorrow evening, this would all be behind her.

Now, if she could just get through the next couple of fucking hours without killing someone. She was wearing silk. There was no way she’d be able to get blood off of this outfit.

He lived next door.

Alison Eckrich was an expert at being invisible. Having been raised by a mother who saw only flaws, she had learned long ago to watch and never participate. Until him. He was gorgeous from what little she could make out through his bathroom window and he awakened things inside her she had always been told was wrong. But she didn’t care.

She was addicted.

Gabriel Madoc was no stranger to the cold sting of betrayal. His broken heart had left him hard and bitter and that was how he liked it. Until her. She was a vision in the soft twilight. Everything about her called to him. It didn’t even matter he couldn’t see her face.

He wanted her.

Chapter One

Ali

“God, baby, I need you inside me so bad…” My husky moan fogged the glass, obscuring my view of the deep fried and smothered in chocolate goodness just one creepy glass lick away from being all mine. “But I can’t let you control my life anymore.”

The pimply faced adolescent on the other side of the counter fidgeted uncomfortably, clearly disturbed by my affections, and possibly the drool marks I was leaving on his pristine display case.

“Ma’am?”

Giving the pastry one final glance of longing, I turned to him. “Just tea. Decaf because I apparently hate myself.”

Still looking nervous—maybe he was afraid I would start making out with the register next—he punched in my order, muttered off my total and then scurried off to grab me a pretty white cup and fill it with hot water. I set my money down and waited, all the while casting furtive peeks at the Boston cream pastry eyeing me back with a seductive, chocolaty glaze that all but whispered all the ways it could make me feel muy mucho goodo because that was how all my dirty fantasies started—with my food sounding like Antonio Banderas.

My water and teabag were set on the counter and nudged towards me the way lions were fed at the zoo—with a long stick poking their meals in under a steel cage door. Only the stick was his finger and the counter was the only thing keeping him safe from my all out crazy. My money was swept into a sweaty palm and tossed carelessly into the register. The drawer was slammed shut. Then there was nothing left for me to do but leave. Yet my weakness took that moment to nearly win; I started to open my mouth to order the pastry anyway, to portray that fuck it attitude I only pretended I possessed. But who was I kidding? It would never be just the one and my ass could do without the extra pounds.

Dejected, I took my disgusting drink and shuffled off to find a table somewhere within the air conditioned heaven. No one wanted to sit outside when it was hot enough to fry bacon. But most of the tables in the small café were full by drone-eyed squatters slumped over their laptops and cappuccinos.

Bastards.

Moving quickly down the line leading all the way to the door, I bee-lined for the only available table out on the shaded patio. My scalding water sloshed in the cup, but stayed stubbornly within the confines of the ceramic.

The moment I shouldered open the doors, I knew I’d made a mistake getting tea; it was just too damn hot.

I glanced back over my shoulder at the line. Nope. No way was I standing in that death trap a second time, not even for a Frappuccino with whipped cream and chocolate syrup, which was what I had originally gone in to get, except the beautifully athletic woman ahead of me had ordered a soy, low fat, no foam, something-something-something latte and the guilt had been too much. When the boy had fixed me with those judgy little eyes, I had balked and let myself be swayed by peer pressure and shame.

Resigned, I went to the table and sat. I stuffed my purse into the seat next to me and wondered how to drink my tea without sweating to death. I started by dropping my teabag into the water and watching as dark tendrils escaped and tainted the clear liquid. I adjusted my glasses as they began to slide down my sweaty nose and squinted at all the blinding brightness around me.

The café sat in the middle of a semi busy street catering mostly to restaurants and coffee shops and the occasional art studio. I wasn’t normally a coffee drinker and art made no sense to me, but I liked people. More importantly, I liked watching them … secretly … from a very great distance so as not to have to interact. People fascinated me. The things they did half the time made me question just how much chemicals and hormones really went into our food. But the problem with the artsy part of town was that it was very shiny. Everything gleamed. There were lights everywhere and everyone was dressed in bold, flashy colors that hurt the brain.

Me, in my long black skirt and baggy blouse melded with the décor. I could never pull off bold and sexy. Hell, I couldn’t even pull off one of those. Most days, my face would be lucky to see makeup, just because it was time taken away from something less pointless. No guy that didn’t require coke bottle glasses would ever look in my direction twice. Everything about me was all the things most men never noticed in a woman, unless they were into lobotomizing their dates. I just didn’t have the right looks to get men excited. It was a fact I had come to accept. Me and my lowly little decaf cup of tea.

“Rats!”

The exclamation was followed by the ripping sound of paper and the thud of things striking pavement. I twisted around in my seat just as an elderly man dropped down next to his torn bag of groceries. Pedestrians flocked around him, parting like the Red Sea to avoid stepping on him, or his things. But no one stopped to give him a hand as he scrambled to scoop items off the ground.

Abandoning my untouched drink, I hurried from my seat and dropped down next to him. My hands closed around a bag of apples, a tray of fresh chicken breasts and several cans of corn. I hugged them to my chest as he dumped his armload into the torn paper bag.

“Here,” I said, pulling the bag to me and emptying my things inside as well.

There was a stalk of celery and a carton of eggs that had upended on the sidewalk. I managed to salvage the celery. But the eggs had already begun to sizzle against the concrete.

“I think your eggs are toast,” I told him, stuffing the celery into the bag. “Or fried eggs, I guess.”

The man sighed. “Figures. That’s what I get for getting them free range eggs for about ten dollars more.”

It was a struggle not to laugh at the disgruntled huff.

“I think I have a plastic bag in my purse,” I said instead. “We might be able to fit all of this into it.”

Taking the bag from him, I walked back to my table and dragged my purse over. I opened the first pocket and rummaged inside.

The man shuffled up beside me and whistled. “Now, I’ve seen some crazy purses women carry around, but that right there is a doozy.”

