What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG Book 4)

by Selena Kitt

Cover Art: © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  20140515

  ISBN 978-1-940951-01-0

  Silver Griffon Associates

  P.O. Box 7383

  Orange, CA 92863

  www.BrennaAubrey.net

  Brenna Aubrey’s Newsletter

  Closure

  Kim Carmichael

  18+ Years

  Published by Hot Ink Press

  An Erotic Imprint of

  Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly Publishing

  Algonquin, IL 60102

  This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Text Copyright © 2012 Kim Carmichael

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  The material contained inside this book contains sexually explicit situations and is intended for mature audiences only.

  All persons created and portrayed in this book are 18 years of age or older.

  Edited by:

  S.J. Davis

  For Hot Ink Press

  Cover by Megan J. Parker for EmJay Designs

  To my husband for supporting my transformation and SJ for believing in me.

  Now I have closure.

  Chapter One

  “Give me a break.” Riley Williams shielded her eyes from the glare of the bright white restaurant threatening to blind her.

  She inhaled, taking her time to breathe out, and turned on her laptop. This establishment was known more for who dined here than the food they served. She wouldn’t even get a decent free lunch out of this interview.

  Today’s assignment involved interviewing one of the newest entrepreneurs in the world of digital publishing. She opened up the notes her editor sent an hour ago for this last minute appointment. This was not the way to do business, even for their small magazine about trends in independent art. With a shake of her head, she forced herself to scan the email.

  She got no further than the first line. “Mike Taylor?” Her voice cut through the soft clink of silverware and hushed business tones that overtook this celebrity-designed joint. She shut her eyes, gave herself a second in darkened bliss, and opened them to reread the notes. The name did not change. In fact, it was as if some unknown force had put the name in bold.

  The words on her screen blurred together. Her body heated, breaking out in a fine sheen of sweat. She wrapped her arms around herself and sucked in the sides of her mouth, biting down as a self-punishment for allowing the mere thought of his name to conjure this reaction in her. No doubt there were thousands of men named Mike Taylor.

  The chance of this Mike Taylor being the Mike Taylor were about the same as her putting on a frilly yellow sun dress and sweet sandals, and going out for a night on the town.

  Though she’d put his name, and even her own real name in the past over seventeen years ago, her mind still took off into that place. She may as well have stepped back into high school. Her stomach twisted in the same way.

  With no point in continuing to read, she leaned back in the white leather booth. Every woman there wore a smart business suit with a matching handbag and shoes, every man in a dark colored suit. Those who dared to push the boundary mixed things up with a splash-of-color tie.

  She stared at the white ceiling with white chandeliers. Everything perfect. She wondered how many of these pristine people knew that a mere thirteen stories above this restaurant was a club that would shock most everyone out of their coordinated clothes. Her Mike Taylor would have despised the club. Too different, too strange, too bizarre, and exactly like her.

  Up there memories, appearances and names didn’t matter. Mike Taylor didn’t matter. Not that he should have, he’d never belonged to her, even if she wanted him. This publishing guru couldn’t be him anyway.

  “Ms. Williams?”

  She straightened at her name, blinking to bring the black business suit standing at her table into view, but avoided his face. “Yes.” Her heart bashed against chest for no reason.

  “Mike Taylor.” He waved the waiter away and took the chair across from her. “I thought I would be meeting directly with the publisher.”

  “He had an emergency.” She focused on his hands. Manicured nails, no rings, an expensive metal watch.

  “I see.” He strummed his fingers on the white tablecloth.

  She worked her gaze up the tailored suit, white shirt and bright blue tie. “Well, we should get started.” She swallowed and willed herself to look at him. Her nails dug into her pant leg as she faced him.

  The gorgeous smart guy from high school was supposed to appear years later as the potbellied bald man with bad breath.

  In no way should he look even better. The years had matured him, defined his face, darkened his blue eyes. Too many nights of her life were spent dreaming of those eyes.

  “I hope you did your homework.” He smiled showing off his one crooked tooth on the right side of his smile.

  She motioned for the waiter to return. She needed to order a yellow frilly dress, some sweet sandals and a tranquilizer. This was her Mike, the boy, now man, who destroyed her past. She’d never been the same since.

  Chapter Two

  After fifteen minutes of discussing the world of digital publishing with Mike Taylor, Riley realized this man had absolutely no twinge of recollection of her.

  “The world has changed. Everything is interconnected. Feedback comes from all over and is instantaneous. No longer can writers live in a bubble, they need to interact. You either need to get on the ride and hold on, or you will fall out of the car and be run over.” Mike picked up the butter knife, twirling it between his fingers.

  One thing was certain. The driven valedictorian of seventeen years ago turned into a driven business mogul. The way he spoke about his work reminded her of the speeches he gave in student counsel, and the lectures he gave her during their tutoring sessions. She’d been part of him giving back to the school, but she became the fool who thought it was more.

