by Leanne Davis
Devon
The Son Series, Book Three
Leanne Davis
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
Next in Series
Excerpt
Other Books by Leanne Davis
About the Author
Chapter 1
CLAUDIA
I suck in a breath and mentally prepare to enter his bedroom. He isn’t answering my knocks. He either passed out from alcohol or fell into a sex coma. Could be both. I gnash my teeth as my hand grips the round silver doorknob. I detest having to do this. Of course, Devon would argue, and quite correctly, that I don’t have to. I choose to do this. I choose to bring this on myself. But I would argue back to him—and my nagging inner voice—he’d be screwed for life if I don’t do this.
I clench my teeth, chanting to my brain: be ready for anything. Anything at all. Opening the door might break my heart into a thousand pieces, or perhaps it will just irritate me. He might not even be here, and all my anxiety and anticipation would be for nothing, although my heart would dip since I can’t see him. I hate myself for all three possible reactions.
Why can’t I just be content with nothing? Friendship? Friendliness? I wish I didn’t have any feelings about whatever awaits me on the other side of the door. For many years I’ve wished this.
Seems like I’ve never stopped wishing for it. How long have I fretted and mooned over the one guy I can’t have? Worse still, the one guy I can’t seem to get over. Devon.
Devon Willapana. Stupid Devon. Wonderful Devon. He is both and everything in between.
Now here I am having to forcibly enter his bedroom. Strike that, I don’t have to. But if I don’t, no one else will. It could mess up his life and the most important relationships that should mean the world to him. He is allowing her to almost ruin it for him. Once he gets over her and grows up, he’ll see she isn’t worth the loss of his entire family. And if he fails to show up today, they will be furious. So furious, it might do long-term, if not permanent, damage to their opinions of him. That matters, even if right now Devon doesn’t see it. I do. And sometimes I know Devon better than he knows himself. That includes knowing what’s best for him.
Like today.
So whatever I find in this room is just whatever it is. I came here to give him plenty of time to dress and get decent, so I might as well start the process.
I turn the door handle and barely open the bedroom door a crack. Childishly, I fight the urge to squint my eyes shut. But that’s just stupid. I might be considered clumsy and sometimes perhaps a bit too bubbly, but I was never stupid. My college grade point average and test scores confirm that. I lift my eyes up and see Devon sprawled all over his bed.
He’s lying on his side with one leg bent, the covers stretched super low over his butt. I pry my gaze off him and try to avoid staring at him in this situation. It isn’t how I would choose to find him. Unfortunately, there were a few other occasions when I had to drag him over to visit the family. It wasn’t the first time I observed this kind of behavior and also not surprising to walk in on this exact scene. Lying next to him is someone. I suck in an involuntary breath as if the edge of a sharp knife has just made contact with my skin. God! I detest someone else being there, like this.
But that’s Devon. And this is what he does. And how he chooses to live his life. This is also how he chooses to treat the women he brings into it.
I hate it every time I encounter it. His behavior sometimes even makes me hate him. I shrug my shoulders and remind myself that isn’t the point of my being here today. My mission is to expedite his journey into someday-in-the-future, a day when he will (hopefully) turn out to be a better Devon. But mostly, my mission is for Dayshia. She deserves to have Devon in her life, even if he hasn’t earned her love or affection yet. Nor has he earned me and what I have to offer him. Not yet.
The prickling stab is moving from my skin to my heart. That’s because I’d take him in a nanosecond the way he is, even like this.
I hate knowing that pathetic frailty about myself.
The thing is, it’s not even a consideration between us.
I stand for a second to steel my heart and brain as I prepare to face this. For Dayshia.
Slamming the bedroom door, my intention is to awaken them. Oh, how I hate that it’s a them. Who is she? Someone he met through work? Or friends? Or possibly picked up last night? There are half-filled bottles of beer on his nightstand and clothes strewn at the end of the bed and across the floor. Devon is so meticulous at work, but outside of it he is the opposite.
She testifies to that. She, whoever she is, awakens suddenly when I slam the door. Her neck strains as she glances at me over her toes. She isn’t covered up either. Her eyes are glazed over, but after a second, she becomes aware of the situation and gasps. Her arm covers her chest, and we stare at each other. I am looking over her toes at the moment. Then, she says, “He’s married?” in a tone that sounds both defeated and sadly, tolerant. Dear Lord, the woman seems so familiar with these situations. Maybe she ought to find a different type of guy.
I shake my head, averting my gaze to stare at the door of his walk-in closet. “No. I’m just a friend. Sorry. He has an appointment, and I’m here to collect him. He didn’t answer his phone or my knocks, so here I am.”
I hear her sighing from the bed and sense her moving. From the corner of my eye, I see her legs swinging over the side of the bed. She leans down and takes a moment before she rises. She puts a t-shirt of Devon’s on, and it nearly covers her as she gets to her feet. Now that she’s clothed, I can turn back and observe her. Tall and gorgeous, with rich, smooth, black skin, her hair is neatly slicked back into a bun. A few fine hairs have escaped, presumably from last night’s activities.
She turns and pushes on Devon’s ass. “Hey… someone’s here.”