My purse really was unique. When I first found it, it had only had the one big pocket and the one tiny pocket sewn into the inside. By the time I finished with it, it had about twenty pockets in various shapes and sizes and they all carried something. I had everything from a tiny sewing kit, to a paperback novel nestled inside. There were packets of tissue, gum, a small set of screw drivers, several zip ties, different sizes of Ziploc bags. and even a flashlight. I had everything a person could possibly need for just about any occasion. Because of all that, the bag was actually kind of heavy, which came in handy if I ever had to hit someone, which hadn’t happened yet, but I was hopeful.

“I like being prepared,” I told him. “Here we go!” Shaking out the plastic bag, I slid the paper one into it and held it out to the man. “There you are.”

The man squinted at me with one brown eye. The other one was screwed shut against the sun and he had to cup a gnarled hand over his brows to see me properly.

He had to be in his late seventies with big, child-like eyes and a kind face that immediately made a person like him. What little hair he had was combed over the wide bald patch on his head and looked as fine as a baby’s. His frail body was tucked into a pair of beige trousers and a checkered top that was buttoned all the way to his throat.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Still holding the bag, I smiled. “Alison Eckrich.” I held out my free hand. “Everyone calls me Ali.”

He took it in a surprisingly firm handshake. “Earl Madoc.” He let my hand go and squinted some more. “Listen, Ali, you wouldn’t mind helping an old man get his groceries home, would you? My arthritis is just killing me today.” He rubbed his contorted hand, working the stiff muscles with a grimace deepening his wrinkles. “I live about a block down that way. I would pay you for your troubles.”

I waved away the offer. I was done with the whole fresh air thing and would have probably gone home anyway. Walking him would have been no skin off my nose, especially since he was walking in the same general direction.

I grabbed my purse, threw the strap around my shoulders, and took up his bag of groceries once more.

“Lead the way, Earl.”

Offering me a kind smile, he started forward at a shuffle-limp, like his right leg had been injured at some point and hadn’t recovered properly. I wasn’t sure if that was the case, or if it was just age, but I wondered why he didn’t walk with a cane if it hurt him as much as it seemed to. I didn’t ask. I figured whatever the reason was, it was his business.

We walked in silence for several steps and stopped at the lights.

“So what do you do, Ali Eckrich?” Earl asked as the lights changed and we started across.

“I am currently between jobs,” I replied around a tight curl of my lips. “I just moved here, so actually I’m kind of still looking.”

“No kidding.” He scratched his jaw dusted with a fine layer of white bristle. The sound reminded me of sandpaper. “Where did you move from?”

“Portland, Oregon,” I answered.

Earl’s eyes went wide. “An American!”

I laughed. “No, I was only there for school. I’m originally from Alberta.”

“What did you study?”

I pulled in a breath that smelled of fried hotdogs from the cart we passed and asphalt from the construction crew working on the roads a street down.

“I have my bachelor’s degree in business administration.”

Earl whistled through his teeth. “That’s fancy.”

“Four years,” I confessed.

“And they didn’t teach that here at the schools in Canada?”

I laughed at that. It was the same comment I got from my sister when I initially got accepted to the University of Portland. But at least she had known the real reason behind my need to get as far away from home as possible. Earl didn’t need to and I didn’t need to tell him.

“It was a growing experience,” I said, using my fall back response to most things.

“So you’re good with the books and things of a business.”

I shrugged. “Yes, and marketing and finances.”

“Interesting.” He scratched his jaw again. “Do you know anything about filing?”

“Filing?”

“Organizing,” he corrected.

I had to shrug at that. “I guess. Depends on what it is.”

We turned a corner and started down Pine Street. For a split second, I almost stopped, thinking I was inadvertently leading the poor guy back to my house. But Earl kept shuffling onward and I hurried to keep up.

“I just moved to this street,” I said. “My apartment is further down.”

“Yeah? My grandson did, too,” Earl said.

I started to ask where, when Earl veered left, hobbling his way towards a large, badly painted building that was impregnating the whole street with a powerful stench of motor grease, metal, and sweat. The rusty sign bolted over the trio of wide garage doors spelled, Madoc Auto Body Repair. The bay doors were all open to the bright afternoon. Two were empty. The middle one had a car hoisted on a lift. A man in a blue jumpsuit stood in the trench underneath with a handheld work light.

“It’s all right,” Earl called out to me when he realized I wasn’t following him. “This here has been in the family for near four generations.”

Curiosity perked, I knuckled my glasses back up the bridge of my nose and shuffled after him. Up close, the smell did not improve.

The man beneath the Pontiac banged on the underside of the car with a wrench; the sound swallowed the hum of jazz spilling from the boom box perched on the red toolbox next to the car. I watched him even as I followed Earl up a set of stairs built into the side of the garage, leading into what appeared to be an office cut out of gray stone slabs. It was impossible to tell what was hidden beneath the towers of paper that were layered over every available flat surface. There was another set of doors straight across, painted a harsh yellow that led to what looked like stairs going up. Earl stopped at the bottom, gripping the railing bolted into the side and leaned against the wall, his face flushed.

“The kitchen is straight up,” he panted slightly. “I’d show you, but that heat just about did me in and I can’t trust myself on them stairs right now.”

Concerned by the sheen of sweat glistening across his brow, I tossed a frantic glance over the room. I caught sight of a swiveling chair poking out from beneath the papers and hurried over to it. The wheels grated against the concrete as I shoved it to where Earl half slumped against the wall.

“Here.” I guided him into it. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you some water?”

Earl smiled at me. “You are such a sweet little thing.”

“Will you be okay if I run up?”

He waved me away as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Not wanting to leave him alone for longer than I had to, I hurried up the stairs, grocery bag in tow. At the top, I paused as the loft-style space came into view. The layout was straightforward with a bedroom set in one corner beneath a grand, bay window. At the foot of it, was a sitting area equipped with a leather sofa, recliner and TV. Across from that was a kitchenette and a bathroom on my right. I moved towards the kitchen. I ran the tap and occupied myself by shoving the groceries into the fridge while I waited for the water to get cold.

“Who are you?”