  “Some would say the writer should write for themselves.”

  Years ago they had this exact conversation when she wanted to write a story about a town stuck in permanent summer and how they craved winter for her essay instead of what she did on her vacation. He told her to do the assignment as instructed. No, he demanded she follow the directions.

  She shifted her focus from his grey-blue eyes and his one crooked tooth to the sprig of mint on the edge of the glass. The man should have been on a billboard on Sunset Boulevard touting the slogan ‘people never change.’ Back in school, people feared the way he stormed in and took control of any situation, said tough truths and made things happen without turning back to see who or what he left in his wake.

  “What if the writer wants to actually sell something?” He tilted his head. “There is a way to do things.”

  At one point she’d thought herself immune to his destruction because she was attracted to it. They had a connection, an unspoken bond. Did they have that now?

  She wrote the story her way, and failed. He insisted on sitting with her in an empty classroom while she rewrote the assignment, telling her he had to make sure she did it correctly. It was freeing having someone tell her what to do, insist she color within the lines.

  While she forced out every word, he read the original. That night at home, she found the papers in her messenger bag. On the last page he wrote Awesome, but you didn’t follow the rules. She saved that paper shoved in a box with the memory of the girl who pressed the pages to her chest and dreamt about the boy who wrote
it as if he were some teen idol.

  “Do you always follow the rules, Mr. Taylor?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, his eyes widened.

  For a scant second she thought she noticed a flash of familiarity. Her heart stopped along with her breathing, pausing to find out what would happen next. Did the connection die, whither away with time, or was it always there?

  “You follow them until you are allowed to make them.” He tapped the point of the knife on his butter dish.

  “When do you allow yourself to break them?” She focused on her iced tea, but reached across the table for the bread and brushed her hand against his.

  “Excuse me.” She swore her body tingled, or she wanted that reaction. Still, she squirmed in her seat.

  He looked straight into her eyes. “You’re different.”

  She forced herself to stare back. Again, his words took her back to those high school halls. He had asked her why she insisted on being different. She told him there weren’t any rules. There also weren’t many people in Peoria, Illinois with maroon hair, white makeup, a nose ring and all black clothes. Too many days she found ads for the local funeral parlor stuffed into her locker. She was by herself, wilting in a town that didn’t understand, until Mike Taylor took her on.

  “How so?” Her voice sounded as if someone else were speaking for her. What she really wanted to ask was if he felt it, too.

  He put the knife down and rubbed his chin. “Are you going to write any of this down?”

  She pursed her lips, holding back the words she wanted to let out. Right when the questions got tough, when he didn’t have control, when he would be exposed, he went another direction. He veered a road where he knew the map.

  “That’s what they pay me for.”

  “How are you going to remember what I said?” He crossed his arms.

  “Are you worried I’m going to get something wrong?” Without him knowing, they slipped back into their old banter. She reached into her bag, found a pad and pen and held them up. “Do you feel better now?”

  “Yes, different.” He pressed his back against the chair. “A challenge.” His smile let the tooth peek out, while seventeen years caused the little wrinkle at corner of his eye to appear. “You know, I have some meetings here the rest of this week.”

  “Should I be writing this down?” She clicked the pen twice, trying to stop herself from reading more into this.

  “Not unless you’re writing down your address so I know where to pick you up for dinner tomorrow night.”

  Everything stopped. Even if only in her mind, for that second the world froze. The constant clink of dishes ceased, the bustling wait staff stood motionless.

  Back in the school hallway when he had invited her out, he used a similar assumptive close. He turned to her and asked what time he should get her Friday night. Though the years had diminished the pain, to this day every now and again, she wondered what would have happened if took her out rather than succumbing to the pressure of his friends and parents. She’d been nothing but a project when she wanted to be a girl.

  Here together, they repeated history, but not in his eyes. She couldn’t blame him for not knowing her. She’d changed her name, changed her looks, but never managed to change her heart.

  She always wondered.

  Maybe she always wished.

  Was she handed another chance to get her heart ripped to shreds, or had she just received the ultimate do-over?

  “Excuse me for a moment.” She pushed her chair back and walked away.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow.” Mike plucked Riley’s valet ticket from her fingers. Thus far, his California excursion had consisted of a strange interview, overcooked pasta and a beautiful woman. While he failed to complain about the waterlogged noodles or bother with redirecting the line of questioning, he wouldn’t be swayed from the angel who stood before him.

  “I never gave you permission to pick me up, nor did I give you a location.” She threw on her sunglasses and swiped her ticket back.

