Tangled up in Love
Page 1
Tangled up in Love
Charlotte Byrd
Contents
Don’t Miss Out!
Also by Charlotte Byrd
Dedication
1. Jackson
2. Jackson
3. Jackson
4. Harley
5. Harley
6. Jackson
7. Jackson
8. Harley
9. Harley
10. Harley
11. Harley
12. Harley
13. Harley
14. Harley
15. Harley
16. Harley
17. Harley
18. Harley
19. Harley
20. Harley
21. Jackson
22. Jackson
23. Jackson
24. Jackson
25. Jackson
26. Harley
27. Harley
28. Jackson
29. Jackson
30. Jackson
31. Harley
32. Harley
33. Harley
34. Harley
35. Harley
36. Jackson
37. Harley
38. Jackson
39. Harley
40. Harley
41. Harley
42. Harley
Chapter 1- Ellie
Chapter 2 - Ellie
Chapter 3 - Ellie
Chapter 4 - Ellie
About Charlotte Byrd
About Tangled Up In Hate
Epic love requires an epic sacrifice…
A long time ago, I borrowed money from a very powerful family. I paid my debt, but they have come for more.
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They want everything that I have built and they will hurt her if I refuse.
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Harley doesn’t understand why I have to break her heart. She hates me, but at least she’s okay…for now.
* * *
But what happens when sending her away isn’t enough?
* * *
What happens when I lose everything?
Praise for Charlotte Byrd
“Decadent, delicious, & dangerously addictive!” - Amazon Review ★★★★★
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“Titillation so masterfully woven, no reader can resist its pull. A MUST-BUY!” - Bobbi Koe, Amazon Review ★★★★★
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“Captivating!” - Crystal Jones, Amazon Review ★★★★★
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"Exciting, intense, sensual” - Rock, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★
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“Sexy, secretive, pulsating chemistry…” - Mrs. K, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★
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“Charlotte Byrd is a brilliant writer. I've read loads and I've laughed and cried. She writes a balanced book with brilliant characters. Well done!” -Amazon Review ★★★★★
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“Fast-paced, dark, addictive, and compelling” - Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★
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“Hot, steamy, and a great storyline.” - Christine Reese ★★★★★
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“My oh my....Charlotte has made me a fan for life.” - JJ, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★
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"The tension and chemistry is at five alarm level.” - Sharon, Amazon reviewer ★★★★★
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“Hot, sexy, intriguing journey of Elli and Mr. Aiden Black. - Robin Langelier ★★★★★
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“Wow. Just wow. Charlotte Byrd leaves me speechless and humble… It definitely kept me on the edge of my seat. Once you pick it up, you won't put it down.” - Amazon Review ★★★★★
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“Sexy, steamy and captivating!” - Charmaine, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★
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“ Intrigue, lust, and great characters...what more could you ask for?!” - Dragonfly Lady ★★★★★
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“An awesome book. Extremely entertaining, captivating and interesting sexy read. I could not put it down.” - Kim F, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★
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“Just the absolute best story. Everything I like to read about and more. Such a great story I will read again and again. A keeper!!” - Wendy Ballard ★★★★★
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“It had the perfect amount of twists and turns. I instantaneously bonded with the heroine and of course Mr. Black. YUM. It's sexy, it's sassy, it's steamy. It's everything.” - Khardine Gray, Bestselling Romance Author ★★★★★
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Also by Charlotte Byrd
All books are available at ALL major retailers! If you can’t find it, please email me at charlotte@charlotte-byrd.com
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Black Series
Black Edge
Black Rules
Black Bounds
Black Contract
Black Limit
Lavish Trilogy
Lavish Lies
Lavish Betrayal
Lavish Obsession
Tangled Series
Tangled up in Ice
Tangled up in Pain
Tangled up in Lace
Tangled up in Hate
Tangled up in Love
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Standalone Novels
Debt
Offer
Unknown
Dressing Mr. Dalton
Dedication
This book is dedicated to all parents who have lost children before birth…You are not alone.