The pack of chicken breasts slipped out of my hands with my undignified squeak of fright and hit the top of my sandaled foot. I whirled around to confront the sudden explosion of words from behind me. The booming voice was male, but it was the volume of it, the sheer weight behind the sound that prickled the skin along my spine. My hand trembled as I fidgeted with my glasses, shoving them back into place so the dark, blurry shadow looming mere feet away could come into focus.

I wasn’t blind. I could see most things without my glasses. They just weren’t very clear. Everything had a fuzzy hue around the edges. Kind of like a smudged pastel painting, exaggerating the shapes and size of people.

This guy was not exaggerated.

No less than seven feet with a frame that was clearly stolen from some lumberjack catalogue, he stood blocking my escape. I mean, I could have maybe done some crazy ninja lunge over the counter, but that probably wasn’t going to happen. Instead, I stood there, slack-jawed, staring at the mountain man glowering back at me with a suspicion one would normally reserve for diamond thieves and those bitches who steal all the bikes at the gym just to sit and talk to each other.

He wore flannel, which only made my lumberjack theory all the more plausible. It was undone over a white t-shirt and form fitting jeans that hugged his lean legs the way I kind of wanted to. The hems fell over battered and really ugly boots that needed an incinerator to put them out of their misery and were frayed around the cuffs. His chest strained beneath the thin material with every breath and my gaze was drawn to the hard squares cut of his breast plates and along the wide lengths of his shoulders. The sleeves on the flannel were rolled up his toned forearms and barely concealed the raw muscles underneath.

Definitely a lumberjack.

Shit the man was hot. Screw Boston cream pastries. I’ll take two of him.

“Hello?”

Blinking, my eyes shot up to the head attached to that delicious body and my steamy fantasy bubble popped.

Thick, black hair covered his jaw and mouth in a beard. His hair was the same shade of ebony and hung uncut around his ears and over the collar of his flannel. From amongst all that hair, I could just make out piercing, intense gray eyes.

“Really?” I blurted in clear disappointment, my brain and mouth having lost communication at some point.

It was his turn to blink in surprise. He leaned over and snapped the faucet off with a smack of his palm.

“What?”

There was no helping it. My whole day was officially ruined and it was his fault.

Okay, I had no problem with men with facial hair. Sometimes, it was even hot. But not when it looked like he was going for a yearlong expedition through the Himalayan Mountains, or planned to live with bears out in the wilderness. There was a reason trimmers and razors were invented. And … Goddamn it! The dude was too hot for that shit.

“Are you lost?” he demanded when I could only stand there and silently judge him.

“I don’t know! Maybe you could loan me a compass!” I shot back. “Or a hatchet.” So I was just being crazy and I almost couldn’t blame him for his confounded scowl. I took a deep breath. “I’m Ali,” I said calmly and rationally. “I—”

“Gabriel?” Earl limped up the stairs, clutching tight to the banister until he was at the top. He looked better, I noted. The flush was gone from his face and he wasn’t panting. “I didn’t know you were here.”

Gabriel turned to the other man.

“Really?” I was amazed at how much that single question sounded like mine, full of indignant disapproval. “She’s not even half your age.”

I had not seen that coming.

“Whoa! Wait. What?”

I was ignored.

“Why do they keep getting younger?” he demanded of Earl. “You’re going to break a damn hip … again, and I’m going to have to listen while you explain to the doctor how you broke the fucking thing … again! You’re eighty years old, Grandpa!” Gabriel then rounded on me. “He’s eighty years old!”

“Dude!” I began, putting both hands up to ward off the craziness he was spewing. “I am not tapping that.” I winced and shot Earl a sheepish smile. “No offense.” I went back to glowering at Lumberjack. “So his hip is perfectly safe with me.”

Gabriel looked me over. Actually looked me over with a disbelief that was astounding. Did I have old man hooker stamped to my forehead, or something? Like seriously? I was insulted … and then he added salt to my injuries.

“I guess,” he mumbled. “Did he forget to return a book, or something? I didn’t know the library did house calls.”

How. The. Fuck. Did I go from being a hooker, to a librarian in the span of two seconds?

“Ali was kind enough to help me with my groceries,” Earl piped in before I could kick his lovely grandson in the family jewels.

Swooping down, I hefted up the pack of chicken still lying at my feet and shoved it into his gut with all the force in me. His grunt of pain was only mildly satisfying.

“I accept apologizes in written form only,” I growled through my teeth. “I like to file them under Fuckhead.”

With that, I stomped around him and started for the stairs.

“Ali, wait.” Earl hurried after me, and I only stopped for him. Otherwise, I was ready to make my grand exit, stage left. “Don’t mind Gabriel. His mother drank while she was pregnant.”

“Grandpa!”

He ignored his grandson, which amused me. I was really beginning to like Earl. Enough to sleep with him? Uh, no. But definitely enough to want to give him a high five.

“I still owe you for helping me with my groceries.”

I shook my head. “Really it’s fine. I have to get home anyway and continue the job hunt. But it was wonderful to meet you.”

“Actually!” Earl grabbed my hand before I could leave. “That’s exactly what I want to do.”

I frowned. “You want to help me job hunt?”

“Yes and no,” he answered with a chuckle. “We need someone with your expertise here at the shop and you need a job. I think we can help each other out.”

“What are you doing, Grandpa?” Gabriel demanded.

“I’m getting this place an administrative assistant,” Earl retorted. “Someone who knows how to do the books and filing, because apparently you got my brains when it comes to paperwork.”

Gabriel scowled. The guy was a professional scowler. I could tell. He was very good at his job.

“We’re doing fine,” he grumbled.

“Have you seen the office, Gabriel?” Earl countered. “I found a form the other day dating back to when the shop was first opened. We need the help.”

Gabriel seemed to chew this bit of information over, possibly literally. His face-bush kept twitching. Either that, or some unsuspecting rodent had made a home beneath that jungle.

“Fine. I’ll call someone,” he replied. “There has to be an agency, or—”

“Why when Ali’s right here?” Earl said, waving a hand at me.

