Sick Pleasure
Copyright © 2016 by Jessica Serra Huizenga
All rights reserved.
Jessica Serra Huizenga
Visit my website at www.jshbooks.com
Cover design by
Kari March
www.karimarch.com
Editing by
Pat Dobie, Lucid Edit
www.lucidedit.com
Interior design and formatting by
Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable
www.perfectlypublishable.com
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 permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Crazy Beautiful Series
Crazy Beautiful (Book 1)
Mad Addiction (Book 2)
Sick Pleasure (Book 3)
Author’s Note
While each story in the Crazy Beautiful Series can be read as a standalone book, I recommend reading them in order to fully understand the world and characters. <3
Hazel Blake loves Tristan Sharp.
Tristan Sharp hates Hazel Blake.
There is only one word to describe Hazel Blake and Tristan Sharp: history. Intense, painful, passionate history. (OK, four words.)
But it’s been over five years now and Hazel’s ready to leave the past behind. Having nobody but an absent father, a crazy mother, and a preoccupied brother means she could really use her old friend again. So what if she still has deeper feelings for Tristan? She knows she majorly screwed things up and doesn’t deserve him anymore, so she’ll settle for anything he might be willing to give—even if it’s just his body.
When Hazel comes storming back into Tristan’s life, opening all sorts of old wounds, he wants nothing more than to get to the forgetting part. But he’s also having trouble with the whole forgiveness thing, too. When the girl you love rips your heart out and tosses it around like a beanbag, it tends to change a guy. But nobody gets under Tristan’s skin like Hazel, so he just needs to get her out of his system, right? Hit it and quit it. For good this time, and nobody ever needs to know.
Yes, everything that went down between Hazel and Tristan is in the past.
Too bad history is about to repeat itself . . .
What happens when you love the person you hate?
Can people that hurt each other heal together?
“I will bruise your lips and scar your knees and love you too hard.
I will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible
And when I leave you will finally understand why storms are named after people.”
Table of Contents
Sick Pleasure
Books by Jessica Serra Huizenga
ROCK BOTTOM
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
STEP ONE: HONESTY
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
STEP TWO: HOPE
Chapter 11
STEP THREE: FAITH
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
STEP FOUR: INTROSPECTION
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
STEP FIVE: ADMISSION
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
STEP SIX: ANTICIPATION
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
STEP SEVEN: PAIN
Chapter 28
STEP EIGHT: PUNISHMENT
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
STEP NINE: TRUTH
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
STEP TEN: LOYALTY
Chapter 35
STEP ELEVEN: ABSOLUTION
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
STEP TWELVE: FOREVER
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Tristan
“Wow. That was . . . you are . . . wow.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” I glance at the naked, satisfied blonde lying next to me in my bed, trying to remember her name. Jenny? Julia? Definitely something that starts with a J . . .
I lean back against the pillows and let my breathing return to normal. In my opinion the sex was nothing to write home about, but despite this chick’s annoying high-pitched screeches and over-exaggerated porn star moans, I have to give her props for stamina. At one point I was pounding into her so hard from behind that I thought I might split her in two, but she took it like a champ and only moaned louder each time I bottomed out.
Now I’m sure her pussy sees more action than Schwarzenegger—as evidenced by the wide assortment of condoms she whipped out of her purse earlier—but you’ve got to give a girl points for enthusiasm.
After a few seconds I open my eyes and look at the clock on my bedside table. Ten thirteen p.m. I have to be up in six hours to get an early start on the Jeffrie’s house addition over on Maple Street. Sleep might be a good idea.
I push myself off the bed. The floor is littered with various articles of clothing that were ripped off as we stumbled into the room: a work boot here, a hot-pink stiletto there. I wade through the mess of dark jeans and cheap lace and grab a pair of shorts from the bottom drawer of my dresser. I pull them on and head for the kitchen to get a drink, leaving what’s-her-name still panting on the bed. Some girls get dressed right after we’re finished while others like to hang around. It really doesn’t matter to me either way. If she leaves I can get some shut-eye in peace, and if she doesn’t, well, then there’s always the possibility of an encore.
I finish more than half a water bottle in one swig and, as I’m wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, the girl comes sauntering out of the bedroom. Still naked.
She reaches around me to help herself to what’s in the fridge and makes a disappointed sound in the back of her throat before grabbing a bottle of Yuengling.
“Typical guy, nothing but beer,” she mutters while poking around the kitchen for a bottle opener.
I reach beside her into a drawer and pull one out, taking the beer from her hand to pop the top off. I hand it back. “There’s water, too.”
She takes a sip from the bottle, ignoring my comment. “Your whole apartment looks empty. Did you just move in or something?”
