by C B Cox
NOT MINE TO TAKE
C B Cox
PRAISE FOR C B COX
“Intriguing, strong characters and full of atmosphere. Incredibly evocative…”
ADAM CROFT #1 International Best Selling Author of Her Last Tomorrow & Tell Me I’m Wrong
“An excellent debut! Intriguing plot with well drawn characters. The pace picks up to a gripping, dramatic finish that kept me guessing to the end - 5 stars!“
The Word Is Out - Alyson’s Reviews
AMAZON READERS
“A triumph 5 stars!”
“Incredible debut novel!”
“Tense and beautifully written…”
“A great storyline. Great characters. Would definitely recommend.”
What if your hopes and dreams become your worst nightmare?
COPYRIGHT
Not Mine To Take © 2020 by C B Cox. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author. Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
www.indiumbooks.com
Facebook: C B Cox Author
Cover design: KWC
Proof reader, Editor: KWC
Publisher: Indium Books
First Edition
READER’S NOTE: This novel has been written in American English.
DEDICATION
For Mum & Dad,
Pamela & Derek
Always In My Heart
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY C B COX
THANK YOU
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Chapter One
FEBRUARY
Today is not my birthday. It’s someone else’s.
It’s biting cold outside. Even with my coat and muffler pulled tight around my neck, I can’t get warm. The morning sky is pale and benign. The sun sits low. Manhattan’s streets shine with cruel, black ice.
Tears roll down my cheeks and smear my makeup. Ice entombs my broken heart.
I skid the Explorer to a halt and step out into the raw, frigid air. My feet crunch on compacted snow. I slip-slide to the rear, fling open the tailgate, lug out four garbage sacks, deposit them on the sidewalk and crash the tailgate closed.
I gaze up at the ten story brick and glass edifice. My husband works in this citadel of capitalism. Is dealing in futures, actual work? I breathe deep. Exhale. My breath condenses and billows away. Captured in the building’s ominous shadow, I shiver and pull my coat a little tighter. I throw open the rear passenger door, and the pungent sweet aroma of decay assails my nostrils. Acid bubbles in my throat. Nausea washes through me. I fortify myself and snatch a bouquet of pure-white gardenia from the seat. The handwritten note tied to the bouquet reads:
Happy Birthday, Darling. Love always, Charlie X
Beneath the message, ten kisses create a perfect inverted pyramid. Is it a heart? Or is it something a little more feminine?
I throw the bouquet atop the garbage sacks. Retrieve the gas can I found beside the ride-on-mower in the garage. Unscrew the cap. Recoil from the potent fumes. I want to puke. I breathe away the sensation. Swallow hard. Holding the can at arm’s length, I dowse the pile with gas.
The pounding in my ears increases to a crescendo. My breathing quickens. I struggle with the serrated steel wheel of the cigar lighter taken from the desk in his den.
Why won’t the damn thing ignite? I think.
Flames of rage course through me. I douse them by sucking in air through gritted teeth. I clench my fists and stamp my feet in frustration. My thumb becomes raw from striking the tiny metal wheel. It stubbornly refuses to spit flame. I’m about to dump it in the gutter, when a dancing blue flame shoots out and the heady aroma of lighter fuel stops me in my tracks. I stare at the flame in disbelief for a long second before coming to my senses and tossing it on to the pile of garbage sacks, crowned with the bouquet of blooms.
The funeral pyre I’ve constructed contains expensive Ralph Lauren riding and sailing attire. Trembling and mesmerized, I watch the fire take hold. Several minutes pass. A loud crack from the fire breaks me from my reverie. I fumble in my purse for my cell phone, stab the screen and open recent calls. Charles’s perfect white smile fills the small screen. His unwanted appearance threatens to steal my resolve and the conversation I’ve rehearsed in my head innumerable times, since accepting delivery of the misdirected gift this morning.
The intensity of the fire on the sidewalk is hot against my legs. I clutch the handset against my ear and take a step back.
Don’t step away. I tell myself.
Charles collects the call on the second ring.
“Hey, beautiful.”
Upon hearing his smooth, baritone voice, my throat constricts involuntarily.
“Hope? Are you there?”
“Look out of the window, you bastard,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Hope?”
I imagine him striding across the open plan office, halting at the window with his cell phone pressed against his ear. On queue, he appears precisely where I expect him to be.