Those smolderingly gray eyes darted to me and narrowed even further if possible. “You met the girl two minutes ago. How do you know she’s any good? Besides, she barely looks old enough to be out of school.”

Yeah, this guy and I would never be friends. He made me want to stab him, repeatedly, with something pointy and rusty. That didn’t make for very good friendship.

“I graduated with my bachelors last year,” I informed him sharply. “And spent the last ten months interning at one of the biggest ad companies in Portland. Trust me, I am very good at what I do.”

“And I am a very good judge of character,” Earl added. “I like Ali and since this is still my shop, I’m hiring her.”

Gabriel stared hard at his grandfather. “That’s not how this works. You need references and—”

“I’m not an idiot, Gabriel!” Earl snapped. “I’ve been doing this since before you were born. But she’s the one I want.”

It didn’t even dawn on me that I had just accepted a job at a garage. At that moment, all I wanted was to rub it in Gabriel’s smug little face. Then it hit me.

“Wait, you’re giving me a job?”

Gabriel threw his hands up. “Observant.”

I opened my mouth to tell him I was ten different belts of crazy and not afraid to use all of them on him if he kept pushing me, but Earl touched my arm.

“If you want it,” he said kindly. “It might not be all fancy, but you can start tomorrow. Bring your papers and Gabriel will go over them.”

With that, and a pat on my shoulder, he shuffled back down the stairs, leaving me alone with Mountain Man.

“Are you sleeping with him?”

Unbelievable.

“I don’t sleep with men to get what I want, Jack,” I snapped. “I’m perfectly capable of getting through life without offering my taco to every man that walks my way.”

That seemed to silence him. He watched me like I was some endangered species that just made no sense. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I wasn’t there for his approval. I certainly didn’t want it.

But, at the same time, I did need a job. After three months of unemployment, my savings had begun to grow a happy family of dust bunnies and I didn’t know when I would get another offer like that. Besides, it would only be temporary. I could watch my mouth and temper for a few months.

Gabriel turned his full attention on me, which meant not just his eyes, or his head, but his entire body so we were facing off. I hated that he was taller than me. Pretending to be a bad ass took extra effort when you were stuck glowering at a beautiful man chest.

“My grandfather is eighty years old,” he told me again in a deep, quiet tone. “He’s trusting of pretty faces, but I’m not. I may not have any say in who he hires, but that sure as hell won’t stop me from booting you out of here if I smell even a hint of foul play.”

“What exactly do you think I’m after?” I wondered. “And what exactly does foul play smell like?”

His gaze roamed along my frame, taking in everything from the chipped, purple nail polish on my toes to the messy knot that was my hair bun. I wasn’t sure which of that irritated him more, because his frown never shifted. He seemed to disapprove of all of me.

“Look,” I said, struggling to keep my calm when all I wanted to do was throat punch the guy for making me feel about two inches tall with just a look. “I get it. You think a woman doesn’t belong in a garage.”

“You’re right,” he said evenly. “That’s exactly what I think.”

It took me a full second to peel my jaw off the floor.

“That is the most sexist thing I have ever—”

“Do you know what women are, Ali? A liability,” he went on, ignoring my irate sputtering. “They come into a place and destroy it with the two ton bag of drama they heave around. I don’t like drama. And I don’t like trouble, which is exactly what you are.”

Any other time, any other person and I would have taken that as a compliment. As it were, his condescending bullshit pissed me off.

“And how am I trouble?” I bite out with all the composure I could scrounge up. “Is it the glasses, because I can vouch for their character?” His eyes narrowed, but I didn’t give a shit. “You know, this is why women don’t feel comfortable bringing their cars in to get checked, because of assholes like you who treat them like they’re braindead and unworthy of a fair exchange. You think just because we’re women and may not know as much about vehicles as men that we’re somehow less superior to you. Well, you know what, Jack, you can keep your fucking job. I wouldn’t work for you, with you, near you if you paid me in gold bricks.”

Whirling on my heels, I left.

I walked out of the garage without running into Earl. I briefly wondered if I should find him and thank him for the generous offer that I needed to decline, but thought better of it. I needed to get away from that asshole before I did something I might not regret later.

My apartment was a two block walk from the garage, tucked behind a towering wall of spruce trees. It sat nestled on a slight incline surrounded by Victorian homes and other smaller apartments. Mine was one of the older structures. The red brick was faded and chipped in places and the windows were the enormous panes used in lofts, but the rent was cheap and I liked the view.

The building itself had originally been two separate structures with six stories each. At some point, someone had connected the pair by a wall on either end, leaving a narrow gap in between that opened into a courtyard that was never used because realistically, it was a squished alley someone spruced up with flowerboxes. I could easily leap from my balcony into the apartment across the way … if I was Cat Woman, or a burglar. As it were, I was neither and had no desire to leap into an empty apartment. But the thing I did like to do was occasionally stand by the terrace doors and watch the lives of the people in the other building. As a person who lived on the sixth floor, dead center, I had the perfect angle to see most of what was going on in the other suites. Call me crazy, or a pervert, but most people in my position would do the same, especially since there was nowhere else to look, except to maybe count the bricks on the building. My neighbors were much more interesting.

I have always liked watching. I like seeing how people interact and behave alone and in groups. I like wondering what they’re talking about and what they’re thinking. As a child, I was the lone kid on the playground, the one that said nothing, but stared at the others as they ran and played. I was okay with that. I never cared that I wasn’t picked for teams, or asked to play skip rope. While I wasn’t some creepy shut in that liked collecting strands of my classmate’s hairs to make dolls, I didn’t go out of my way to make friends either. I still don’t. Friends are great, except I never know what to do with them. I see other people and it all seems so natural. They laugh and talk and make plans to talk and laugh some more at a later date. I would probably throw a fry at them and hope they were distracted enough not to notice me running away.

So I stayed home. When I did have to interact, I did so cautiously and tried not to make any sudden movements. Occasionally, I could even have full on conversations with people without anyone getting hurt. But I liked my solitary life. I cherished it even.

