by Tiana Laveen
Unwrapping
Jordan
Written by Tiana Laveen
Edited by Natalie G. Owens
Cover layout by Travis Pennington
Blurb
Jordan DeMarco has a taste for revenge. After getting even for a scandalous betrayal, he heads back home to Boston for the holidays, where his hot-tempered grandfather, melodramatic mother, opinionated sister, and the ghostly memory of his deceased father await. Despite hoping to make this visit short so he can return to L.A., he finds his best laid plans were meant to be broken.
Egypt Lynn Callahan has cherishes the small victories in life. She’s a web designer, an unofficial professional chocolate taster, and relishes quiet evenings in the company of her friends. Her calm world comes crashing down when it becomes quite clear that her old crush, Jordan ‘The Ram’ DeMarco, has strolled in from the City of Angels. Worst of all? He is looking for her, and she wonders if she should remain out of sight.
Jordan has never forgotten Egypt, and his chaotic existence has now left him reevaluating his life, especially regarding the one that got away.
Will Jordan receive his wish to finally have the love he so desperately wants from a woman who captured his heart so long ago? Will Egypt be able to trust him after the way he’s torn her heart in two?
Read ‘Unwrapping Jordan,’ to find out!
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2020 by Tiana Laveen
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are fictitious and products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. PIRACY IS AGAINST THE LAW.
WE AUTHORS WORK HARD TO BRING YOU THESE BOOKS.
We love what we do, but it costs time and money for us to produce the quality content that you expect. We have families, just like you. We are not volunteers. We deserve compensation for our work.
THEREFORE, PLEASE DON’T ILLEGALLY SHARE AND STEAL COPIES OF OUR WORK.
PIRACY IS THEFT.
IF YOU DO IT, YOU’RE A CROOK.
STRAIGHT. NO CHASER.
DEDICATION
A Dedication of Revenge
This book is dedicated to the crotchety woman who smelled of malt liquor and menthol, and who used to mooch and unlawfully use our apartment washers and dryers with a sense of tremendous entitlement on a consistent basis in the senior apartment building I inhabited, even though she was not a tenant and didn’t pay rent. The very building I lived in during a portion of my twenties. (Yes, I lived in a senior living building by myself as a young adult, by choice, and loved it. Long story for another day.) I don’t know the “delightful” woman’s name, only recall her McGruff, ‘The Crime Dog’ voice, laden with decades of hearty interminable smoking and perhaps a few occurrences of being choked nearly to death due to her reckless mouth… but I digress. Anyway, whoever you are, this tale is dedicated to YOU.
I especially wish to thank you for the time you tried to hem me up in the corner of the elevator while I clung to my groceries, knowing full well the cameras were on the blink, demanding I tell you which resident had removed your clothing from the washing machine you weren’t even supposed to be using. (Yes, I’ve repeated that for good measure.) I especially value when you got in my face yet again one dreadful, rainy evening, your breath smelling of rancid luncheon deli meat and beer, and said, “I’m a ghetto woman, bitch. You think you’re better than me, don’t you? Fuck wit’ me if you want to. See what happens.” You’d told me moments prior that you were tired of me judging you with my eyes…
Ma’am, I didn’t know you.
I never spoke to you.
I STILL don’t know you.
I never initiated conversation, nor did I wish to engage you in any shape, form or fashion.
At the time, you intrigued yet horrified me. I found you oddly fascinating and have held onto you, at least a piece of you, all these years. These memories created a blank canvas to paint you on. The perfect combination to be transposed into one of my books. You became a character in my mind. The bones and broth of something delicious to stew slowly, finally coming to fruition. Soon after moving out of that building, I regretted not busting you in the damn mouth when I had the chance. Nevertheless, as you can see from my elegantly poised pinky finger, my posh pink and gold cup of chamomile tea, my pearl necklace adorning my lightly perfumed neck, and the doily-like demure blouse collar with ruffles and lace, I’ve turned a new leaf.
I’ve decided to embrace kindness and forgiveness. Let bygones be bygones. No time for grudges and holding tight to past offenses. I’ve decided to free myself from ‘Petty Betty’ behaviors, to finally, once and for all, release daydreams of revenge against you. Your constant eyerolling, threats, encroaching on my personal space, asking intimate questions regarding my private life, and then drilling my guests and asking them on occasion for money—I let go of that. Yes, I release it all! I send you, and people like you, positive thoughts, instead of glorifying in the fact that your grandmother had to ring the police due to one of your many late-night, intoxicated shenanigans.
So, in an effort to live in love and not war, in maturity not childishness, I bid you peace, Ma’am. May your laundry always be clean. May you find harmony and comfort. May your arrest record be expunged. May you not sound like a drunken Barry White even while sober. May your breath be minty fresh. May…Oh, the hell with this. No sense in being fake.
