by Ava Harrison
Tempted
Ava Harrison
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
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
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Epilogue
Sneak Peak Of Deceit
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Ava Harrison
Copyright
Tempted
Copyright © 2020 by Ava Harrison
Published by AH Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, including photocopying, recording or by information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products, brands, and/or restaurants referenced in the work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
A small portion from this book was previously published. It has been reworked, re-edited, and 90,000 words have been added to make a new story.
Tempted
Cover Design: Hang Le
Editor: Editing4Indies
Proofreader: Marla Selkow Esposito, Jaime Ryter
Formatting: Champagne Formats
Dedication
Dedicated to my team of kickass superstars that help make my dreams come true.
Epigraph
'Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall.
~William Shakespeare
1
Drew
I have a life most would kill for.
At twenty-eight, I own the hottest club in New York City.
There should be absolutely nothing to complain about . . .
But unfortunately, that’s not the case. I do, in fact, have one problem.
Cal Loche.
The bastard won’t stop calling me. I hate that little fuck, but as much as I don’t want to answer, I do business with him, and it’s a necessary evil.
“What do you want, man?” I hiss through the phone.
“I need a favor.”
A deep breath escapes my lungs. I shouldn’t have answered the call.
“And why would I do anything for you?” I pivot my chair away from my desk and lean back. This could take a while, so I might as well get comfortable.
“Word around town is you are looking at space uptown.”
“Is that the word? Maybe you should check your sources.”
I am looking for space, but I don’t like this douche knowing anything about my plans. I’m so close to getting what I want, and I don’t need him fucking it up.
“My source is just fine, and what he says is that you want to buy it.”
Shit.
Even though what he says is true, I don’t need anyone knowing it. I have too many competitors who would love that piece of information. They would scoop it up just to mess with me, regardless of my plans for the space.
“And why does this concern you?” My voice sounds steady and uninterested. I’m plenty interested but giving him that knowledge only plays right into whatever hand he’s playing.
“Well, as it so happens, I own it.”
My body jerks forward at his words. “How come I didn’t know this?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“It’s owned by a different holding company.”
“So basically, Mommy and Daddy own it,” I fire back. I probably shouldn’t poke the beast, but I’m too pissed to care. This is not what I want to hear tonight. I’m dealing with enough shit.
“Doesn’t matter who owns it. If you want it, you’ll do me a favor.”
I let out a sigh. He has me by the balls. He knows it, I know it. “And what exactly is this favor?”
“You still looking for a waitress?”
“I am.”
“I have one for you.”
“I’m not employing some girl you’re banging.”
“I’m not banging her. She’s my girl’s sister. She’s a charity case, just the way you like them. Actually, you’ll want to meet this one in particular. Trust me.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“That would be too easy. But she’s exactly the kind of girl you have a soft spot for.” His words have me sitting forward in my chair. Cal knows my sordid past. He knows about Alexa. He knows my weakness. How much he knows is another problem, but I keep my voice steady.
“A druggie?”
“Recovering. But still. Look her up and make your own decision, man. But if you want the property, you’ll hire her.”
“Name.” It doesn’t matter what he says, I know I’ll offer her the job. My need to help, to fix, to save is too great.
“Bailey Jameson.”
Placing my hand down on the computer, I start to type, and the moment her picture pops up, my hands pause, hovering over the keyword. She’s gorgeous. Stunning in a girl next door sort of way. Her haunted eyes cause my stomach to turn. I don’t have time to process why I’ve had such a reaction because what I see on the page has my attention. I pull up the article on her.
My fingers freeze on the keyboard once again.
“What do you gain from this?” I grit through clenched teeth.
“I don’t need some recovering addict getting evicted and moving in with me and my girl. Her sister is a lead prosecutor with the city, and I can’t have Bailey fucking that up for me. That connection is gold. Do this for me, and you’ll get your property.”
“Fine.
” I slam the phone down, knowing full well this is probably the biggest mistake of my life, but there is no going back now.
I reach across my desk and grab the decanter of scotch and pour myself a glass. The night hasn’t even begun, and it’s already off to a shit start. How can it get any worse?
The answer to my question walks in the door as if being summoned.
Another thorn in my side I can’t get rid of.
Monica.
She is here, yet again, begging for another night of what she claims only I can provide.
Hiring her to work at my club was another bad idea—a growing theme in the life of Drew Lawson—but at the time, I didn’t anticipate a problem. Why would I? We never dated. We just fucked.
Once.
The problem is, by bringing her into my world, she now thinks it means I want more.
I don’t. Never did.
Not from her. Not from anyone right now, to be honest.
For me, there is no time for a date, let alone a relationship. All of that shit isn’t in the cards for me and definitely not with Monica.
I have big things on the horizon, and I can’t have some indiscretion fucking that up.
She should know nothing will happen between us.
But apparently, the hints and flat-out refusals haven’t been enough to break through her thick skull.
So here we are at the club, and yet again, she comes up to my office trying for more.
There’s a bar full of people downstairs and a mountain of paperwork waiting for me to do. Letting this girl down easy is not something I’m in the mood for.
This might be some men’s fantasy, but right now, it’s my nightmare.
This gorgeous woman—I won’t deny her that—is throwing herself at me, and I’m not feeling it. Her hand slips the collar of her skintight black dress down her shoulder until she’s fully uncovered one breast.
“Monica,” I warn, hoping my tone is enough to finally have her seeing reason. It doesn’t. She slips the other side off so that she’s completely topless and slides the rest of the dress down her legs.
“Get out,” I say, rather lazily. She stops and stares at me.
