Table of 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
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 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
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Something Tattered
(Joel Bishop, Book 1)
By Sabrina Stark
USA Today Bestselling Author
SPECIAL OFFER
Want a FREE book of deleted scenes, book trivia & more?
Sign up for my confidential mailing list:
http://sabrinastark.com/bonusbook.html
Copyright © 2017 by Sabrina Stark
Chapter 1
I ruined him.
He stood in the drizzling rain, staring at me, as I stood, dumbstruck, on the slick, manicured lawn. I saw it in his eyes – the betrayal, the hurt, the fact that I'd done this to him.
Me. Melody Blaire. The girl he'd been rescuing in one way or another, almost from the very beginning.
But now, he had it all wrong. I had nothing to do with this current cluster. I bit my lip. Or, almost nothing. At least, not on purpose.
Damn it.
I gave him a pleading look. "Joel, please. It's not what you think it is."
He made a noise. It might've been a scoff, except it was too raw to convey normal human disbelief. With a slow shake of his head, he turned away, heading for his car.
I lunged after him, clutching his muscular forearm with my trembling fingers. I gave his arm a desperate squeeze. "Just wait, okay? I can explain."
Except, I couldn’t.
If I told him everything, it might mean the death of him, literally.
Still, somehow, I'd make it right. I'd make everything right. I just needed some time, that's all.
To my infinite frustration, Joel apparently wasn't inclined to wait. Gently, he pried my fingers from his rain-soaked skin. "Forget it," he said. "Not a big deal."
It was lie, and not a very good one. It was a big deal. A very big deal. It was written all over his face, and I couldn’t exactly blame him.
Lamely, I mumbled, "That wasn't supposed to happen. Not like that, anyway."
Stupid Derek.
Stupid me.
Stupid dreams that were slipping away.
From somewhere near the front of the house, a female voice called out, "Hey Melody! Ask him if he wants pie!"
Oh, for God's sake. Aunt Gina.
Now, she was trying to help? Where was she an hour ago, when everything was going to crap?
But I wasn't being fair. At least Aunt Gina was trying to help. It was more than I could say for some people.
Trying not to scowl, I turned toward the sound of my aunt's voice and spotted her, standing in the open front doorway of the crumbling mansion that I called home. With a pathetic smile, I waved her away, hoping she'd take the hint.
She didn't.
"Just ask him," she called. In an overly cheery voice, she added, "It's apple. Everyone's favorite, right?"
I made a sound of frustration. Didn't she get it? Pie wouldn’t solve anything. A flamethrower, now that might be helpful.
Still, I turned back to Joel, who, thank God, was still there. With a note of desperation, I asked, "Do you? Want pie, I mean?" I sucked in a nervous breath. "We could talk. And, uh, I think there's ice cream in the freezer."
It was a stupid little speech from a stupid little girl – me, even if I was twenty-one years old. Right now, I was feeling more like five, about to be abandoned by the person I needed most.
Silently, Joel shook his head.
Of course, he didn't want pie. Probably, he wanted to strangle me. And all things considered, I couldn’t quite blame him. But he didn't know everything that I knew, so of course, he'd be seeing things totally wrong.
And the worst thing was, I couldn’t even correct him. Not if I really cared. And I did care, more than he obviously knew.
Suddenly, I hated everything. I hated the big, crumbling place that I called home. I hated my last name and everything it stood for. I hated the fact that some guy I'd known for only a few weeks had come to mean more to me than the hollow life I'd been living for far too long.
I watched, helplessly, as Joel turned away yet again.
Short of throwing myself at him, I wasn't sure what I could do.
Sure, I could tackle him, and we could roll around on the front lawn like Aunt Gina's drunken date last Christmas Eve. Or, I could claw at his clothes and beg him not to walk away. Or maybe I could do what Angelina the Skank had done the first time she'd met him. I could beg him for just one blissful night alone – in his arms, in his bed, in his life.
Except I didn't want Joel for just one night. I wanted him forever.
Six weeks. That was how long I'd known him. Six amazing, crazy weeks.
During those weeks, I'd learned a few things – about him, about myself, and about the things in life that really mattered.
And if he left me now, I knew that nothing else would matter, ever again.
I blinked long and hard. I had to find some way to tell him. I'd just need to be creative. That's all. Supposedly, creativity ran in the family, right? No matter how long it took, or what I had to do, I'd find some way.
He was worth it. We were worth it.
Funny to think that not too long ago, Joel was just some guy who'd beaten the crap out of the closest thing I had to a brother – not that I'd known that the first time I’d seen him, walking into my family's boardroom like he owned the place.
Chapter 2
Six Weeks Earlier
I tried not to stare.