Grunting, Devon pushes her hand off him and turns away. His torso is barely covered by the blanket and sheet, dangerously close to revealing his bare ass. He buries his face harder into the pillow.
“Hey… um…” She pauses as she glances back at me. Crap! I think she’s trying to remember his name. She rubs her temple, and her eyelids look heavy, and she swallows as if she’s very thirsty.
I shift my glance from her and say loudly, “Devon. Hey, Devon! Wake up!”
His head pops up, and he cranes his neck before he catches me in his view. The moment that happens, I watch his entire body stiffen before he flops his head back down and begins talking into the pillow. His words come out both garbled and muted, but the annoyance in his tone is sharply clear. “Get out, Claudia.”
Get out, Claudia? His terse response rings through my brain, making my anger rise like bubbles in hot water. The woman in his bed doesn’t even know his name. Doesn’t that make him feel bad? Or does he feel nothing? Screw him. Clip him off like a dead branch and screw him. But of course, I never follow through with that wise advice.
“Devon. You have to get up now.”
He turns away from me, so I have to stare at the back of his head lying on the pillow. “I don’t have to do anything. You can just leave.”
“You have to come. You can’t—” My tone rises with my anger. I’m interrupted by the quieter, deeper voice of the stranger who keeps staring between us.
“Um… perhaps… you could give us a moment of privacy?”
Devon’s head whips up and back when he realizes it isn’t my voice. I almost screech my annoya
nce out loud. He didn’t even remember she was there. Not until that moment. She, whoever she is, seems to realize that, and her lips tighten. He sits up in the middle of his bed, draping the covers loosely over his lower half. I hate myself for staring at his naked chest. He isn’t cut anything like his brother. He’s much more slender. He hates that description too, but… he must be my type, since I still can’t pry my eyes off him. I am practically salivating after him, despite all the reasons why I should not. Including the woman now standing between us whom neither of us can identify.
He stares at the stranger before blinking a few times. Perhaps his brain is clicking through his memories of last night to figure out what happened. And then without even giving me the dignity of glancing my way as he addresses me, he says, “Get out, Claudia. I’m not going.”
“Damn it, Devon. I—”
“No.”
“You have to go.”
“I don’t. I don’t have to do anything.” He sighs, and his shoulders slump forward before he rubs a hand over his face. “Privacy. Boundaries? We’ve already discussed this.”
“We only discussed you not hurting your one-year-old niece.”
The noise he makes is a cross between a moan and a grunt. “Claudia—”
I step back and turn around. He’s awake, so I guess my mission is successful for now. I turn and slip out the door, clicking it shut behind me. His apartment reflects his life here. His condo sits right on the Columbia River, close to downtown Vancouver, above a long, white sandy beach. When the river is low enough, one can walk along it until a man-made rock wall rises up and separates it from the paved walking trail. The condo units have green lawn that spreads over the gently rolling grounds. I sigh as I walk toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame his dining and living room. All of this is probably why the owners can charge premium rates for this location.
His high-end condo is furnished with charcoal leather seating that complements the white and gray hues of the custom kitchen. It’s both modern and warm. Devon was quite young when he began devising his ambitious plans. Now he is well on his way to making them a reality.
If only stupid Ireena hadn’t interfered with his ambition and crushed the man who is now lying in his bedroom, trying to figure out the woman’s name with whom he did the most intimate act, although he made it the cheapest, most vile and mundane act. I hate knowing that.
It’s a few minutes before the door softly clicks. I glance over my shoulder. The woman is still buttoning her blouse. She’s tall and classy with a regal air about her. She’s a dead ringer for Ireena Monroe. It’s obvious his preference in women is the opposite of me.
I’m short, blonde, and ordinary. I’m also the bane of my adolescence; I’m cute. So cute. Shirley Temple with sausage curls cute. I never quite managed to shake that image, and I’m twenty-five now, with a successful career and a master’s degree under my belt. I finished high school and earned a two-year transfer degree in conjunction with my high school diploma. In two years, I earned my bachelor’s in business. After turning twenty, I started working on my master’s degree and finished when I was twenty-two. Then I moved to Vancouver to begin working for my dad’s corporation, Tamasy Industries.
My natural, corkscrew curls and bright blonde hair—Southern California-blonde—and the fact that I smile often result in people calling me cute. I don’t try to smile all the time. It’s just how I am. And how I lead my life. When I see new people, I smile at them. If I happen to get into a confrontation? I end up smiling to diffuse the other person’s anger. I also remain pretty optimistic, which only heightens my overall bounciness and ensures it will continue to haunt me.
The woman presses her lips together when she notices me. Her mouth tilts up into a ghost of a smile. I smile, too, but not as brightly as I normally would, and she nods before she turns to disappear forever from his condo. I have no doubt she will not return. But the thing that disgusts me even more is that Devon so blithely and easily sleeps with women he never intends to see again. The irony is that on the day he quits following that basic pattern, my heart will break in two. That would mean he found a girlfriend, and I don’t want to suffer through it again, not like I did with Ireena Monroe.
Several minutes after that, Devon jerks open the bedroom door. He is dressed in a gray sweat suit. Being a runner, he jogs every single morning of his life. That’s why the condo location is so perfect; it butts up to a public park that features miles of paved trail right alongside the river.