The fact that nothing I say is getting through to her only manages to annoy the shit out of me. “I said. Get. Out.”
She’s a ten on any man’s scale: blonde, five foot ten, long-ass legs, and a nice, tight ass. She must see some change in my expression because she throws a coy smile my way as she saunters closer and runs her fingers down my chest.
“You don’t want me to go,” she says without a hint of shame. “Let me make you feel good.”
I can feel the bass of the system below pulsing at my feet. This was my life: the party, the music, the alcohol, the drugs. As the tempo from the club speeds up, I almost cave.
I run my hands roughly down my face before making my way out of the office.
“Where are you going?” she asks, looking at me with doe eyes as I walk past her.
“We’ve been over this, Monica. You’ve gotta go.” I open the door, and the deafening noise from below filters in, nearly drowning out her next words.
“But I—”
“But you what, Mon?”
A fucking nickname. What the hell is wrong with me? I see the glimmer of hope flash in her eyes. I’m going to crush her. I have to smash all that hope because it will never happen. I don’t do relationships, let alone commitments. If tonight is any indication that I’ve yet to make that perfectly clear, I need to rectify this situation. Might as well get it over with.
“I didn’t call you. You’ve come into my space uninvited, and this is done.”
Her head whips back as though I slapped her. “What? But you . . . What the hell, Drew!” she shouts in her high-pitched screech.
My ears sting from the sound, and I lose my patience. “We are not in a relationship. You work for me. That’s it. It will never be more.”
Her eyes go round as it sinks in. As she pulls her dress back up, her lips begin to quiver. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I can’t handle a crying girl.
“Why? Wasn’t I good enough?”
“You work for me.”
“And if I didn’t?” She looks at me, hopeful. As much as she drives me crazy, she’s my best bartender. I can’t afford to lose her.
There’s the million-dollar question. What do I say to make this end? “Monica, I’m sorry. I’m just not that into you.” There, I said it. Dick move quoting a movie, but fuck it. It works like a charm.
She rushes of out the room, slamming the door behind her.
That went well.
The truth is, I feel horrible.
If I had known I was going to hire her, I wouldn’t have touched her.
I really am the asshole she thinks I am.
2
Bailey
I wake with a start. My body thrusts forward from my bed as sweat beads at my temples.
What time is it?
Groaning, I turn my head until my eyes find the alarm clock.
3:00 a.m.
Of course, it is. This is how my nights go.
Dream of the past, then wake in a state of panic. Fall back into a deep sleep and miss the alarm.
My arm starts to hurt at the thought. A phantom pain. A scar to remind me.
I look down at the now faded mark.
Most people can’t tell it’s there anymore, but I know, and it does its job every time I look at it.
It holds me responsible.
It holds me prisoner.
The pain, normally a dull reminder, has intensified ever since I went behind my sister’s back to get a job at a nightclub. I have no business working there, but I don’t have a choice. I had just received my third eviction notice, and my sister’s boyfriend, Cal, was my last hope.
My only stipulation was Harper can’t find out I work there.
Ever.
Given my past, she’d be livid that I’m even contemplating working in a bar.
I kick my legs over the side of the bed and pad across the hardwood floors to my small kitchen. Grabbing the Oreos and a glass of milk, I take a seat at the kitchen island. Oreos were always my dad’s method of problem-solving. When he had to work out something in his head, he grabbed the cookies and milk and got busy thinking.
My eyes catch on the frame that’s home to my favorite picture ever. It’s of Harper, Dad, and me in front of Coney Island. He’d ditched half a day of work to take us for a spur-of-the-moment trip to the amusement park.
I stare at the picture. So much has changed, but some things remain.
I miss him.
Since his death, trouble has followed me. It’s my shadow. I’m basically a cosmic tragedy. But that was before.
I’m clean now.
No pills in two years.
This time will be different. It has to be.
I dunk one more cookie into the milk, saturating it until it practically falls off my spoon.
Shoving it into my mouth, I stuff down all thoughts of my losses.
Just because I’m working at a bar doesn’t mean I’ll have the desire to take a pill.
My pain is gone.
But are your memories . . .
Club Silver.
I’m here even though everything inside me screams to stay away. Perhaps it’s the sheer creepiness of the place, but more likely, it’s the angel on my shoulder trying desperately to win out over the devil on the other. Those two have been at war since my dad died. The devil’s tallies are far greater.
Silver isn’t much to look at from the outside of the building, just a typical New York City warehouse. The concrete slabs with no windows serve to make it completely frightening. It’s dark and utterly ominous on the outside, but it’s the inside that’s home to the proverbial monsters in my closet. The depths of this carnivorous building hold a whole different world of problems for me. Problems that I’ve promised myself will stay buried in the past.
I have no choice. I’m all out
of options.
My phone rings and I groan when I see it’s my sister. The universe seriously hates me.
It’s like the woman has ESP or something. I shouldn’t answer, but I know Harper. She’ll keep calling until I do.
“Hey, Harp. What’s up?” I try my best at playing nonchalant when inside I’m quaking. I need to be inside starting my job, but I can’t tell her that.
“Nothing. Just headed out to meet Cal in SoHo. There’s some property he’s interested in, and then he’s taking me to dinner.”
“That’s fun. I’m headed out too,” I lie, hoping she doesn’t expect me to give her a play-by-play. I have less than five minutes.
“Where to and with who?” she badgers.
Harper means well, but I don’t exactly have the best track record, and she’s made it her personal mission to keep me on the straight and narrow.
“I have to grab some groceries and run some errands. Nothing much, but I’m catching a ride with a woman from work, and she’s waiting on me.”
