“Before you, no. But now, I’d have them for you,” I say, feeling a little shy.
He chuckles and gives me a noogie like he always has. The best part of being in love with Sniper is that he is still my best friend in every way. This goes to show you that you can fall in love with your best friend, and it can be the best thing in your life when it happens.
“I want a girl and a boy, so you’re gonna give me two,” he says after a few moments of silence.
“Is that so?” I tease him.
He pinches my arm and chuckles. “Yeah, and when I marry your ass, because I will and it’ll be soon, your name is gonna be Piper Breaker.” He snorts a sharp laugh.
Oh, for all the love of god. “Pipe Breaker,” I choke. No way. No way in fucking hell. “I’ll keep my last name, ‘kay.”
He growls and when he shakes his head, I know I have already lost this argument. At the same time, my heart warms, knowing I have found a man who knows all my dirty secrets and still wants to spend the rest of his life with me. He doesn’t care that I used to think I was ruined or soiled. He loves me for me and what I have been through is what makes me, well, me.
“I love you,” I whisper.
Sniper leans into me and puts his chin on the top of my head. “God, darlin’, I love you, too.”
And just when life can’t get any better, the sound of a baby crying bounces down the hallways, and a Breakneck baby by the name of Lana is born.
***
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HERE WITH ME
THE ARCHER BROTHERS #1
© HEIDI MCLAUGHLIN 2014
Chapter 1
Ryley
Each step I take is painful. Not in the sense that I’ve been physically injured — unless you can count my heart being torn out and ripped to shreds, twice, as being physically hurt — but in the sense that my body aches with any type of movement. I’m sore all over from too much crying and a lack of eating. Withering away to nothing, as my best friend, Lois has been saying for the past two weeks.
The fact that it’s been two weeks since my life has been turned upside down flipped inside out and run through the ringer stops me mid-step. Lois smashes into my back, no doubt looking at her phone, texting someone she shouldn’t be and meddling in my affairs. Even though I love her, I want her to stop. I want to wake up from this nightmare and have my life go back to the way it was six years ago.
Lois places her hand on my back, urging me silently to take the next step, and the next one and the next one after that. She’s been my rock for as long as I can remember, and surprisingly there was a time when I didn’t need her as much, but that’s all changed.
At the top of the staircase sits a table with a small bouquet of freshly picked flowers, a nice touch to the drab location. When Lois pulled in front of the building, I recoiled in my seat. The brick building, old and worn with age, shows no sign of being welcoming. The sidewalk is cracked and weeds grow in between the slabs. The only saving grace is the park across the street, and while it’s empty, it looks inviting, if not a place to escape.
Lois opens the door before I can raise my hand to knock. She’s impatient with me and I understand why. I know deep down she’s afraid I’m going to turn and run. Believe me the thought has crossed my mind a time or two. I know it’s not the answer, but it makes the most sense. If I can’t be found, I can’t be hurt, and I’ve had far too much hurt in my life to last me until my last breath. With her hand on my back, she gives me a gentle nudge to step into the office. The woman behind the glass wall looks up briefly and gives us a half smile. She probably feels the same way I do about the building. It’s lacking in life, much like I am right now.
After giving her my name, I sit down next to Lois. Her face is now stuffed in a magazine, and she’s ignoring me. This is her idea of tough love. I’ve been down this path with her before so I know what to expect. You’d think by now I’d be a pro and can deal with whatever is thrown my way, but I’m not. It seems that every few years my idea of happiness turns into a weak excuse for life.
My name is called, and I’m directed through an open door. The room I step into is lackluster and cold. I cross my arms to ward off an impending shiver and chastise Lois for making me wear a dress today. My cardigan is resting in the backseat of her car when it should be on my shoulders.
“Good morning. What’s your name?”
It’s in the chart on your desk, I want to yell out, but refrain. Lois would likely hear me and scold me like a child. I’d take it though because she’d be right. The lady behind the desk doesn’t ask me to sit down or guide me to the chair or couch in her office. She doesn’t even look at me. This meeting is feeling a bit too impersonal for my taste, and as I reach for the door, I hear her clear her throat.
“Ryley, I like to ask my patients to say their names so that their identities aren’t forgotten when we start discussing why you’re here.”
It makes sense, I think. I opt to sit on the couch, but only on the edge. I don’t want to be comfortable or complacent.
“Ryley Clarke,” I answer, letting my name flow easily from my lips.
“Tell me, Ryley, what brings you in today?”
Of course she wastes no time punching me in the gut. If it weren’t figuratively, I’d flinch and let her know that it’s not okay to hit, but instead I straighten my back and ponder the question that seems to have brought me to this point in my life. A point where I’m required, no begged, to enter therapy to help figure out the rest of my life. Maybe not even the rest, but the next step. Either step I take leads me down a path of love, pain and irreparable hurt.
