Faithless #3
A Tainted Love Serial
K.B Nelson
kbnelsonbooks.com
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Also by K.B Nelson
Contact
Copyright © 2015 by K.B Nelson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Faithless #3 - A Tainted Love Serial
Written by K.B. nelson
Edited by Rogena Mitchell-Jones
Created with Vellum
1
FOUR YEARS AGO
Born into a life of poverty, and then adopted into a middle-class existence, I’ve never experienced something as beautiful as this. Resting about fourteen stories into the sky, the loft apartment is enclosed by never-ending floor-to-ceiling windows.
Look one way, and you see the glow of city lights casting shadows upon the rolling ocean tides. Look the other way, and you’re met with a picture-perfect painting of a city preparing to turn in for the night.
But I’m wide-awake.
“This is beautiful.” I turn to Paul, the handsome man from the club and the man who has brought me to this place. I had called him after my shift the night I first met him, and after a series of short dates, he wanted to show me something.
I had no idea this was that special something.
“I know.” He laughs and tilts his head slightly and tosses his hand to the side. “That’s why I bought it.”
“You bought this?” I question, and take another look around. It’s huge and open with each room bleeding into the next. “So why did you bring me here?” I ask and step toward him, stroking his arm.
He smirks. “Guess?”
To fuck me, is what I want to say, and what seems to be my best guess. Instead, I shrug and play sly.
He walks past me and to the bed that lies in the open, up against the windows that line the ocean. “This is your world, Faith. If you want it,” he twists on his foot and falls backward onto the bed, “take it.”
“What do you mean?”
He digs into his pocket and pulls out a key. “I mean, it’s yours now.” He dangles the keys in the air and tosses them to me.
I barely catch them, but clutch them tightly when I do. “You’re serious?”
“Sure. Why not?” He stands back up. “There’s just one catch.”
There always is, but I’m not in the position of turning down the occasional fuck if it means being able to call this place my own. Even if that’s the official peg on the game board, moving me one step closer to becoming an actual whore.
“And that catch is,” he continues, “that I can come here anytime I feel the heft of the world taking a toll on me... I mean,” he places a hand on my cheek and nuzzles his nose against my own, then whispers to me, “it’ll be the two of us against the world.”
I’ve heard that before—from Noah all those years ago. And I still remember the way every syllable of every word vibrated with honesty from within his throat. Paul’s words don’t hold the same weight. In fact, the only weight they carry is the load of a lie.
But I don’t trust people and maybe that’s my own problem. One that I need to work on if I’m ever going to become someone worth a damn to someone in this world. Worth a damn to someone other than Noah or Luke.
* * *
TWO YEARS AGO
My head is thrown dangerously close to the fourteenth-story window. The damp sheets are curled into the palms of Paul’s fists as he fucks me into the mattress.
My heels are locked tight around his muscular ass, trying not to break with every thrust. A guttural moan is thrown from my mouth as his body slams against my thighs.
Paul flips me over so that I’m on top and raises his sweaty palms to my breasts. I cradle the back of my head with interlaced fingers, taking control of his cock and riding into my own orgasm.
His hips thrust upward one last time as he finds his way to his own well-earned explosion. His fingers dig into me as he unloads and my body comes down from an ecstatic high.
At first, I found myself on the receiving end of Paul’s cock because I wanted to keep this apartment. But then, slowly but surely, I began to feel a connection with him. In some fucked-up, Freudian way, he’s the father I never had. Gross to think about, but impossible to ignore.
Whether it’s boredom, or some resemblance of love, I crave him. And because of that, I live for Sundays when he’s finally able to drag himself away from his busy world of corporate law.
He’s my escape from what used to be my escape. I used to run away and now I stay in place.
* * *
ONE YEAR AGO
Paul throws the car into fourth gear as we speed down the slick streets of downtown Miami. Rain pours from the sky, dropping onto the windshield and turning passing lights into neon blurs.
My body is pushed tight against the leather seat. Since the Eastwood’s accident, riding in cars has made me nervous—especially, at such high speeds.
“You need to slow down,” I harp at Paul and cling to the handle above my door. “You’re going to kill us.”
He laughs wildly and shoots his gaze toward me. “Relax, Faith.” He reaches into the cup-holder and tosses me a baggie full of cocaine.
This wild streak of his began approximately eight hours ago when he had let himself into my apartment. His suit was ruffled with his dress shirt untucked and hanging over his belt.
He reeked of alcohol—at two p.m.—so I knew something was off. I’m not going to pretend to understand the logistics of it all, but he no longer had a job. A job that for so long had defined him.
Now he’s just some asshole driving a nice car—his words, not mine.