The guy didn't belong here, any more than I did. But here he was anyway, standing like some kind of bad-ass, where no bad-ass belonged.
This wasn't a place for brooding eyes and a fighter's build. It was a place of business. A place of art. A place where pompous posers made pompous decisions, all in the name of my overly famous dad.
A sad smile tugged at my lips. If my dad were alive, he'd totally hate this. Probably, he'd call it a crock – or, kno
wing him, something a lot more profane. But me? I'd been raised to be way too polite, unfortunately.
So, here I sat, with my hands folded and my face schooled into that familiar mask of ladylike interest. Except now, it wasn't just a mask, and my interest wasn't all that ladylike either.
It was real, and it was because of him, the guy who'd just strode into the packed boardroom.
From the room's opposite side, I watched with nearly twenty other people as the stranger exchanged a few whispered words with Beatrice, the grey-haired receptionist who'd just escorted him in.
From somewhere behind me, I heard a female voice whisper, "Talk about hot."
A second voice whispered back, "No kidding. He can paint me any time." She stifled a giggle. "I hope he does nudes."
I wanted to roll my eyes. College interns. Funny to think, I should be in college, too. In fact, until a few months earlier, I had been in college – before the funds had dried up, leaving me with half an art history degree and no guarantee that I'd ever finish.
As the interns whispered back and forth, I wondered why I felt so much older than they sounded. Maybe it was the weight of responsibility. Like for one thing, the boardroom was actually inside my house, which meant that if interns started drooling, I'd be stuck mopping it up.
And yet, they weren't wrong. I felt my knees tremble under the table, and not because of the air-conditioning. I knew this, because the air-conditioning had been on the fritz for weeks now, and worse, I didn't have the money to have it repaired.
In cheerier news, we were in Western Michigan. It was mid-September. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t be needing any air-conditioning for at least nine months, maybe more.
I looked down as the flipside of that logic belatedly hit home. I'd definitely be needing heat though – a lot of it, considering the size of the estate. Searching for a silver lining, I reminded myself that at least that part of the furnace was working fine – for now, anyway.
Hoping to forget all of that, I returned my gaze to the dark-haired Adonis, who stood, watching Beatrice as she adjusted the lights, making them brighter on his side and darker on ours.
As for my gaze, it remained firmly on him.
Was I staring?
I blew out a quiet breath. Yes. I was.
But in my defense, it wasn't only because he was obscenely good-looking. It was because he looked so far out of place that I didn't know what to think.
This was a formal interview. But he was wearing tattered jeans and a black T-shirt that looked like it had been washed at least a hundred times. True, the shirt looked good on him – maybe too good. The dark cotton clung to his finely cut muscles, only to fall a shade too loosely over his slim waist and narrow hips.
Confused, I gave his jeans a better look. They looked good on him too, but that was hardly the point. They weren't exactly dress-jeans, assuming there was such a thing. I saw a hole in one knee and paint smears along his right hip.
I felt my eyebrows furrow. It was like he hadn't gotten the memo, literally. It was beyond odd, but not as odd as my unseemly reaction to him.
His clothes aside, there was something intriguing about his stance – too wide, too defiant, and definitely too masculine, at least compared to what I'd been expecting.
Shifting in my high-backed leather seat, I smoothed down my skirt, hoping to cover not only my skin, but my growing embarrassment.
After Beatrice left, the guy strode forward and claimed the usual spot, standing at the far end of the ornate conference table. His dark gaze scanned the room, passing quickly over the six of us seated at the table, along with the dozen others sitting in chairs behind us.
When his gaze passed mine, I sucked in a breath.
It suddenly hit me that I was nervous. For me? Or for him? Either way, this was a big deal. If he was selected, he'd have a shot at the kind of fame and fortune that most people could only dream of. The next year could literally change his life.
Or, he could flame out like last year's crop of artist wannabes.
Still, I was rooting for him. Of course, I'd also been rooting for the ten other candidates that we'd interviewed today. But when it came to this guy? Well, I was rooting a little harder for reasons I couldn't quite understand.
It had nothing to do with his clothes, or how obscenely good he looked in them. It was those eyes, dark and dangerous, with a hint of sadness that tugged at my heart.
I felt myself swallow. Yup, those eyes were definitely a problem. I wanted to get lost in them and forget everything else – the fact that I hated this whole process, the sad state of my financial affairs, and the awkward truth that, unlike my dad, I couldn’t even paint a bathroom, much less a string of masterpieces that had gained him worldwide fame.
It was official. My life was a mess.
Next to me, Derek leaned close and whispered, "I know what you're thinking."
God, I sure hope not.
Derek wasn't just the attorney for my dad's estate. He was the closest thing I had to a brother. He was tall and lean, with blonde hair and light blue eyes. If Derek did know what I was thinking, I'd never hear the end of it.