Most importantly, I don’t want to be here. I don’t think talking to a third party with a psyche degree is the answer. Sadly, I’m the only one who feels that way. I’ve been told therapy will help, but I’m not so sure it will. You can’t fix something that has been destroyed for years. We aren’t a family of teddy bears with missing eyes or ears that can be sewn back on making us look somewhat new. We’re a damaged bunch, destined for nothing but heartache.
I pick at the threadbare couch that I chose to sit on. It looked more comfortable than the chair in front of her. It’s royal blue, or at least it used to be. I think at one time it was probably soft, plush and very comfortable, and people didn’t have a problem lying back, closing their eyes and letting all their worries flow from their mouths. You would think that with the many people that come through the door, a new couch could be purchased. I may be wrong in my assumption. I likely am. This couch holds secrets that no one ever wants out, and it’s about to know mine too. Maybe that’s why she keeps it this way.
“Why am I here today?” the words are a whisper on my lips. I can barely hear them myself and know she can’t hear me. Clearing my throat, I keep my eyes downcast and away from her face. The last thing I want is for her to see the pain in my eyes. That’s for me and me alone when I stare in the mirror, asking myself how and why.
“I’m here so you can fix… this.” The words are bitter and angry. I spread my arms out wide, and my knuckles scrape the side of the worn out armrest. I pull my right hand to me, examining my fingers for any signs of damage. A sliver maybe, something to cause pain, anything to make me feel. I have nothing.
I lean forward, determined not to cry. I don’t know
why I’m here. I healed. I moved on. We moved on. Life was good, not better, but manageable. We were happy. We laughed and loved and we missed him terribly, but we woke up each day determined to make a new happy memory. But then life — no, I take that back — the military made that all change.
If I were a conspiracy theorist, I’d say this was all planned, but honestly, what do they care about my life? Nothing, that’s for damn sure. They don’t care that they’ve ruined the last six years of my life because of some clerical error. “Sorry,” is all they could be bothered to say.
They’re sorry.
I realize now that I’ve spoken, the floodgates are open, and I can’t get my words out fast enough. She, the one who sits behind a desk taking notes, doesn’t have a clue as to what I’ve been through, but I’m about to tell her.
“I don’t know why I’m here. I’m not sure a session or a million sessions can fix my life right now. People have told me that time heals all wounds, but they’re full of shit. I think when that saying was coined, they meant a scratch or a bump, not a hole in the middle of your chest that you’d have to put back together piece by piece. A hole so big that when you breathe in, it burns and makes you ache all over. One that makes you beg for someone to show you mercy, even if no one will because they all feel the same way as you. And was I ever really healed, or did I wake-up one morning and decide that I needed to move on?”
“It does take time to heal, Ryley, and everyone has to do it at their own pace.”
I laugh out loud and adjust the way I’m sitting. I wish I hadn’t worn a dress today, but Lois insisted, and I’m at a point in my life where I just do as she says, so I put on a yellow sundress and pulled my hair into a blue ribbon. That’s as good as it gets for me right now. But sitting here, I want to be in sweats. I want my white socks covering my bare toes, and I want to be buried under an oversized sweatshirt. I want to hide.
“Time is my enemy. Time is the one thing I don’t have and can’t afford to lose. Time…” I shake my head and look toward the window. I bite my lip and close my eyes. My mind is blank. I refuse to see their images. I don’t want to look, or remember. “I need to find a way to stop time or reverse it.” I nod. “Reversing time would be ideal. If I could do that, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. My life… it’d be on the path that I created, that I worked hard for, but it’s not. I’m standing in the center of the Interstate with traffic coming at me from both directions waiting… desperately waiting for someone or something to change everything that has happened in the last six years. So no, time doesn’t heal anything. It just prolongs the hurt and pain.
“It sounds like you’ve had a lot to deal with, maybe more than others. Do you find solace in your friends?”
I shake my head. “I have two very close friends. One is from high school, she and her husband moved down here once the twins where stationed here. The other is a military wife. Any other friends I had bailed. I’m sure they didn’t bail because of me, but because of the military. You move on, ya know? They don’t want to associate…” I stop and think about that word. “Associate isn’t the correct word; it’s fear. They see what I went through and fear rips through their bodies, and they do what their bodies tell them: fight or flight. They all chose flight because they’re all afraid they’ll go through the same thing one day.”
“What else do you experience from your friends and family?”
Easy question. “Pity. I got so sick and tired of the hugs and the pats on the shoulder. The looks — those were never-ending. I didn’t need to see the pity in their eyes as they went from looking at me to looking at my belly. Everyone is sorry, but what exactly are they sorry for? Are they sorry that they voted for the people who sent our military to war? Are they sorry that their children aren’t out defending our country? What are they sorry for?” My voice rises with my last question. I want to know. What goes through someone’s mind when they tell you they’re sorry that your loved one has died?
“I always want to ask why. Why are you sorry? Did you do something that I’m not aware of? Did you pull the trigger or supply the enemy with equipment to do harm? No, I didn’t think so. Thing is, all the pity looks are back and each one brings me to my knees because guess what? They’re all sorry again, and this time it’s not going to matter what decision I make. Someone will be hurt. For that, they can be sorry.”