His face is frozen with displeasure as he scowls at me. I scowl back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Claudia. What the hell? Why would you come into my bedroom?”
“Why not? You let complete strangers in there.”
“To fuck, Claudia. You want to go in there to fuck?” He smirks. He is saying that to antagonize me. Heading towards the kitchen, he is not even worried how I’ll react. I feel like kicking the sofa in front of me.
“You didn’t even know each other’s names.”
He starts filling his coffee maker before he stops and glances at me. “Nope.” He scoops out the coffee grounds and adds the water without an ounce of curiosity as to how I found him this morning. Or any of those other mornings, for that matter. I turn my head to prevent him from seeing the flash of hurt that must cloud my features. I try to stay neutral to his face, but I don’t know how well I manage to hide things. Certain things. Big things. Things such as being in love with him since I was born. Hell, I don’t know how long it’s been but for my entire life sounds about right.
He’s got three years on me, and I can recall my reverence toward him when I was very young. Now, I don’t revere him so much, but I can’t banish the age-old feeling and my “crush,” (God, I wish it were only that), which often feels more like love. But how should I know? I’ve never actually been in love. At least not in a reciprocal, grown-up way.
Do I revere him now? Not right now, not at this moment, no. But in general? Yeah, there are things about him I adore and others that I resent. But of late, things turned sideways for Devon. I am tired of trying to convince myself his behavior is at the core of who he really is.
I walk towards the long eating bar that separates the kitchen from the living room and dining room.
“She didn’t get offended?”
“At what?”
“You couldn’t remember her name.”
He smirks. “She couldn’t remember mine. I wasn’t offended.”
“Did you ever know it? Last night?”
“I suppose. Otherwise, I got game beyond what I even realize.”
I roll my eyes and clench my teeth. Ugh. I hate him when he gets like this. Stupid Ireena. I think she ruined him. “But you both forgot?”
He rubs his forehead. “I’d say that was after several pitchers of margaritas.”
“Right.”
He pauses and glances at me, evidently hearing the disdain in my tone. “It’s not that big of a deal. Let’s move on, okay? You barged into my bedroom on Saturday morning at nine o’clock. You deserved to see whatever you saw. Now, let’s get to the next issue we’ll be fighting about. I’m not going to the party.”
Oh, there is so much more I could address. It isn’t a big deal to him and his… what should I call her? Date? Sex partner? They both forgot each other’s name after having sex. Both of them. I’m not sure I could imagine a more depressing one-night stand. But yeah, it is Saturday and yes, Devon spends most of his weekend nights out doing this stuff. It makes my stomach cramp when I try to put words to it. I hate knowing he does it so often. I try hard not to think about it, and when I have to endure the up-close version, he might as well be jabbing me directly in the heart. Meanwhile, the clueless asshole doesn’t even know he is doing that to me. I shake off the sharp retort that clings to the tip of my tongue. He doesn’t want to know, and I’ve never fully explained it to him, so it’s not totally his fault. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
“Devon, I didn’t come over here
for my health or curiosity. I called you a half dozen times. I knocked. I tried to avoid interrupting anything. I don’t want to be here at all, believe me. But there is nothing else I can do—”
“But you came into my home. Let it be. I’m a grown-assed man. If I don’t want to go to a family get-together, I don’t have to.”
“But… Dayshia…”
He sighs as he whips around. “What about her? Do you think I’m ever going to be able to be close to her? Considering my relationship with her parents?” His nose wrinkles up, and the scorn in his tone emphasizes the word parents. Parents who had done him so wrong.
My heart dips. How dare he say such a thing? I thought so much more of Devon than this. How can he be so frosty? I can’t stand to watch him being that awful person. Is he so bitter and cynical that he feels justified to take it out on a little baby girl? Dayshia is only one years old. Barely starting to toddle on her pudgy legs, her personality is starting to shine. She is bright, precocious, and fun, and yet Devon can’t be bothered? His hurt feelings outweigh those of an innocent baby? She’s still a baby and today is her first birthday party. How could Devon even contemplate missing it?
But I know why. He stands beside his argument. Okay, it is far more than an argument. It is a family feud. He was deeply wounded by his twin brother and his ex-girlfriend. But that wasn’t Dayshia’s fault. And if he can’t release his rage sometime soon, he’ll probably lose everything that he holds dear. I might not have the right to care about it so much, but I do.
Devon and I loosely share family, although we are not family. We are not related by blood. We share a cousin in Wyatt Kincaid. My dad’s sister, Tara Kincaid, is Wyatt’s stepmother. Wyatt’s biological mom, Ebony, was murdered decades ago before Wyatt was three. Ebony was Devon’s aunt. The Kincaids and Willapanas live in the small town of Silver Springs, Washington, upriver from us by about forty miles. They are pretty close to each other and spend all the holidays, vacations, and many family dinners together. Tara and Chloe, Devon’s mom, own and manage a café in town. Today, however, we are going to Chloe and Chet’s house. They are Devon’s parents and the occasion? The celebration of Dayshia’s first birthday.