He throws his foot against the brakes and takes a sharp left turn through a red light. I squeeze my eyes shut, tensing my entire body in the process and pray to a God I don’t believe in that we survive this turn.
Paul cackles with glee and I open my eyes to discover that we’ve survived. “That was fun!” he exclaims and pounds the steering wheel with his fist. “Don’t tell me that wasn’t fun.”
“If you’re a four-year-old,” I mumble under my breath and shake my head while staring out the window.
“What’s that?”
“I know you’re married,” I say softly and bite into my cheek.
The car turns left and into an unlit alley. When we come to a stop, he places his arm behind me, stretched out across the headrest. “Where did that come from?”
I shrug and let out an uncomfortable sigh. “Your wife called earlier while you were in the shower.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his unrelenting gaze speaks volumes.
“Relax. I didn’t answer the phone when the caller ID came up Wifey.
He runs his thumb across his nose. “I’m sorry.”
That causes me to flinch. “For what? I’ve been with you for two and a half years and I’ve never seen the inside of your house. I knew deep down, even if I didn’t want to admit it.”
He shifts in his seat and lowers a palm to my shoulder. “You know I love you, right?”
I force a smile. “I know you care, but I do
n’t know if it’s enough.”
“You want me to leave her?” He rubs his thumb against my cheek softly. “Truth be told, things have been bad for a while.”
“I’m not going to tell you what you should do, but I need to figure out what I’m going to do.”
His tongue rolls across his lip. “What do you mean?”
* * *
ONE WEEK AGO
Things have been strained lately, that’s all I can think about as I pace down the porcelain halls of the apartment complex. Since Paul was fired, and then subsequently re-employed by a rival firm, everything has been so damn tense.
He’s not the same man he used to be—he’s always angry. But maybe I never knew him before. It’s been two weeks since he has stopped by the loft apartment, but that could easily be a consequence of him finally telling his wife about us.
I’m not proud to be the other woman. I’m not proud of everything it entails. I’m not proud of being a thief—a home wrecker. I’m not proud of a lot of things, but in the past few years, I’ve regained some semblance of happiness. In the vacant weekends we’re able to spend together, the haunting memories of my past evade me. One fuck. One kiss. One night at a time.
I twist the key into the lock and pop the door to my apartment open. I’m met with a blast of wind that slams the door shut behind me. My eyes shift in an instant to the blowing curtains in front of the furthest window—the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony.
I know I didn’t leave it open, so I take a quick peek at my surroundings. I look for anything that’s out of place. Look for any sign that there could be an intruder. And then a girly moan echoes from the bathroom.
My fingers roll into a fist as I charge for the bathroom, grab the doorknob and throw the door open. My mouth sinks into my gut.
For a moment more, I see the man I’ve come to love over the course of the past few years fucking some blonde girl on the sink. He thrusts against her and mouths against her neck, groaning against her skin.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
He’s startled and pulls away from the girl, stumbling against the wall behind him. He spins to face me, his erect unsheathed cock following suit. “Shit…”
“Who the fuck is this?” the blonde bimbo shrieks.
“The fucking girlfriend.” I shake my head and spit on Paul. “Former fucking girlfriend.” I turn to flee, but Paul reaches for my arm. When I try to shake him off, his grip tightens. “Let go of me,” I say through gritted teeth, torn between anger and heartbreak.
“Where do you think we’re going?”
I can’t bring myself to face him, but I respond tensely. “That’s none of your business.”
He laughs the way you’d expect a crazy person to laugh and then he lets go of my arm. Focused on my freedom, I march toward the bed to grab a few things.
“Where do you think you’ll go?” he asks from behind me. “A homeless shelter?”
That does the trick. I throw myself in a circle, landing squarely in front of him. “Yeah, that sounds like a great fucking idea.” Sometimes, when I’m on the verge of tears, I turn to sarcasm. It’s an amazing tool in the toolbox of coping.
“Think about this, Faith.” He plants his feet firm against the ground. “I’m sorry you walked in on that—“
“Sorry?” I ask and push him against the chest. “You’re sorry? It’s my fault, like it always is. I should have known better than to believe your beautiful lies.”
He bites into his lip, and his eyes pull tight. The wrinkles on his forehead wrestle against each other. “I never lied to you.”
I move closer to him. So close that my face is right in front of his. “That’s the funniest fucking thing I’ve heard all day.” I point to the bathroom, where I assume the blonde bimbo is getting dressed in haste. “And I heard her fake moaning, which was hilarious.” He says nothing. So I continue. “Go get dressed. I’m tired of staring at your stupid dick.”
His lips curl and he lets out a guttural laugh.
I rush away from him and grab a gym bag from underneath a desk that sits beside the glass doors that lead to the balcony. In the back of my mind, I always knew there would come a day when I would have to run again, even if I never expected it to happen like this.