“Ryley, I’m going to ask you again why are you here today?”
For the first time since I walked in the door, I look at the therapist. Her hair is cut short, framing her face. It’s brown, but muted. There’s no vibrancy to her color. It’s dull and outdated, much like her couch. Her white, long-sleeved shirt is buttoned high, as if it wants to choke the life out of her. Her cat-like glasses perch on the edge of her nose, and she reclines in her chair with her pad of paper resting on her lap, her pen poised to write down my words at a moment’s notice.
“I’m here because six years ago I lost the love of my life, but now he’s back from the dead, and in a few weeks I’m set to marry my best friend. His brother.”
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***
Scandalous Charges
By Eliana S. Peters
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23556755-scandalous-charges
****Warning****
Lube and batteries are not included with the purchase of this book, but for your pleasure, those things might be nice to have on hand.
If asked to describe herself in three words, author Samantha Daley would say dry, barren land. She wanted, no, craved the feel of a man above her, beneath her, hell, behind her. She really wasn’t picky. Her only problem? Having lived with the verbal vomit of an emotionally abusive man, Samantha’s self confidence was smaller than a gnat’s G-string. Enter The Pipe Cleaners, a male escort service.
Sebastiano Russo was done, finished, finito. Waiting for Samantha to realize the depths of his affections left him tired of holding back. Not to mention, a perpetual and severe case of blue balls. As her financial adviser, he reconciled her accounts and when he found charges for an escort service, Sebastiano decided to take matters into his own hands. Her matters, that is, which included those luscious tits and curvy hips that he’d fantasized about every night. Hell, who was he kidding? He’d pictured her in his head every time he took his cock in his hand.
As Samantha began writing her fantasy, Sebastiano decided she needed to change from past to present and he demanded a staring role. Follow the wordsmith and number cruncher on a journey to sexual bliss. But remember, no trip is ever simply smooth sailings. Some bumps in the road may appear.
Chapter One
Scout slammed the door so hard the decorative plates hanging on the wall rattled. “Sadie, you know can’t run from me. I’ll follow you to the ends of the world.”
Huge crocodile tears left trails of mascara down her cheeks as Sadie crumbled before his eyes. “I just couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you because of me.” She threw herself in his arms, and he held her tight as sobs shook her body. “I love you, Scout. And that’s why I have to go.”
“Son of a bitch. Is that the best you can come up with?”
Samantha Daley looked around her office, hoping that inspiration would somehow find her in the hot, cramped room. Instead, her attention fell on the darkness that had somehow consumed the daylight. How long had she sat in this spot, struggling to put words into sentences? The kinks in her shoulders told her she needed to just give in to another endless bout of writer’s block. The rumble in her stomach said she needed food, but damn if she had much of an appetite.
Her lifelong goal of becoming a writer had come true when she’d published her first novel six years ago, but her success had come with a steep price. The sparkle and shine of her dream career had diminished over the last two years and the fun had become more of a chore than an adventure. She found herself divorced, discourage
d, and depressed, but she knew the only person who could change any of that was her.
Change. That one word excited her and gave her hope of escape. Escape from her boring, dreary life. Escape towards fulfillment, even if it was only a temporary fling.
Earlier in the week, Samantha had delivered papers to her investment adviser’s office, and his secretary, Jillian, insisted on taking her to lunch. Over grilled chicken Caesar salads, Sam’s quiet friend suggested she try MakeMyDate.com. Jillian insisted Samantha would get her long awaited release with no strings attached. Besides, it seemed Samantha couldn’t be convinced to make a move on Sebastiano Russo. Prim and proper described her to a T.
Because he was her financial planner, Samantha ignored his hot, heavy looks and attempted to keep their transactions strictly business. In the years since Samantha’s divorce, loneliness was her bedfellow and her only action came with batteries. She’d lost count of the number of ways she had fantasized about being taken by Russo. His nightly visits to her dreams would have to suffice for now because Sam lacked the confidence to act on those dreams.
Knowing that the very thought of Russo would keep her from writing any more that night, she took her laptop to her room. After thinking long and hard, and spending time giggling about thoughts of long and hard, she decided it was past time for her to do something about her wants and needs. She was tired of taking matters into her own hands, so it was time to look for alternatives and find a solution. Laid back in her bed, trusty vibrator waiting beside her, she flipped through late night programming on the television while logging into the dating place where her friend had pressured her into creating a profile. The flashing number six beside her inbox shocked Samantha.
Excited, she clicked her way through the pages of available men, hoping to find the next man to fuck her senseless. Her toughest decision would be to choose the beach where they would meet. The Florida Keys would only be a short flight from her hometown of Savannah, so of course, the beautiful Southern beaches made perfect sense. Never once had she ever considered taking the drastic step of meeting a stranger for sex. But she was a woman, and she had needs that she was unable to fulfill on her own any longer. It seemed much simpler than she would have imagined.
Discovering Me (Breakneck #4) Page 15