I reached up to touch my face. Was I blushing? Probably. If I was lucky, the dimmed lights hid the worst of it.
I lowered my hand and whispered back, "I'm not thinking anything."
Or, at least nothing I wanted to discuss.
"Right." Derek gave me a faint smirk. "You're thinking she could've been at least a little less obvious. Am I right?"
I wasn't following. She?
Into my silence, Derek continued. "If you ask me, she's slipping." He gave a small laugh. "But hey, don't tell her I said that."
Who on Earth was he talking about? I gave Derek a questioning look and waited for him to elaborate.
But all he did was smile in that old familiar way. It was the same smile that he'd given me on my thirteenth birthday, just before Aunt Gina had surprised me with a singing clown who stank of whiskey and fell down the front steps.
Oh, my God. Aunt Gina. My stomach twisted, and my hands grew clammy.
Suddenly, I wanted to crawl under the table. Today was my birthday. The big twenty-one. With growing dread, I snuck another quick glance at the stranger.
Insanely hot? Check.
Dressed in a way that didn't quite fit? Check.
Decidedly out of place? Checkity-check-check.
Oh, no.
She wouldn't.
I swallowed.
Would she?
But sadly, I knew the answer to that question. Knowing Aunt Gina, she would, even though she'd promised not to.
I closed my eyes and tried not to groan out loud. For a long moment, I kept them shut and wondered what would happen if I ran screaming out of the room.
At the sound of a low chuckle, I opened my eyes and looked. It was Derek, of course, who leaned close to whisper, "Aw c'mon. Be a sport. It'll be over before you know it." He flashed me that familiar grin. "No harm in humoring her, right?"
Oh, there'd be harm alright – to my sanity, if nothing else.
My face was flaming now. I didn't have to touch it to know. Probably, I looked like a human tomato minus the stem.
I recalled my last birthday, when Aunt Gina hired a stripper dressed as a construction worker to greet me at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for the local art center.
The ribbon-cutter had been me, or at least that had been the plan – right up until the Hard-Hatted Hottie began shaking his tool, directly in front the mayor and fifty other horrified people.
Okay, so maybe the tool was covered in a G-string, and maybe not all of the onlookers were horrified. I mean, Beatrice seemed to enjoy it. But that was hardly the point.
I wouldn’t be invited to do that again, even if I was the only child of Braydon Blaire, the closest thing to a celebrity this town had ever seen.
I snuck another quick glance at the stranger. Growing up, I'd seen a lot of artists. None of them had looked like that. I should've known something was up
the moment he walked into the room.
Damn it. My Aunt wasn't slipping. I was.
My shoulders sagged. There were so many things I needed – a new furnace, a new roof, or heck, even a better winter coat. But what did my aunt get me? A freaking stripper.
I wanted to die of despair.
Sure, her heart was in the right place. I knew that. But for once, couldn’t she just listen? Couldn’t anyone listen? I gave Derek a nervous glance. From the look on his face, he sure as heck wouldn’t be listening.
He looked beyond amused. And the show hadn't even started.
I felt my jaw clench. Screw this. This time, I decided, the show wasn't going to start, not if I could help it.
I jumped to my feet, sending my chair rolling backwards. Behind me, I heard a soft thud, followed by a female voice squealing out, "Ow!"
Wincing, I turned to look. "Sorry."
She was rubbing her shins. At my apology, she looked up. "Oh." She gave me a shaky smile. "That's, um, okay?"
As I turned back around, I heard her companion whisper, "Maybe he'll kiss it and make it better."
This was followed by a dreamy sigh. "I wish."
Pretending not to hear, I looked toward the front of the room. Everyone was staring, including the stranger.
I felt myself swallow. Now what?
Chapter 3
Standing like an idiot, I glanced around the table. Sitting on the left side were Peter and Henry. Together, they owned Chicago's hottest art gallery, where people paid insanely high prices for original artwork, created by established names, along with a few rising stars, like the ones selected by my dad's foundation.
On the other side sat Andy, the foundation's clerk, who would be doling out the award money, once a decision was reached. Next to him sat Claude, the ancient art critic who'd discovered my dad thirty years earlier.
And then, there was the stranger, who stood, watching me with those amazing eyes.
I stiffened. Forget the eyes. And forget his body, too, while I was at it.
I didn't care how hot the guy was. And I didn't care how much money my aunt had paid him. And I sure as heck didn't care that Derek was obviously in on the whole thing.
All I cared about now was avoiding this whole fiasco and getting the heck out of here, preferably without making a fool of myself.
Something Tattered (Joel Bishop Book 1) Page 1