“What the… Hope?” Panic replaces his usual relaxed informality.
“Fire your PA, jackass,” I say. “She’s mixed up your wife with your mistress.”
“Fuck.”
“Today is not my birthday. Whose birthday is it, Charles?”
He takes a measured breath. I imagine him gathering his thoughts – getting his story straight in his mind. Eventually, he says, “Jeez, Hope, you’ve got this all wrong. Stay there. I’m coming down.”
“No way. There’s nothing left to say. We’re through.”
“Honey, let’s talk.”
“I’m seeing my attorney. Tod
ay.”
I kill the call, slam the tailgate, swing into the car and drive off. Shards of ice smash against the floor pan. The angry sound ricochets around the cabin. In my mind’s eye, I see him gazing down in stunned silence as the rear lights fade into the distance, mumbling, “Come back, Hope. I love you…”
I’m paralyzed by despair.
Get a grip. My inner voice chastises.
My knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. I step on the gas.
I have to get away.
Chapter Two
The journey to Staten Island passes in a blur. I lock the front door behind me and leave the key in the lock. Should he show his adulterous, sorry ass, he won’t be able to get in. I drop my purse on the hallway floor and stand against the door. I can’t breathe. There is tightness around my diaphragm. A tourniquet of anger, hate and heartbreak tightens around my chest.
Without warning, I taste vomit. I stumble along the hallway, fling open the kitchen door and race over to the sink. I retch until my ribs are sore. When I’m done puking, I collapse into a blubbering heap in the middle of the kitchen floor. I’m bereft and broken. Tears cascade down my cheeks, soaking my sweater. My bangs are plastered to my forehead.
Lost in my despair, I sob uncontrollably.
My ten-year-old golden retriever, Bella, angles her head to one side and circles me warily. Her ears lay flat. Her tail is pushed between her legs. She’s confused and apprehensive. When she can bear it no longer, she nuzzles her beautiful golden face into mine and I hug her soft neck.
“Oh Bella. What am I going to do?”
Huge, placid brown eyes meet mine. We stay there on the kitchen floor for hours. I’m thankful that Charles stays away. When the voices in my head quieten, I hear the incessant pings of arriving text messages from deep within my purse on the hallway floor.
I crawl over to the sink and drag myself up to the faucet. Satiate my thirst with two glasses of crisp, ice-cold water. I stand over the sink and gaze across my idyllic, suburban garden. My focus shifts, and I see my red, puffy face reflected in the glass. A drip of snot rolls towards my top lip.
Shit. I’m a mess. I need to talk to someone.
I retrieve my cell phone, ignore the missed calls and text alerts and call the only person who can help me out of this emotional hell.
“Martha, it’s Hope. I’m at home. Alone. Charles is having an affair.”
“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”
Chapter Three
MAY
Martha dumps the manuscript – my manuscript – onto the table. It impacts with a dull thud. I flinch.
She has my full attention.
“Your publisher rejected it,” she says, flatly. No sugar coating.
Feline-like, green eyes burn into me through chic, black-rimmed glasses. She doesn’t need them. They’re a statement. They complement her pixie-cut, jet-black hair and expensive French couture, or so she says. And they do.
I love her. Martha Kline is my agent and my best friend in the world.
I know when she’s pissed with me. Martha broadcasts her feelings like a billboard – good, bad or indifferent – she lets you know exactly what she’s thinking.
Uncomfortable under her steely gaze, I look away in the hope I might find a friendly face amongst the mahogany, copper and tinted glass of the trendy 5th Avenue cafe in which I’m sat. I find only apathetic eyes. I’m invisible to my fellow Manhattans. All around me people are deep in conversation, staring at smart phones, or satiating caffeine addictions. Alone in my misery, I suck in the heady coffee aromas in the hope I might acquire a caffeine fix by osmosis.
The volume in my head hovers around maximum. The angry whir of the coffee grinder and the steam train hiss of the milk frothing machine make me wince. I rub my hands along the inside of my thighs. Close one eye. Pain sears between my throat and left ear. Martha raps her knuckles on the polished mahogany tabletop and brings me back to the room. I’m desperate for caffeine.