IT WAS ME, YOU MONGOOSE-FACED, TRIANGLE-BUILT IGNORANT ASSHOLE (‘MASSHOLE’, FOR THOSE OF YOUR FROM BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTES), WHO REMOVED YOUR ATROCIOUS CLOTHING OUT OF THE DAMN WASHER THAT NIGHT IN QUESTION, AND SLUNG THE WET APPAREL ONTO THE FLOOR WITH VIGOR, YOU IMBECILIC BITCH!
(insert evil laughter.)
HAHAHAHAHA! HA…. HA…..HAAAA. HAAAA!
…HA.
FUCK YOU.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Half-Title
Title Page
About this Book
Copyright
Dedication
Warning
Love Letter to my Readers
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Unwrapping Jordan Music Directory
About the Author
WARNING
Okay, time to get serious again.
Please do not skip this section.
The warning is here for your protection
and to provide a heads up.
This book is intended for mature readers ONLY. As the author, I never wish for my readers to be blindsided. If any of the below-mentioned topics offend you or may be a trigger, please proceed with caution:
1. Ample profanity
2. Graphic sexual encounters
3. Discussions regarding racism and prejudice<
br />
4. Violence
5. Discussions of death of a loved one
One more thing: For those unfamiliar with my work, I purposefully write ‘goddamn’ as ‘gotdamn.’ It’s an intentional spelling error. Just personal preference.
Let’s continue…
Love Letter to my Readers
Dear readers, please bear with me. I’ve decided to write a story set during the holidays, with a heavy emphasis on the celebration of Christmas, in order to uplift your mood as well as my own. No matter what time of year you’re reading this, it’s meant to bring some joy to your day and a smile upon your face. Let’s be honest. Whoever you are, whatever you believe in, life can be arduous. The truth is now questioned, and lies are upheld. Wrong is viewed as right, kindness is synonymous with weakness, and protecting those who can’t protect themselves is looked down upon. We’ve entered a lopsided door that leads us into a vast land of more questions and no answers, a Twilight Zone of sorts. A place that features everything as upside-down and inside-out. It can be troubling if you think about it long enough. When you repeat a lie often enough, with an authoritative voice, to disgruntled individuals who desire something to believe in, it’s spell casting.
We’ve become mesmerized, desensitized, and hypnotized. We’re living in a world that we hurt, and it hurts us back. No one is to question why it’s (the world) upside down. In fact, if you do question why it’s in such a state, you’re ridiculed, perhaps called a conspiracy theorist or worse. There are no calls for civil discussions, courteous disagreements, or an overwhelming desire for upliftment and understanding. There’s just us. And them. We’re enemies with our friends and loved ones. People we’ve known for years we suddenly may not be communicating with. This is chaos. There is no peace in chaos. This isn’t how the story is supposed to end, is it? Well, by now you are probably wondering what am I getting at? What am I rambling on about? I’m telling you now, more than ever: We need comfort. We need education. We need love and healing.
Books are being purchased to calm nerves and soothe souls. People are reading at a voracious rate. There have been political, vocational, spiritual, emotional, physical, metaphysical and mental cataclysms. Those who’ve never suffered any major depression are suddenly finding themselves booking an appointment with a psychiatrist and getting prescribed medications. Others are suffering in silence. Self-medication can come in all forms. Reading is one. A positive one, indeed. A desire to edify oneself, disappear, and elevate to a higher plane for one’s own well-being is the order of the day.
There’s been a sense of dread that many, not just across the United States, but in all the world, have had difficulty shaking. We’ve had to prove to our families, friends, co-workers and most notably, ourselves that we can survive the storm. That we can turn this problem into an awakening that leads to spiritual and mental growth and abundance. We understand that when under pressure, we can either fold or come out stronger. We also, perchance, appreciate just how precious love and life are.
This year, for us authors of the tales of love, a test was set at our feet. There was no wrong answer. Some of us made the decision to pour ourselves more heavily into our books, to self-evaluate and follow new ventures, place writing aside temporarily, or curl up and freeze. Sometimes, all four of these occurred depending on the given day, week, or month. We were faced with the same issues as our readers, and some of us even felt guilty for writing HEA books during such a stressful time in our history.
IR authors have been particularly challenged due to the recent blaze of racial turmoil in the United States. Blood is being spilled, and yet, we were expected to sit behind a desk, at the kitchen table, on the patio, or in our bed with a laptop on a tray, or wherever we create these worlds that exist in our minds then transport onto paper/computer, and tell a love story that involved the affection between a Black woman and her non-Black hero.
Some readers and authors, however, felt this was the PERFECT time to write IR/Multicultural stories because when our worlds are grim, we can at least crack open pages, or scroll through the screens on our Kindles, Nooks, or whatever e-reader of choice, and escape what at times feels inescapable. We can write/right wrongs through our prose. We can avoid the noise from outside, the harshness of the planet, by delving into a new book. One thing that is not avoidable, however, is the truth.
