by Aja Cole
Something True
Atlanta Outlaws
Aja Cole
For My Papa.
1954 - 2020
Gone far too soon.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Thank You!
Before you start...
Introduction
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
Also by Aja Cole
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About the Author
Something True
Aja Cole
Copyright © 2020 by Aja Cole.
All Rights Reserved.
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.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
First Edition April 2020
Acknowledgments
To all of my family and friends that have supported me every time I’ve said, “I’m writing a book.”
I couldn’t have done it without your love and constant encouragement.
To everyone who reads my books and comes back for more…you fucking rock.
To my author friends and the people who let me vent and freak out and constantly inspire me to keep going…
Thank you. I love you all.
Thank You!
I just wanted to say a quick thank you for giving my writing a chance, and I hope it gives you everything you’re looking for!
I like my love scenes steamy and my sweet scenes sappy.
Now, please enjoy and I hope you love my characters as much as I do!
~ Aja Cole
Before you start...
This book contains explicit content meant for readers 18+, along with a sweet hero and a smitten heroine. If such language or material offends you, please be aware.
Introduction
What’s a girl to do when her brother’s friend is a smoke-show that she can’t have?
They want different things in life.
Her brother has already told her to keep her hands off.
And he kind of lives across the country…
She shouldn’t jump into his bed.
She shouldn’t wish they’d met under different circumstances.
She definitely shouldn’t think about what forever would look like.
But…she’s never been good at doing things the easy way.
Something True contains a lovable cast of characters, a generous dash of spice and a heap of sweet; the fourth standalone centering around Atlanta’s new hockey team and the fun that comes with them. This is a single-POV love story that you don’t want to miss!
1
6:15 PM.
6:45 PM.
7:20 PM.
7:54 PM.
8:28 PM.
Every time I look at the time, I get more anxious.
More disappointed.
More certain that I don’t know what my marriage has become.
It’s not the first time that Vaughn has been late, but I thought that maybe…maybe it being our first anniversary would mean something to him.
I didn’t even expect him to remember on his own.
I left a few sticky note reminders this week, and I know I mentioned him being home for dinner before he left for work this morning.
“How cliche am I?” I say aloud, gripping the edge of the sleek, glass table and surveying the spread in front of me that took me a lot of trial and error before it didn’t take like dog food.
I’ve practiced during the day while Vaughn was at work all week and made sure to get rid of the evidence, just so I could get it right tonight.
Cooking is not my strong suit, and Vaughn always says that he reluctantly fell for me despite it, but I have been making an effort to get better because I can tell he’s getting tired of meals that aren’t home-cooked.
Tonight, I was going to show him that I’ve really been trying.
But damn, why have I been trying? What the fuck does it matter?
I touch the now cold bowl of shrimp scampi at Vaughn’s usual place, picking it up and taking it to the counter to put foil on it before I set it in the fridge. I wrap up the crusty bread that I grabbed from the bakery, sitting back down at the table to take a large swig from the wine bottle that’s thankfully still chilled.
Here I am, waiting over an hour for a husband that doesn’t seem to want to be at home.
I’ve asked myself many times what I would do if I asked the question on my mind and got the answer that I don’t want.
Will I leave?
Will I go back home to Atlanta with my tail between my legs, waiting for all of the I told you so’s? Even the thought of calling my mama and telling her that she was right sends shame through my blood and unease down my spine.
This is the man that I left my home for.
The friends I grew up with who threw me the best going away party.
A job that I was blessed to get.
A family that I’m usually grateful to have.
I left it all behind for him, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so miserable.
I’ve tried to play it off and tell myself that things will get better…but I know they won’t.
Vaughn picked me because I’m good for his image…and I picked him because I thought he was good for me.
Pouring the last of the wine into my glass, I kick off my too high heels and listen to them clatter on the gold-flecked marble floor. In bare feet, with a light breeze from the open balcony flowing in, I walk to the glass doors and slip outside to sit on one of the patio chairs that I took ages picking out.