1
Jackson
Long before…
* * *
You walk into the bathroom where the light pours in through the skylight, creating a glow around your head as if you are the angel that I know you to be.
You run your fingertips over the vanity, enjoying the smoothness of the marble.
Your nails are Color Therapy’s Ohm My Magenta, and it’s your favorite polish.
You paint them yourself and you don’t care that it peels off within a few days.
In fact, you like it.
A big part of why you paint them yourself is that you are a recovering nail-biter, so now you focus your energy on picking at your nails instead of biting them.
A few of them are long, past your fingertips, but the ring finger on your left hand is the most recent victim of late night biting.
Of course, I don’t know any of these things when you walk up to me.
I don’t know anything about you except for how you make me feel. My stomach is in knots.
My palms are sweaty.
My throat is tight.
You pick up the scissors and hold them steady in your hand.
They are professional hairdressing scissors, but you aren’t afraid of them.
This isn’t your first time holding a pair like that.
“Have you done this before?” I ask.
My voice cracks a little on the second word, but I clear it quickly and continue.
Our eyes meet.
Yours are hazel and wide.
There’s a line of charcoal eyeliner just along the top lid. It goes a little past your eye, but not high enough to give you a cat eye.
Your lashes are painted in mascara, making them fuller and slightly longer than they would be naturally.
Your makeup is light, and accentuating.
At no point does it cover up who you are and that’s what I like best about it.
“I’ve never cut a ma
n’s hair.”
You answer my question without really answering it.
“Do you cut your own?”
You blush. You look away. I nod and sit back, giving you space.
“Yes.” You finally admit.
I know that you are embarrassed by this, but I don’t want to call you on it. We don’t know each other well.
“It’s just so…stupid,” you say.
“What?”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this…but, yes, I do cut my own hair.”
“Why?” I ask, leaning back on the closed toilet lid that I’m perched on.
“Because it costs a fortune to go to a hair stylist in New York. And when I was a teenager, I didn’t have any money, not that that’s really different now. Anyway, I didn’t want to spend the little money that I had on paying someone to trim my hair. So, I learned to do it myself.”
You are talking so fast, I am surprised that you are not out of breath.
“I just wear it long, like this. Sometimes a bit shorter. The only thing I really do is trim it a bit. It’s not that complicated to do yourself.” You continue to explain.
I smile at the corners of my mouth.
“What?” You ask.
“I didn’t ask why you do it yourself. What I meant was why shouldn’t you be telling me this?”
This takes you aback. You shrug your shoulders and look down at the floor. Instead of large slabs of contemporary tile like in the rest of the house, I wanted to keep this bathroom as authentic to the origins of the house as possible.
Tiny, small tiles line up in exquisite patterns with nearly invisible grout.
It’s still there, of course, and I’m sure that it’s a headache for the housekeepers to clean.
“I’m not sure,” you say. “We don’t really know each other that well, I guess.”
“I’d like to get to know you more.”
You blush again. I don’t want to come on too strong, but I need you to know. I lean back again and give you space.
You take a step closer to me and place your hands on my head.
Shivers run down my spine.
I inhale slowly, so that you don’t see how nervous I really am. It’s important to stay cool at times like this.
You are timid and scared enough, and I don’t want to frighten you. What I need you to know is that I’m scared, too.
One day, we’ll tell each other about this moment and laugh.
But not today.
“So, how do you want it?” you ask.
I’ve cut it recently, but it wasn’t short enough.
“I don’t want it too short, of course, just sort of like the way it is, only a bit shorter.”
You nod.
Your hands are in my hair, feeling the strands.
Every time you make a move, my whole body yearns for yours.
I want you to tug and pull hard, so that I can feel more.
But you are gentle and careful.
Your eyes focus entirely on the task at hand.
You pick up a strand of hair and snip off the end.
Even though you are afraid of making mistakes, who isn’t, you begin. I appreciate that. I trust you.
Of course, it can end badly, but I don’t care. It’s just hair. If you cut it too short, I’ll cut it shorter and fix what I can.