“What the hell were you thinking? You’re a romantic novelist and a pretty successful one at that. But this…” She stabs at the manuscript with an immaculate, French manicured finger. She wants to vent. No point in trying to stop the inevitable. I draw a deep breath, intertwine my fingers and wait for the tirade to start. “…is bullshit. It pains me to say it, but the writing is second rate. As for the storyline, jeez, you’ve certainly vented your spleen. It’s got more venom than your snake in the grass, soon-to-be, ex-husband.”
My shoulders relax. I let out a silent sigh. Release the tension in my neck with a click. Her tirade isn’t as barbed as I’d expected. I can’t blame her for being angry; fielding an unpleasant call from my publisher can’t have been easy.
Martha’s right. What was I thinking?
I ought to have missed the deadline. Used my marriage break up as an excuse. Delayed. But no, not me, because I’m stubborn. And, if I’m being completely honest with myself, I’m petrified of my publisher, Alistair Joyce; a tour de force in the publishing world. Disappoint A.J. at your peril. Instead, I’d made my fingers bleed – metaphorically speaking – bashing out words that reflected my dark state of mind. The book I spat out was a lifetime away from the romantic stories my fans have come to love, and expect.
My heart is lost. Replaced by a facsimile copy, hewn from granite. My faith in humanity, shattered. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to write meaningful words again. I visualize the headlines:
BEST SELLING AUTHOR DITCHED. FAIRY TALE OVER. LOVE RAT ENDS BLOSSOMING CAREER!
“Well?” barks Martha, leaning back in the style-over-substance chair, waiting. Her bottomless green eyes sear into my hopelessness.
We’ve been in the cafe for ten minutes and I’ve yet to utter a single word. I feel the heaviness of tears in the corners of my eyes. Seeing my hurt, her resolve softens.
“I could murder him for what he’s put you through, I really could,” she says, shaking her head, grinding perfect teeth. “Married to the sweetest, prettiest, most up-and-coming novelist in Manhattan, yet the creep still feels compelled to screw every impressionable socialite with a goddamn pulse,” she says, in her feisty southern Atlanta drawl.
She sighs, shakes her head dismissively and beckons the waitress over with a waved hand.
“Martha, please don’t.” My throat stings and tears well up behind my eyes.
Please make it stop.
I don’t want to cry. Not here. Not in front of Martha, my hard-ass confidante and closest friend. But here she is, twisting the knife. My fragile composure crumbles. A solitary tear roles down my cheek.
“Oh, so you’ve not lost your voice? Your talent, but not your voice?” Her face contorts into a scowl so deep, that she has to adjust her glasses.
Right now, I’m afraid of ‘Pissed Martha’ too. I brace myself for another sermon. Thankfully, it fails to materialize. Instead, Martha relents. A rich chuckle escapes her lips. She cups my hands across the table.
“Ignore me. I love you, ditz. Jeez, you’re so gorgeous and vulnerable.” She gently wipes my tear away, strokes my hair. “Look at you, with your corkscrew blond locks, baby blue eyes and the sweetest, most kissable pink lips this side of the Mississippi. Why don’t you do yourself a favor and come over to the other side, darlin’?”
Martha is coming on to me.
Our caffeine free, skinny chai lattes, arrive. The tension evaporates with the steaming cups. I loathe chai latte: much prefer a black, caffeine packed, java. Considering my current predicament, who am I to argue with Martha’s current health kick? The sweet, cinnamon taste of chai catches at the back of my throat. My stomach turns cartwheels. I swallow the lump rising in my throat. Suck a long invigorating breath. Meet her stare with doe eyes. She pulls her bottom lip across her teeth in a sour grimace.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
I’m pathetic. Martha is being cruel to be kind. She’s got my best interests at heart, I know she has, but it doesn’t take away the feeling of inadequacy. It j
ust makes me want to cry all the more.
“How can I pour out sickly sweet love stories when all I feel is bile and hatred, Martha?”
I know she understands, but I’m under contract to write three romance novels over the next three years. If I were to lose my publishing deal, I’d have to return a sizable chunk of my advance. I wouldn’t be able to pay the rent. Charles won’t help. His new beau is bleeding him dry. He has zero empathy for me, or my financial fortunes. Martha would lose not only her commission, but worse still, her reputation as one of the best literary agents in New York. It would be the deepest cut.
“Look, forget about Charles son-of-a-bitch Madison. He’s history. It’s not as if you need his filthy money, is it?” Lightness and warmth settle in her eyes, her face. ‘Kind Martha,’ the Martha I love, reappears.