My apartment was designed by someone with no concept of measurements. Everything was done in extremes. The living room was barely big enough for a sofa, while the only bedroom was enormous. The kitchen was small, but the single bathroom could fit an entire Russian circus. The closet in the hall could have doubled as a second bedroom if it hadn’t been so narrow, while the pantry in the kitchen could barely hold a stack of towels. I was only thankful no one ever came to visit me or it would have been hard to explain why my bedroom was in the living room and why my living room was in my bedroom, or why all my food was in the closet down the hall near the bathroom and my towels were in my kitchen. It all worked fine for me, but I knew it wasn’t normal.

Tossing my keys and purse onto the glass table I kept by the front door, I kicked off my sandals and made my way into the bedroom. It was a short walk down a minute hall that split off in three separate directions. Right to the kitchen. Left to the living room and bathroom, and straight for the bedroom. My toes curled in the plush carpet that extended from wall to wall. Underneath it was the scarred hardwood that came with the place. But after a week of waking up to use the bathroom and having to tiptoe on what felt like a sheet of ice, I said screw it and splurged on a carpet. Best investment ever.

My bedroom was my favorite spot in the whole place and it showed. It was designed for comfort and easy access to everything. My queen sized bed faced the TV I had mounted over a glass set of shelves holding my DVD player and surround sound. On one side of the bed was my mini fridge. The other held an end table with a lamp and the remotes to the TV. The terrace doors were on the other side of my bed, draped in sheer curtains. On the opposite side of the room, against the wall that separated the bedroom from the kitchen was my vanity. Everything was within reach.

I stripped. I rarely saw the point of being dressed at home. There was no one there to judge me for the way I looked, or what shape I was in. It was my place of sanctuary. Plus there was something liberating about eating a cup of pudding completely naked.

At a little after six, I drew on a robe, turned off the TV and wandered into the kitchen for a bowl of something. My pantry consisted mostly of things that could easily be warmed, cans of soup, microwavable dinners, the occasional canisters of squeeze cheese. I lived for one person. Me. If I wanted to cook a full meal, I had the luxury of running to the grocery store, grabbing the items and coming home. But those desires were rare. As it were, I grabbed a bowl of cereal and made my way to the terrace.

Seven o’clock was when my neighbors came home. It was when the dark windows lit up and life happened on the other side of the glass. I treated seven o’clock the way soap opera junkies treated their favorite sitcoms, with reverence and excitement.

The steel hoops embedded into the curtains hissed as I dragged the sheer drapes across the metal rod. I propped the glass doors open to the muggy evening and leaned a hip against the frame.

It was still fairly bright out. The sun was just making its final descent behind the buildings, but the narrow notch of space that I considered my little world had shadows slinking their way across the bricks. The lights from the other apartments were sharper, brighter, casting the figures inside into edgy silhouettes.

There were eighteen apartments. Each floor had three windows stamped into the side. I had given each one a name, which periodically changed as the occupants did. For example, in the three months I’d lived there, no one had ever rented the apartment adjacent to mine so that had come to be known as the Empty. Levels one, two, and three were impossible to see into from my sixth floor view. So that left me four, five and six. Four was iffy. I could only see about six feet into their apartments. But five and six were gold and that was where my favorite people lived.

Window one, top row: Old Man and Young Girl I had assumed for the first three weeks were father and daughter. So. Not. I learned that the hard way while eating spicy curry and nearly dying when he heaved the girl against the glass and started fucking her.

Window two, top row: Empty.

Window three, top row: Crazy Jungle Couple who fought like piranha’s over fresh meat and made love just as intensely. They were better to watch than WWE on pay per view. I always had popcorn ready for when they got home. It was impossible to tell how the night would end.

Window one, second row: an Asian Couple with Little Girl. Watching them made me nostalgic for my own family, but then the girl would cry and throw things and that feeling would go away.

Window two, second row: Slutty Blonde with copious number of lovers. That week, she was banging the occupant of window three, second row, Handsome Dark Haired Dude with a beer belly but a seriously massive cock.

Row three was full of families.

Window one, row three: Single Mother with Little Boy. I would occasionally see him sitting at the window with his hand held game, munching on carrot sticks.

Window two, row three: Man and Woman with Twin Ghost Daughters. I was convinced those two girls were from The Shining. Creepy little shits. Every so often, I would look down and they’d just be standing there … staring back. Not blinking. It made it even creepier that they were both extremely pale with dead eyes and long dark hair. I shuddered every time my gaze roamed over their window.

Window three, row three: Large, Hairy Man with a deeper love of microwavable food than me, who spent a large portion of his time in his recliner watching football. I had a feeling he was a gambler, simply from the fits he’d always have when his team lost. It was irrational. But then what did I know about men and sports? Maybe he just had rage issues. Yet that didn’t explain why he’d get on the phone immediately afterwards and shout at whoever was on the other end. But that also could be explained. Maybe he had a friend somewhere else equally pissed and the two were venting to each other.

The fun was always in the guessing.

That evening, only three of the windows lit up. Old Man and Hopefully Not His Daughter came home first. She sauntered into the living room, tossed her bright, pink purse down on the sofa and flopped down next to it. Old Man ambled his way into the kitchen and yanked open the fridge.

No fucking tonight, I thought, shifting my gaze to the other two windows.

The Ghost Girls were back in their lacy, purple dresses, white stockings and jet black hairs. They stood shoulder to shoulder with their backs to the window. Their dad was hanging up their matching red coats in the hallway closet. Mom wasn’t home yet. She was a secretary, or a lawyer. She didn’t get home until about eleven, stooped over like her briefcase was filled with bricks.

The third window gave me a start. The presence of the pale, golden glow took my brain a full minute to process and even it knew something wasn’t right.

Window two, top row: wasn’t empty. There was movement behind the curtains. There was light!

“Holy shit!”

Cereal bowl abandoned on the glass table next to the terrace doors, I stepped further onto the balcony. My fingers curled around the cool metal railing and I leaned in as far as I could without forgetting my not Cat woman notion and making the lunge over.