  Fine, maybe angel wasn’t the right word. No, it didn’t describe anything about her except her eyes. Damn those sunglasses for hiding them. Huge and light green, her eyes were both mysterious and familiar, made all the more potent with a naughty amount of black eyeliner. Almost too much to be appropriate for work, but it was enough to make him want to stare.

  If he tore his focus away from those eyes, he could take in her flawless skin and plump, defined lips, all set off with long wavy black hair. Not every woman could pull off dark red lipstick. She was one of the few.

  Her entire persona tiptoed on a sharp edge of acceptability for a professional, but not only her appearance. Yes, she wore a suit, a vanilla semi-shapeless ensemble for most women, but hers was all black, fit tighter and included a bit of lace and ruffles—most definitely not sweet. Neither were her curves…or her cleavage. A man could get lost in there, or would love to try.

  “Please allow me pick this up.” He put two fingers on the ticket. He worked the entire flight from Dallas to Los Angeles. His entire staff was comprised of idiots making him have to redo everything.

  “The magazine will pay me back.” She refused to relinquish the paper. Her attitude matched her look.

  “Maybe your boss would like to save the money.” The entire so-called interview with this woman who was not the publisher seemed like a battle of wills. One moment she would be calling him on the carpet for a sin he didn’t remember committing, the next, blushing as if she wanted him to take her hand. Fine, he took the bait.

  “Maybe, since you own your own business you should think about expenses.” She shifted her weight to her other leg, jutting out one hip. “You told me you handle all the finances of your company yourself.”

  His gaze went right to her ass. He was thankful for his own pair of sunglasses or she would annihilate him for looking.

  “I see you were listening.” His jaw tightened. This trip consisted of wall-to-wall meetings as he rounded up money for his newest venture. Dependence on others was a sign of weakness, and now he was one of the commoners who needed investors.

  “I didn’t even need to write it down.” She tapped her foot.

  “Touché.” He bowed his head and decided to redirect this conversation. “Now, about tomorrow night.”

  “You mentioned more than once how busy you were, maybe you should get your work done.”

  He ground his teeth together, stopping his mouth.

  Work.

  Every waking and non-waking second of his existence was spent getting work done. If he ever stopped, he was sure he would drop dead. The last time he had sex he couldn’t concentrate because his phone kept vibrating. He didn’t remember climaxing or if she did. Hell, he couldn’t remember her face. He didn’t want to get tangled up with a woman. What the hell was he doing?

  “You are right.” He let go of the ticket.

  She paused then held her hand out. “Good luck in the future.”

  Her send off sounded like a bad greeting card. All she needed was to hand him a gift-wrapped pen. He shifted his focus from her hand to her face.

  The intermittent blush she wore appeared once more.

  He glanced back at her hand. It trembled, a small shake. She needed guidance.

  “I am sure you will do well in your work.” She kept her hand out.

  She mentioned his work again. He was a fast study. Somewhere along the way he forgot how to talk to a woman and not have it come out like a contract negotiation. He always got what he wanted.

  “Riley.” He swallowed and took her hand. “I would like to ask your permission to take you out tomorrow night.”

  “Why?” She tensed, but didn’t pull back. “You don’t even know me.”

  He kept hold of her. “That’s why I want to take you out, to get to know you better.” She acted as if no one had asked her out before.

  She didn’t say a word, only licked her lips. The red stayed perfectly in place. He wondered whe
re it would go if he kissed her.

  “I want to take you out.” He stepped closer. Getting this date was proving to be more difficult than securing investors.

  She moved her sunglasses down her nose and peeked at him, giving him another glimpse of those eyes.

  “I’ll handle everything, all you need to do is allow me to take care of you.” “I’ll text you my address.” She slid her hand away from his and pushed her glasses back up. “I’ll pay for my own valet.” She turned and walked away.

  He watched her and nodded. Now he had to return to work.

  Chapter Three

  There’s always that one guy. Riley watched her date and shook her head.

  “Stay there, I’ll get the door.” Mike got out of the car.

  The cellophane on the roses Mike gave her when he arrived at her apartment crinkled in complaint as she moved them to the back seat, but not before she breathed in one more time. The floral perfume combined with his cologne made her dizzy, or maybe it was the ride down Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu.

  Yes, there was always that one guy, the one that every other man is measured against. Up until yesterday she hadn’t thought about Mike in years, but he was always there. His imprint was all over her, a fingerprint unique to only her. How many men had to live up to memories they couldn’t compete with?

  Part of her wished she possessed the strength to turn him down. Part of her wished he hadn’t shown, or cancelled. Part of her wanted this date to reclaim what she lost so long ago she forgot she missed it.

  The moment she got in the car with him, she became the seventeen-year-old Margaret again. Only her former self never got this far. At the time she convinced herself it was better, the date would have been terrible, he was too goal oriented, and he only wanted what he perceived as an easy lay.

  He took long strides around the car, opened the door on her side and held out his hand.