Truth can be woven into fiction. I find that to be a beautiful thing. Veracity is persistent. It will keep arriving at our door until we answer. The truth has to be looked at and examined. Acknowledged. We can run and run, but eventually, we will only run out of time. I write for many reasons. My books are my truth. Though they are works of fiction, it’s important to me that the characters and situations be three-dimensional. Relatable. Tangible. I have been writing since I was a little girl and learned the alphabet. I made up stories in my head, wrote them in notebooks, and typed them out on my mother’s old typewriter. I drew pictures on the back of cardboard, used soap as my medium along bathroom mirrors, and vibrant markers on a bedroom wall… much to my parents’ dismay. I am a professional escapism artist.
I had to be, for there were things going on that were out of my control, which forced me to get creative in order to preserve myself and do what humans do when under pressure: SURVIVE and THRIVE.
Jordan DeMarco is a survivor and thriver. He came from a tough, hard as nails family, and is a product of his environment. When an opportunity arose for him to leave Boston and head to the hills of Hollywood with a full college scholarship, he was hesitant until he saw the great opportunity for what it was. Much to his surprise, life seemed to instantly get better in L.A., so much so, he managed to convince himself that his old life in Massachusetts no longer existed. The past is the past, right? One thing is for certain: no matter how we try, the past rarely allows us to fully forget it. It sets the scene for our development. it’s the Chapter One, the Genesis of our existence. Reality has a way of catching up with us, doesn’t it?
It certainly did with Jordan. Things began to tumble around him. The truth demanded to be seen and heard, thus, he had to return home. To Chapter One. He was certain it would be a brief stay. But then… he saw her, and time stood still.
Egypt Callahan was a girl he ‘used to know.’ She was good-looking, curvy in all the right places, had a heart-shaped face, rosy cheeks, and big bouncy curls. He enjoyed their conversations as they’d walk to school, but he never made his intentions clear and he’d never regretted anything more. Egypt was the type of girl who became your best friend simply because no one could fill her shoes. Magnetic. Certain. Vivacious. REAL. She kept your secrets. Laughed at your jokes, and told you hard truths and beautiful things all within the same breath. Jordan was far less sophisticated.
He was popular, athletic, rowdy, and too smart for his own good. Egypt was not supposed to notice him, and he wasn’t supposed to notice her… but one night, they did more than notice one another. That day was long gone, but pieces of her remained with him, and he hoped the same happened with her.
Pieces. Broken pieces. Where did they come from?
Perhaps a heart… Egypt Callahan was minding her business, and minding it well. Working for a company where she is in charge of their regional websites and online marketing information, she stays busy and enjoys her career to the utmost. She has friends, family, a closet full of clothes, shoes and purses, and of course, her favorite coffee shop is a mere block away. Everything was calm and quiet while she prepared for her favorite holiday, Christmas, but then, all hell broke loose.
That hellion went by the name of Jordan Antonio DeMarco.
Jordan was tall, muscular, and Italian, with light amber eyes. He had a killer smile, exquisite physique and enough swag, vulgarity and audacity to last a million lifetimes. Unfortunately for Egypt, who’d managed to push the bastard out of her mind after he went away for college with not even a goodbye, Jordan returned to the scene of the crime, hellbent on getting a second chance with her. What started out as a friendly h
ello turns into an erotic, wild few weeks where inhibitions are emancipated, harsh truths revealed, and even harder decisions made.
In the end, Egypt is left asking herself if Jordan is for real this time, and is he truly redeemed, while Jordan wonders, “This time, will I be able to do what I wanted to do way back then—convince her that we belong together?”
Come along on an enchanting holiday tale that can be read during all four seasons. A story of love, forgiveness, hot chemistry and the dancing of souls.
Grab your drink and a scrumptious snack. It’s time to unwrap Jordan…
CHAPTER ONE
You’re on Candid Camera
“Of course I made it. I’m your best man. I wouldn’t miss this for the world! Traffic. Ya know how it is.” Jordan rolled his shoulders then slipped on the tailored black tuxedo jacket. The groom, Dennis, one of his best buddies since they’d met at UCLA, threw him a suspicious glance. The guy ran his index finger along his chin as if deep in thought, then turned around, disapproval clearly etched across his face. He knew that damn look. Dennis could undoubtedly smell the alcohol on his breath.
In fact, Jordan had been drinking all damn night and morning. Unapologetically. The bachelor party the evening prior had been full of scantily clad strippers, big silicone tits that shook violently in his and the rest of the dudes’ faces, and enough pussy to satiate a nympho for days. Regardless of the good time he was certain he had, some of his memories seemed to have evaporated. Some portions were clear as glass, others obscured in a thick fog he wished he could shake. Flashes of that night bolted through his brain right then, making him blink and shake his head, as if he were trying to rid himself of a sudden headache. He was in fact surprised he didn’t have a hangover. Somehow, he’d escaped that fate as his liver fought for dear life. Last night was crazy.