I’ve spent a lot of time out here admiring the view, imagining that I can hear the ocean in the distance and being alone with my thoughts when I’ve wished I was alone with my husband.
It’s brought me peace.
More peace than I’ve had since I realized that Vaughn is most likely having an affair.
I guess I thought that if he saw that I care enough to work on something that’s always been a weakness of mine…maybe he would go back to caring too.
How bad am I at being a wife that my husband couldn’t keep it in his pants for a year?
How bad am I at being a woman if I didn’t pick up on who he really is?
Stop that. None of this is on you.
After I t
ake a large pull from my glass, I sit it on the side table and struggle around to reach the zipper at the back of my dress. It took me ten minutes to zip myself into it, and I hope it doesn’t take that long to get me out. It fits me like a glove, much tighter than the clothes I prefer to wear around the house, but I wore it because it’s the kind of thing that Vaughn likes to see me in and I do feel attractive and sexy in it.
Right now, I just want it off.
I pull and twist, finally grasping the small piece of metal. Yanking it, I get more and more frustrated when it only budges a few inches. I finally feel some give and then I realize…the bastard broke on me.
So I just start ripping at the fabric.
I start clawing and pulling and ripping and I don’t even realize that there are tears tracking down my face. By the time the wine-red fabric is lying at my feet, I can feel hot welts raising on my skin from accidentally scratching myself with my nails and I’m sobbing in lacy lingerie.
Picture perfect.
I don’t remember if my makeup is waterproof, because I’m bad about that stuff so I’m sure I look a hot mess.
Hot, because despite emotionally feeling like trash right now, I know my body is on point from years of dancing. A mess because of the obvious.
Curling up into the large lounge chair in my bra and thong, I drain the rest of my wine and sit there for long moments, thinking about what I’ll say when he finally comes through that door.
I imagine myself as some fierce, scorned she-warrior, all fire and betrayal, strong in the face of changing my entire life because my husband has a wandering penis. I’ll read him the riot act with a smile on my face, proud and ready to walk because I know that I deserve so much more than what he’s been giving me.
I can hear the door shut inside, but I don’t move, gathering all my words to tell him to pack his shit and leave until I’m not here.
“Cecelia?”
He’s the only one who calls me that. My parents barely use my first name and they named me. When I first started talking, some of my first words were No and Me, and I used to run around just repeating it. Soon enough, my nickname evolved into Nomi.
My bottom lip starts to tremble and I squeeze my eyes shut tight, willing myself to hold it together. I have a speech to deliver.
Fire to unleash on my shitty excuse for a partner.
“Where are your clothes? What are you doing out here?” He comes onto the patio and around to stand in front of me, his suit jacket gone and his tie wherever that is. His wavy, dark hair, lightly tanned skin and deep set, narrow eyes always make people guess at his genetic make-up, but they usually don’t guess that his dad is Hawaiian and his mom is a Japanese.
Everyone always talks about how stunning we look together with the way we contrast, how beautiful our babies will be. I can practically see them salivating at the thought of exotic multi-racial children, which is a topic for another day.
He’d laugh and agree, say that I’m the best accessory money could never buy and I used to think that it was flattering. I’d laugh too, elated that he’s always seemed to eager and proud to have me by his side. I fell quickly and I fell hard, and I guess this is the consequence of rose-colored glasses.
All the flags look the same color.
“Nomi, I’m talking to you.” He cracks out, annoyance lining his voice.
I look up at him, take in the expectant look on his face, the tight press of his lips and the way that I can’t find an ounce of affection or genuine care in his eyes anymore.
I open my mouth to rip into him, really tear him a new asshole…
“Why am I not good enough for you?”
My cheeks heat and my eyes burn…and it only goes downhill from there.
2
“How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m really good, mama. How’s everyone at home? Is Miss Johnson still driving you crazy over her walls clashing with her throw pillows?” The lie and the change of topic roll off my tongue easily because I’ve been doing it for the last month and a half.