But as quickly as all the excitement had started, it sparked in surprise when the light flicked off and there was nothing. My gaze darted from the windows to the glass doors, waiting like an eager little puppy begging someone to throw the fucking ball already.

Nothing happened. The lights remained off. Stillness continued.

My gaze narrowed as I straightened. “All right,” I mumbled to the silence. “You win this round, but tomorrow…”

I let my promise linger into the night as I stepped back into my apartment.

A.L. Jackson is the New York Times bestselling author of Take This Regret and Lost to You, as well as other contemporary romance titles, including Come to Me Quietly, Come to Me Softly, Pulled, When We Collide, and If Forever Comes.

She first found a love for writing during her days as a young mother and college student. She filled the journals she carried with short stories and poems used as an emotional outlet for the difficulties and joys she found in day-to-day life.

Years later, she shared a short story she’d been working on with her two closest friends and, with their encouragement, this story became her first full length novel. A.L. now spends her days writing in Southern Arizona where she lives with her husband and three children. Her favorite pastime is spending time with the ones she loves.

To stay up to date with important news on A.L. Jackson, including new releases, sales, and exclusive specials and excerpts, text “jackson” to 96000 to subscribe!

Title:     Sex. Love. Repeat.

Author:    Alessandra Torre

Genre:    Erotic Romance

I love two men. I screw two men. I am in a relationship with them both, and they are both aware that there is another. That is all they need to know, that is all I will let them know. They don’t need to know a name, they don’t need to know anything but that they are not alone in my heart.

They have accepted the situation. Stewart, because his life is too busy for the sort of obligations that are required in a relationship.  Paul, because he loves me too much to tell me no. And because my sexual appetite is such that one man has trouble keeping up.

So we exist, two parallel relationships, each running their own course, with no need for intersection or conflict. It worked for us, for them, and for me. I never expected it to be a long term situation, I knew there was an expiration date on the easy perfection of our lives.

I should have paid more attention, should have looked around and noticed the woman who watched it all. She sat in the background and waited, tried to figure me out. Saw my two relationships, the love between us, and plotted our demise.

She hates me.

I don’t even know she exists.

She loves them. I love them.

And they love me.

Everything else hangs in the balance.

Sex. Love. Repeat. by Alessandra Torre

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

*ARC Given to Blog for Honest Review*

4.5 “Madd” Kisses

Wow…wowowowowowow…speechless. I need words – can somebody help me with some words? Because this book just sucked my capability to form thought from my brain. There is one word that describes this book…unpredictable. Okay…there are more words…like holy-freakin-hell-hot, complex, passionate, intense, emotional, distinctive…GAH! I have wanted this book since I read the synopsis, needed this book since I saw the cover and now this book just owned my ass. I. Just. Can’t. Handle. It. Madison Decater…Madd…oh wow. Yeah, it’s completely easy to see why two men would fall in love with her. She has just about every positive quality you could think of smashed into one beautiful human being. She has not had it easy, which just adds to her loveable-ness…but it’s part of what shaped her into who she is now. Madison is gorgeous…inside and out, blonde hair, brown eyes…she’s athletic, smart, funny, loves to live life…has the best job ever a.k.a. works at a book store (I might be a little partial)…and her most endearing quality – she loves sex. She knows she loves sex and she’s 100% fine with that fact. I’m 100% fine with that fact because as long as all parties involved are being smart and healthy about it (in all aspects both physically and emotionally)…I say Party on Garth. Or Madison. In this case…she freakin’ rocks it. And I loved it. However, I do not for one moment though, envy the situation she got herself into. Equally in love with two amazing men.

‘I was, and still am, a dramatic rider. I believe that there’s no point in doing something if you aren’t going to do it with all of your heart.’

Paul Linx…he’s the first voice we hear from Madison’s POV…he’s not the first man we meet, but he’s the first connection I made. I cannot explain to you the connection and draw that I had to Paul but there is something very distinctive about him. He’s a surfer…he’s a kind soul…he’s a free spirit…he compliments Madison very well…and possibly the #1 thing I love about Paul…he gave her the nick name Madd. I loved how he and Madison met, I loved the sacrifices he made for her and all because he couldn’t fathom his life with out her in it…no matter what that meant for their relationship and where it took them. I also loved Paul because he’s a complete dichotomy…while he is this gentle giant that is so sweet and loving to Madison, would cut off a limb if she asked him to…he can still turn it around and show you this animal magnetism and strength that is totally and fabulously HOT. He is so passionate and sexy and sensual and just…sex on a surf board.

‘“I love you Madd.” “I love you too.” And I do. I love this man, who has not one stressed out bone in his body. He concerns himself with two things. Surfing, and keeping me happy. I love his outlook on life, a Bob Marley style philosophy. We fuck, we surf, and we love. There isn’t too much else to our life. To this half of my life.’

Stewart Brand…hmm…Stewart melted my panties off before 5%. There is no denying my lust for Stewart…I did grow to love him but OMG that man is just created for hot sex. And…that’s all he has time for. In Stewarts world it is job first, everything else second. But that is also part of his attraction. His drive, his dedication and his passion towards his job is…honestly, sexy. He has made a name for himself and has the lifestyle to prove it. The chemistry and sexual connection that Stewart and Madison have is something that I have rarely seen between to characters. Obviously, I love those all-encompassing emotional relationships where the couple have bonded over so many things…Stewart and Madison have one very common bond – Sex. Plain and simple. But it is a very deep and very special 2 year bond that they have both come to depend on. They both need each other desperately and as different as their relationship might be, I liked it and it worked for me.

“God…” he whispers. “You are my fucking kryptonite.” He leans down pressing soft kisses on my hair and forehead, his hand releasing me and cradling my face, turning it up to his, and kissing my fully and deeply on the lips. “I love you Madison. For everything.”