What I have now is enough. I want this moment to last as long as possible.
You examine my hair.
You feel its texture.
You hold the strand across your index and middle fingers.
You spread out the strand and cut vertically toward your fingers.
You are no expert, but you are no amateur either. You are wearing a thick gray sweater that opens down the middle, layered over a long-sleeve V-neck. You look cozy and warm, but I know that you’re not.
Your fingers touching my scalp are as cold as ice.
“Is it too cold in here? I can turn the thermostat up.”
“Yeah, I’d love that. I get cold easily.”
“No problem.”
I reach for my phone, press a few buttons, and hot air starts to pump into the room.
I hope it gets warm enough here for you to take off the top layer.
“Thank you.” You whisper. Your eyes only briefly focus on mine and then quickly dart back to the job at hand.
As you make your way around my head, and position yourself right in front of my face, I let my eyes drift down from your eyes toward your breasts.
I don’t know this yet, but you hate wearing bras.
You don’t like the way they pinch your back. You don’t like the padded ones because they push them too high, your words not mine, and you don’t like the ones with the underwire because they dig into your sides.
Your breasts aren’t very big, but their size is perfect to fit exactly into my palms.
The only ones you find moderately acceptable are the bralettes that are basically a cloth of lace that hold you up a bit.
Today, you are wearing a t-shirt bra, with no underwire, but with plenty of padding.
I’ll later learn that this is the one you wear to important meetings and events, even though it’s light blue and not at all fancy.
I’ll also later learn that you take off your bra as soon as you get home and if you are going nowhere special like a grocery store or running another errand, you will not wear a bra at all.
“Okay, what about this?” You say, pulling away from me and pointing me to the mirror.
“It’s…perfect,” I say slowly, feeling the ends of my hair where your fingers have been.
“Really?” You don’t believe it. “You don’t want me to fix up some parts? Just let me know if you think some are too short or too long.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I love it.”
2
Jackson
Now…
I sit next to her in the dark hospital room.
I am sitting on the couch near the windowsill, looking out of the fifth floor window onto the street below.
The street is drenched in light and life, the opposite of this room. Harley faces away from me.
She is curled up in the fetal position, she runs her fingers over the space between the pillow and the sheet over and over again. She is here and she’s not here. Awake and asleep.
I have tried talking to her before and I will try again.
But for now, I let her be. I don’t know how long we have to be here, if at all. I want to ask, but I don’t have the energy to do a single thing but to sit here and stare out at the world below.
An ambulance rushes down the street with the horn blasting.
It goes around the corner toward the emergency entrance out of sight.
Someone is hurt. Someone is dying. Someone is losing something.
I reach over to the glass.
I press my palm against it. It’s warm outside, sticky and humid, but the glass still feels cold against my touch.
I hold my hand against it, enjoying the sensation of my fingers being spread open and the blood draining away from them.
How is it that we were so happy only a few hours ago?
Anger starts to rise up within me as my thoughts drift back to what happened right after we left the restaurant.
The thoughts come to me in pieces and then all at once. Julie was in the car, and I got behind the wheel.
Martin was waiting for Harley to get into the back when someone on a bicycle came up to him and shot him in the head.
He was a blur of darkness riding past us. I only heard the sound and then it was all over.
A bullet had launched itself in Martin’s head. His life vanished in a moment.
But that wasn’t all.
The man on the bicycle plowed into Harley. He threw her into the air and she fell on the pavement.
He was climbing back onto the bike when I got to her.
I had the choice to stay with her and with Martin or chase him down. And my split-second decision
will now haunt me for the rest of my life.
Another ambulance screeches around the corner. I glance back at Harley. She doesn’t make a move.
I watch her breathe.
One breath comes in, another goes out.
Not hurried.
Not out of control.
But not particularly calm either.
She is detached. Her body is here, but she is somewhere else altogether.
Instead of trying to chase down the man who shot Martin and threw her over his handlebars, I stayed with them.
I regret this, but then…what else could I do?