I shake my head and look around the one-bedroom apartment that I’ve lived in for five years. Off the narrow galley kitchen is a small living room with a simple brown couch, wooden coffee table, and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. To the right is the bedroom with all the essentials—you know: bed, dresser, bedside table. Across from my room is the bathroom—toilet, shower, sink. Sure, it’s not much, but what more does a twenty-eight-year-old, unattached guy need?
“I like to keep things simple,” I answer.
She shrugs, not all that interested, and takes another drink before putting her bottle on the counter. She moves in front of me, pushing her tits against my bare chest, and playfully bites my bottom
lip. I can taste the beer on her breath.
“Let me go pee and then we can have sex again.” She runs her fingers down my chest and disappears around the corner into the bathroom.
I guess she plans to stay a while. I can sleep when I’m dead, right?
I finish the rest of my water and head back to the bedroom. My cell phone rings and I grab it from the nightstand. When I see the name that flashes across the screen, my stomach drops.
Hazel Blake.
Why the fuck is she calling me?
Hazel and I have known each other since we were kids, but we haven’t talked much in the past five years—not since she ripped my heart out of my chest with her bare hands and tossed it aside like it was nothing but a piece of shitty garbage. That kind of thing tends to fuck up a relationship.
I’m still tight with her brother, Ryan, though, so she and I occasionally still see each other during a family party or something. But since nobody knows what went down between us, we’ll usually just exchange civil pleasantries and keep it moving. It’s been years since she’s called me directly.
And OK, ‘tight’ may be a bit of a stretch to describe my relationship with her brother. Ryan Blake tolerates me. Truth is, ever since some shit happened in high school, our friendship has been tense. Dude had his own issues back then and he needed someone to blame for it all. Since we still run with the same group of friends we’ve learned to avoid the past and can be cool as long as I never bring up his sister, which I don’t. It’s not worth it to rehash all that shit now that we’re adults, so that’s just the way it is. I’ve learned to live with it—with the past staying in the past like it fucking should—but Hazel calling me at 10:30 on a random Tuesday night is like a violent, unexpected storm that breaks the dam I’ve spent years building. Harsh memories start flooding back, hard and fast.
A hand snaking around my waist snaps me back to the present. “Forget the phone. Kayla wants to play again,” Kayla says in an annoying baby voice as she slides her fingers south.
So much for remembering this chick’s name.
The phone continues to ring. I may have nothing to say to Hazel, but if she’s in trouble . . .
I grab Kayla’s wrist just before she reaches her intended target. “Hold on, I need to take this.”
I pick up. “Hello?”
A quiet second passes and my pulse quickens before I hear the light, husky voice that still makes my heart do weird shit inside my chest. “Tristan?”
My fingers tighten around the phone. “Hazel? Are you OK?”
“Yeah, of course.”
I sink onto the bed, letting out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. She casually adds, “How are you?”
As if on cue, Kayla reaches for my junk again. Between trying to keep this girl’s damn paws off of my dick and figuring out why the fuck Hazel called, I groan. Then I pretend like I’m clearing my throat and respond with a curt, “I’m good,” while pulling Kayla’s hand away. This elicits an over-exaggerated pouty face before she flops back on the pillows beside me.
Hazel sounds apologetic as she says, “I know it’s kind of late. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
I glance at Kayla, who grabs her phone. “Nothing important,” I answer truthfully. I met this girl an hour ago at a bar and she practically threw herself at me, which was both desperate and sad, but hey, I’m always up for some fun.
Kayla giggles loudly at something on her screen. I’m sure Hazel hears it, but she doesn’t say anything. “So what’s up? I’m sure you didn’t call me out of the blue just to shoot the shit, right?” I sit back against the headboard, crossing my free hand over my chest, which is still pounding like a fucking jackhammer.
Without missing a beat she responds, “Gee, I don’t remember you being so charming.”
From her teasing tone I know she’s just trying to be playful, but for some reason hearing her dismiss our past, no matter how innocently, has me feeling defensive. I grip my phone and without thinking I bite out, “Yeah, well, there’s a lot I wish I didn’t remember.”
My words hang heavily in the air before Hazel finally clears her throat, speaking softer and faster. “Listen, I was just calling since I know you’re going to my brother’s baby shower this weekend. Ry doesn’t want our mom to know about it and I don’t have a car right now so I need a ride. I would normally ask Ryan, but since it’s his party he’s going to be busy and I really don’t want him to have to come all the way out here to get me first. Making him chauffeur his little sister to his own baby shower would be kinda messed up, right? So I figure if you’re going anyway it might not be such a big deal for you to bring me, too . . .”