There is no way to talk about this plot and not spoil it. Oh and btw…don’t try to figure it out – because once you do, then something else will happen and then your brain gets scrambled and you don’t know what to think. Or…maybe that’s just what happened to me. I L.O.V.E.D. all the jaw dropping moments I had with this book. I could not get enough of it’s unpredictability and uncanny tendency to leave me gaping like…wait…did I just read that??? I re-read parts, not because I didn’t understand it but just because it was freaking GENIUS! Absolutely mind blowing! Completely spot on and I was eagerly turning each page waiting for the next breath-stealing moment. The complexity of the characters, the way all of them were sewn together so intricately, the feelings and the way it all played out – it’s like this beautiful symphony of hot, angst, drama, emotion and it all collided in my brain brilliantly. Most of the book is told from Madd’s POV but there are points that, because of the story line, we have to be in other POV’s and so it varies between Stewart and Paul. I liked it…I actually craved more of Paul and Stewart after that point.

‘I love her eyes. Love how I can instantly tell if she is mad, excited, or in love. Whatever the emotion whatever her temperature that day, there is lawas sex in those eyes. It floats off her skin, gleams in her eyes, and is in every move of her delicious body. This woman cannot exist without sex. It is her food, her body-sustaining air. I discovered that early, knew it from the moment of our second date. She cannot contain it, does not even try. She embraces it, owns it, loves it. She does not fuck out of insecurity or to get something or someone. She fucks because she loves it, and loves through it. It is her gift to the world and I am lucky enough to be a part of that world.’

So…the choice…as in every love triangle…has to be made. My choice was made early on – I was Team Paul (obviously!)…Stewart did it for me sexually but Patrick covered all the bases and then some. Did I flip flop…ehh…I can’t lie, I did, a little – especially towards the end, right before it’s decision making time because…the emotion is so high, feelings are coming out, things are being said, the truth is finally being heard and my heart just wanted to explode because…a part of me did want them both. But…a side had to be picked. I can’t say which side Madison chose…because that would be spoiling…but I can say that regardless of whether or not it was my choice in what I wanted for her…I was happy with what she did. Everything in this plot from beginning to end was logical and flowed with the characters…including everything leading up to the ending and I really appreciated that.

‘My smile widens, and I laugh, dropping my bad on the floor and wrapping my arms around his neck. “God, you are impossible.” “What can I say? I’m addicted.” His words are soft, so sweet and sincere that they tug my heart in a way that cannot be described.’

I cannot get over my addiction to Alessandra’s writing style. I have said it before and I will scream it from the roof-tops…I love her brain. She never ceases to amaze me with her ability to write these crazy story lines that I never see coming…the completely engage me from the first page to the last, I never get bored. If anything I’m holding my breath half the time waiting for the next click of my kindle to see what kind of mind fuckery might be waiting for me on the next page. And…the dirty book whore in me must address the fact that without a doubt is she one of the hottest writer’s I’ve ever read. It’s erotica people…and she lives up to that genre proudly. If erotica’s not your thing, that’s fine – but it’s mine and she is the queen of making me pant, beg and drool for more. It’s not superfluous of gratuitous, at least not to me – but there is a lot of it and it’s just…to quote her… ‘Hot, fuck-my-panties-to-pieces, sex’ – that’s what you get. Every time. And then some.

‘I love her. She knows it. I don’t hide the fact. But I don’t think she knows how much I love her. How much my chest expands to a point of pain when she smiles. How I ache when I leave her, how my hands shake when I finally get to touch her again. She is everything I don’t deserve, and everything I could ever hope to attain.’

Oh…and the ending. The last chapter was fabulous…I had my HEA…my nice little happy neat bow…BUT Alessandra Torre always likes to leave me with the WTF moments…and this one – she left for the end. The epilogue. The pull the rug out from under you moment that makes you sit back and question a lot. Not everything…but a lot. Makes me look at things in a different light…Madison actions…reactions…it’s just interesting to say the least. Puts a totally different spin and I have to tip my hat to Miss. Torre for knocking me on my ass and now I’m just begging for more. There’s nothing left to be had but…I’m a glutton for punishment and Alessandra gives it out so well. She will forever be the queen of leaving me breathless in so many ways and I just cannot get enough of the magic that comes out of her brain.

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A New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal Bestselling Author, Alessandra Torre has written seven novels, four of which became #1 Erotic Bestsellers.

Her first book, Blindfolded Innocence, became a breakout hit, rising to the top of the charts on Kindle and Amazon where it attracted the interest of major publishing houses and garnered Torre her first print deal with Harlequin HQN. Less than twelve months later, Torre signed a second print deal, this time with Redhook (Hachette) for her erotic thriller The Girl in 6E.

From her home near the warm waters of the Emerald Coast in Florida, she devotes several hours each day to various writing projects and interacting with her fans on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest. Happily married and with one son, she loves watching SEC football games, horseback riding, reading and watching movies.

Torre has four books slated for release in 2015. To stay informed, consider subscribing to her popular monthly newsletter.

Did you see Gabe’s Love Note to Lena last week?  *sigh*  He is just amazing…

Steph’s youngest daughter was born with a rare heart defect called TAPVR. Britta is a happy, healthy three year old now, and also the inspiration for Even the Moon Has Scars.  In honor of Heart Awareness Month, Steph will be running a sale on Even the Moon Has Scars from Feb 16-23. We would love for you to join us in spreading the word! #1in100

Even the Moon Has Scars by Steph Campbell

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

*ARC Given to Blog for Honest Review*

4 “scars” “hairline fractures” Kisses

Twenty-four hours + two fabulous characters + countless emotions = happy book nerd! 🙂 Seriously…I can’t even get over what Steph Campbell just did. The concept, Lena, Gabe, the angst and feelings it brought out in me…it’s flippin awesome what I just experienced. Even the Moon has Scars was unique…original…captivating…beautifully written and insanely memorable.