“Oh you know, same as always. Chris is seeing some new girl with purple hair, Corinne has been telling me about some new architect developments that I don’t understand and your father is still tinkering away in his woodshed. And girl, Sheryl has moved on to wanting to re-paint the walls instead. That old bat is driving me up a wall!”
“But you love it,” I smile softly, pausing and moving away from the wall when I hear the couple next door start up with their daily arguments again.
“She’s still going to drive me crazy.” Nora Drake grumbles, but there’s fondness in her voice. Sheryl Johnson has been my moms best friend for years, and even though they squabble like cats, they’re thicker than thieves. My mom started her interior design firm the year before I was born, and Auntie Sheryl won’t let anyone else touch her new house but her.
“Where’s that husband of yours? He’s not home yet?” The seemingly innocent question is everything but, and I know my mom already knows or thinks she knows the answer.
“No, he’s working late. They have a big project right now.”
“I still don’t understand why he couldn’t do the same job in Atlanta, but maybe you were just trying to get away from us.”
I roll my eyes at the phone. “Mama, you know that’s not true.”
“When are you coming to visit us? You know I’m getting old.” She sniffs.
“The rest of us will probably age faster than you and you know it.”
My mom runs the Peachtree Road Race every year, swims weekly for fun and flirts with her personal trainer religiously. Seeing my mom smiling at her trainer one day when he went to take her lunch actually got my father to start paying more attention to his fitness…so he could keep an eye on her and make sure she didn’t run off with Bryan.
Not that she ever would, though. She’s been stuck on my dad since she was 16. He delivered root beer floats for she and her friends at a diner they went to after football games.
They’ve been inseparable ever since.
That’s what I wanted, for myself.
Lots of infatuation, many nights crying as a teenager and disappointment that my love story hadn’t started yet. I’d heard theirs enough and seen it with my own eyes. I just knew it would be just as easy as it was for them.
Newsflash, it wasn’t.
Or it didn’t seem like it was, until I met my friend at a hotel bar and while I was waiting for her, the most charming, handsome man sent me a drink. I accepted, went over to thank him, and learned that he was in town on business. Unlike the other men I’d met who were looking for a quickie while they were in town or to step out on their wives and children, he was single and didn’t say a single inappropriate thing the entire three days that we spent together.
No push for sex or crassness, but he did kiss me silly when I dropped him off at the airport at the end of the week and made me promise I’d keep in touch so he could fly me out to visit him.
I was twenty-one, a few years past sixteen, but I thought my version of my parent’s love story was starting anyway.
Three years later and I’m holed up in a sketchy motel, lying to my family about the real state of my marriage because I can’t bear to admit to anyone that it was over before it began.
Obviously…I’m handling this well.
“Tell me about this girl with purple hair,” I slip my foot under me as I gingerly sit in a paisley print armchair that’s seen better days, testing my weight on it because it feels like it might give out at any second. “Does this one talk in a baby voice too?”
“For your information, she does not.” The low, amused voice comes over the line and I can’t help the smile that pulls at my lips. “How you doin’ baby sis?”
“Well if it isn’t the prodigal son.” I tease, no malice in my voice. My brother may rotate through different women faster than we’re able to learn their names, but he’s still one of the best and most reliable men that I know next to our dad.
&
nbsp; “I’m gonna leave y’all to it, I need to go check on my casserole.” My mom’s voice fades away and almost immediately, tension gathers at the back of my neck because if there’s anyone who I can’t hide things from long, it’s my big brother.
“So? How’s married life? You haven’t been posting much on IG.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Just because someone isn’t as active on social media, it doesn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with their relationship.” I snap out defensively, squeezing my eyes shut tight after the words are out.
“Those were two unrelated statements, little sister, but now I know something’s up. I’m taking you off speaker and if you don’t fess up, I’ll patch in Corinne.”
My sister hasn’t met a problem she couldn’t figure out, and she would hound me even more than Chris. “You’re such a bully.”
“What’s really going on, Mims?”
I move the short distance to the rickety bed and fall on it facedown, sighing loudly into the covers. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