Her rambling is almost cute, seeing as it’s a complete one-eighty from her previous easygoing attitude. The girl I remember always babbled when she was nervous. I almost let myself get caught up in thinking about the Hazel Blake I used to know, but a throat clearing on the other end of the call has me blurting out, “And I’m the only one you could think to call?” I swing my legs off the bed and silently curse myself, dropping my head in my right hand and running my fingers through my hair in frustration. I don’t necessarily mean to be an asshole, but I’m trying to process the fact that I haven’t heard from this girl in over five years and she’s calling me to ask such a mundane favor. Like we’re still friends or something.
As if reading my mind, she says, “Come on, we’re still friends, right?” She chuckles. While the laugh sounds forced, there is also a genuine sad, hopeful note to her voice.
Logically I shouldn’t feel the tiniest bit obligated to help the girl who broke me, but fuck, nobody’s ever accused me of being smart.
“You know your brother will shit his pants to see us together.” I stall, trying to get out of this. While it is true Ryan won’t be happy, I know I can handle him. But being alone with Hazel? Shit.
“If he gets mad you brought me that’s his problem,” Hazel counters. “It’s either that or I don’t go at all. Unfortunately, I don’t have any other options.”
I sigh, out of excuses and already exhausted from our brief exchange. “I’ll pick you up Saturday at two.”
I hear her take a deep breath before replying, “Thanks, Tristan, really.”
Hearing her sound so sincere while my name falls heavily from her lips has my head feeling fifty more shades of fucked up. To think she still has any sort of power over me causes all my douchey defenses to go up again. “I’m sure I can think of a way for you to repay me,” I taunt.
But just when I think I have the upper hand, Hazel lowers her voice and says seductively, “I’m counting on it,” before disconnecting the call.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Tristan
Four days later I find myself pulling up outside Hazel’s house. Well, technically her mom’s huge-ass mansion. As I punch in the code she gave me for the gate I involuntarily think about the first time I came here as a kid. With its intricately carved columns and huge windows the place practically looks like a castle, so I thought Hazel was a real-life princess or something. Goes to show you what kind of stupid crap runs through an eight-year-old’s head, but I guess living in a foster home made me prefer made up stories to real life. No wonder I was such a naïve little shit. There may have been a time when I thought Hazel needed me to rescue her, but that turned out to be a bunch of bullshit. A rich, selfish girl like Hazel Blake doesn’t need me for anything other than her own benefit.
If I really think about it, though, I guess Hazel did me a favor by teaching me early on that I shouldn’t take anyone too seriously and that it’s best to keep my emotions in check. No matter what I might be feeling on the inside, nobody else gives a shit on the outside. Most people are selfish by nature—myself included—and the sooner I understood this fact of life, the easier mine got. Life is actually pretty fucking simple: work your balls off at your job, sweat your balls off in the gym, bury yourself balls deep in the bedroom, and if anyone gives you shit, bust their balls. See? Easy. Tha
t heart on your sleeve? Cover that shit up. It only complicates things. Just work hard, play harder and don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks.
I pull up the drive and, per her request, text Hazel to let her know I’m outside. Before she responds I give myself a little pep talk: OK, man, this is no big deal. Keep it simple, keep it light, and just get this day over with by keeping your mouth shut . . . and your dick in your pants.
A minute later I see Hazel coming out of the pool house, though all I can see are a slim pair of legs covered in dark jeans. Her face is blocked since she’s carrying a huge box wrapped in silver paper, but I can see the colored ink of her tattoos peeking out from the sleeves of a red T-shirt. That’s all it takes for my traitorous dick to twitch to life. I curse and get out of the car, jogging around the back to lower the tailgate on my pickup.
“Jesus, did you get a big enough gift?” I ask as she struggles to slide it onto the bed of the truck.
“Yeah right. This is from my grams. I’ve had to hide it from my mother for two weeks, which, let me tell you, was not easy. You see the size of this thing?” Hazel gives the box a final shove before slamming the tailgate shut triumphantly.
When she finally turns to me, smiling, her bright, green eyes framed perfectly by her straight hair that’s dyed some reddish-purple color, I have to force myself to look away. I hate that I still think she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I nod toward the house, looking for a distraction. “Speaking of, where is mommy dearest?” The mere mention of her mother, Holly Blake, has a chill running down my spine.
“She’s out at one of her appointments.” Hazel makes air quotes with her fingers as she says that last part, making me think back to when we were teenagers. Any time Holly told us she had an appointment she would come home either freshly Botoxed and looking like her face got caught in a wind tunnel, or completely loopy and smelling like booze, as if she’d downed a handful of muscle relaxants and chased them with a bottle of scotch.
Sick Pleasure (Crazy Beautiful Book 3) Page 1