Gabriel Bryk Martinez…Gabe…oh my rebel with a big heart. This boy…*sigh*…I dunno what to do with Gabe because…he really just wants someone to love and to be loved back. It’s really that simple. Gabe’s capacity to love blew me away…past his rebel exterior, he doesn’t have a mean bone in him. He’s a protector…he’s smarter than I think people give him credit for…I think he’s a bit of an old soul, which I’ll blame his grandpa for. He’s not perfect…he’s done a few things I think he regrets but he has so much potential, just begging to be set free. I honestly fee that Gabe’s really a great guy, he was just unfortunate enough to get stuck with two parents who didn’t know how to love each other…and he’s the causality of that. His mother has better things to do than be a mother and his father…well, I think his father is still trying to figure himself out. That leaves poor Gabe…has everything he needs provided for him, except for the one thing he wants. I really wasn’t expecting to adore Gabe as much as I do…I feel like I got to know him better…because he’s kind of the ring leader of the nights activities…so I guess that helps, but he surprised me with every new thing I learned about him.

‘There hasn’t been a lot more than small talk since we left Gloucester, but I get the feeling this girl is more than just the cute exterior. There’s something clawing at her beneath the surface. Something that wants out. She just hasn’t shown the true Lena tonight.
I know because I’m pretty damn good at hiding, too. I wonder when the last time she did let her out was.’

Lena Claire Pettitt…doesn’t that just sound like the name of a good, sweet, innocent girl? Well…she really is, through and through. Lena has lived a very sheltered life…it’s not a bad life, she has loving parents, an older sister that tolerates her, a passion for painting…she’s smart, funny, pretty…but the most important thing about Lena is that she has that life at all. She is a miracle…a real bonafied medical miracle…the combination of two heart defects that coulda/shoulda/woulda killed her…but didn’t. The problem with that…her parents treat her like a miracle. To a certain extent…I get it, and they’re protecting her with the best intentions…she’s not like every other child…but the negative impact of never being able to be free and do what she wants is starting to take its toll…mentally and emotionally. I really liked Lena…I may not be able to relate to her completely, but she is a very enjoyable character. While she’s not experienced…she’s not naïve and I loved watching her blossom throughout the course of the book. And all because she took a chance on a boy…

‘Everything about his life is confusing to me.
He has all of this money and freedom, but it’s like it only gets in his way. It’s like having all of those things prevents him from being the person he really is. Like maybe he doesn’t even know who that person is at all.
And maybe he thinks no one cares if he’s a whole person or not.’

I can’t even tell you how hard it is to wrap my brain around the fact that this book revolves around basically a 24-hour period of time. Actually a few hours less than that, but let’s not get too particular here. The bravery it took for both of them to take a chance on a perfect stranger is…kinda awesome if you ask me. They both had to put at least a little bit of faith in the fact that the other wasn’t completely psycho…but even from the beginning…there was just something about the two of them that just clicked. I thoroughly and completely enjoyed getting to know Lena and Gabe…that was all part of this fantastic journey. Coming to understand two completely different and distinctive individuals who still had so much in common. There pull and connection was there…constantly, consistently, so of course that’s what hooked me but watching their bond grow, understanding them both more and more…it’s indescribable…it was all part of the magic and mystery that made me fall in love with them.

‘I link my fingers through hers and with her soft touch, there is a lightness in my chest. A wall has come down. Lena and I aren’t the same people we were a couple of hours ago, sitting across from each other at the diner.
Right now, with her hand in mine, I’d give her whatever she wanted. I’d answer whatever she asks. It’s different being here in this place with Lena. Everything looks exactly the same, but it feels different.
I don’t know if it’s the place or it it’s me.’

It’s funny because when I sit back and think about all that happened…all that they did…it’s nothing extraordinary. I mean…it kind of is for Lena because, well, anything other than staying at home or doing the few list of parental approved activities…that night is the most exciting thing she has ever done. But everything they do is spontaneous and it’s like going on a rollercoaster with a blindfold on. You never know what’s going to happen or what kind of emotions it will bring out in you…but it’s still exciting. I truly wasn’t expecting the kind of angst that I experienced either…gah I was rooting for Gabe and Lena with every word I read. That was the thing…even through the rough times, the awkward times, the times when both of them were forced to face things they didn’t want to…it was still amazing to read. Watching Lena open up to a perfect stranger…admit things she never had…face her scars, I was inexplicably proud of her. And Gabe…he deserves so much better…so much better…and I think that might be one of the many reasons why he was drawn to Lena…because he knew she was better for him.

‘“Tired? I ask. She lays her head on my shoulder and closes her eyes.
“I guess,” she says. “This— this entire night— it just feels like it was a dream.”
I know what she means, but it’s not. Because I can feel the sliver of warm skin on the small of her back where the sweater she borrowed last night has ridden up. I can feel her breath on my neck, and her hair draped over my chest. I can see the thumping of her pulse in her thin-skinned wrist on the hand that she has laying in my lap.
And I’ve never felt anything more real than what I feel right now.
With Lena in my arms.’

I could go on for days about these two characters…days I tell you. They bewitched me. And…now it’s confession time…don’t stone me…but this is my first Steph Campbell book. I know…I know…I’m kicking myself. The flow and pacing was perfection…the transition from Lena and Gabe’s POV was fantastic…I loved the angst…the emotion was spot on…it all mixed together to form a story that entranced me. I still cannot get over that this was only one night…the beginning…the tip of the iceberg for these two. Do I want more? Umm…of course I do, have you met me? I’m the captain of the Clinger Club…and while the epilogue helped, a little, my imagination is running wild with what if’s and all the possibilities that are contained within these two amazingly gorgeous creatures. If the first day they spend together can be that epic…how could I not want more??? But for the record….Oh-My-Goodness…the epilogue. Seriously. Seriously? I’m pretty sure my smile could have been seen from space. That epilogue made me way too ridiculously happy…and considering I wasn’t ready for Gabe and Lena to be over…that’s saying something.

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Steph Campbell grew up in Southern California, but now lives in the hot, humid south. She has one husband, four children and a serious nail polish obsession. When she’s not writing or taking care of her brood, she’s reading or scouring travel sites, always ready for life’s next adventure.