“Do you think I’m just going to let you walk out of here?” he asks from right behind me. His tone is dark and foreboding. “You think you can just walk out that door anytime you want?”
I ignore him and swing the bag over my shoulder. “Try and stop me,” I say defiantly and push past him. He laughs again. “Who do you think you are? A mustache twirling villain?”
“No, who the fuck do you think you are?” He latches onto my arm, tighter than before and spins me to face him.
I take notice for the first time the blood crawling through his eyes. Fucking drugs. “Go do another line, Paul.”
He pulls his hand off me and raises them both in the air, an apparent act of surrender.
Then he slaps me across the face. It’s hard and fast, and I stumble to the side, rubbing my blistering cheek in shock. I move my mouth to speak, but my lips betray me with nothing left to say.
He cups my chin in his hand and forces me to face him while he points a finger in my face. “You’re my property. Don’t ever forget it.”
This change in him is sudden and terrifying. But for the first time, I’m seeing the real Paul. The obfuscating screen has been lifted and I’m finally able to see him for who he really is. He never cared about me. I was never anything more than his property. All was fine until I showed an ounce of resistance.
“You’re my property, Faith.” He smiles seductively with his lips loose around the edges. “And you’re not going anywhere.”
My eyes flash shut, a protective reaction to the tears streaming down my face. I thought I was over crying, but now I get it. I get that nothing ever goes away—everything is permanent. The pain subsides, hidden away in a locked box, only to be retrieved in moments of shattering illusions.
I want to ask Paul how he could do this to me, and if he ever loved me. But I’m experienced enough in grief to know that the truth isn’t always freeing—it can be just as destructive. So instead, I give him a gentle, compliant nod of my head. But my words speak differently. “Go to hell.”
When he raises his hand to strike me again, I push him as hard as I can. He stumbles back. I push him harder and harder, until one final push sends him fumbling sideways through the glass door.
And when I see him lying unconscious in a pool of shattered glass on the balcony, I can’t bring myself to care. There’s a piece of glass etched into his cheek and I don’t care. In the mere space of a few minutes, my world has once again changed. I’m back to being that girl that runs.
What he stole from me is something I’ll never get back. That’s the ultimate betrayal one person can do to another—give them happiness and take it back. Yet it happens all the time in this world and everybody seems to be okay with it.
I’m not.
Not anymore.
I sling the bag back over my shoulder and turn to head out the front door. The blonde woman passes me, scurrying in her lingerie to check on Paul. She screams when she sees him.
“When he wakes up, tell him he’s lucky to be alive.”
“You’re a crazy bitch,” she shrieks.
“And you’re just a number in a long line of whores.”
That’s all I was to him anyway.
I exit the apartment with no intention of ever returning, and as soon as I slam the door for the last time, I dial a number on my phone.
Luke’s number and I leave the following message: It’s time. I’m coming. Will explain everything. Promise.
2
PRESENT
The bell rings again. “I’m coming,” I mumble. “Jesus.”
I grab the doorknob.
Faintly, I hear Luke speak from behind me. “Good luck, Faith.” So I shift my body to face him. “You’re going to need
it.”
Then he’s gone, and more than ever, I’m left wondering what’s really going on. I know I’m not dreaming, and I don’t believe in ghosts. But the alternative is that I’m losing my mind. That’s the most logical answer, but it’s the one I want to believe the least.
I twist the knob and pull the door open. A fresh scar slicks down the side of Paul’s face, starting right beneath his left eye and trailing to the cusp of his cheek. I swallow a lump in my throat and freeze in place.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?” he asks gravely while his thumb drums against the stock of a pistol.
My mouth drops to my feet, and my eyes go wide. I take a long, hard gulp trying to tame my racing heart. I’ve never been more terrified in my life.
I slam the door shut and scream, “Noah!”
My knees go weak even as I throw all my strength against the door, trying to hold it shut long enough to latch the deadbolt. “Noah!”
“I told you,” he grunts as he tries to gain entry through brute force. “You’re my property. Now let me the fuck in!”
It takes everything in me, but finally, I’m able to throw my entire body against the door, slamming it all the way shut. I reach for the deadbolt as fast as I can and lock it into place, then pace backward away from the door.
He beats against the door with the butt of his gun before there’s a lingering silence. Paul is the perfect example of the human condition—always on the precipice of slipping into insanity. How did I not see who he was in all the years I was with him? Either he’s an expert at hiding his affinity for psychotic attributes, or I’m just a naïve idiot.
The silence is broken with a swift, hard kick against the door. Followed by another. The door threatens to fly open, held only in place by a tiny piece of metal. The integrity of the door held in place by two inches of fragile junk.
Faithless #3: A Tainted Love Serial Page 1
