by Tamara Lush
Constant Craving
Tamara Lush
Edited by Jami Nord
Copy Editor Rebecca Weston
Cover Design Hang Le
Copyright © 2017 by Tamara Lush
All rights reserved.
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 written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
To newspapers, my first love
Contents
1. The Distant Past
2. A Steamy Morning
3. Save Me From You
4. Breathless
5. The Business of Desire
6. The Hum of Sex
7. A Kiss in the Rain
8. Powerless
9. In His Arms
10. Tears and Memories
11. Captive
12. The Mind of Love
13. Plundering and Pillaging
14. The Indecent Proposal
15. A Tease
16. Slave to Love
17. Wicked Game
18. Watching Me Fall
19. Never Enough
20. Let’s Go to Bed
21. Tears of Love’s Recall
22. Playing House
23. Love Will Tear Us Apart
24. Something Must Break
25. It’s Called a Heart
26. How Soon is Now
27. Only One Thing
28. Revelation
29. Dreams
30. Ghosts of the Past
31. A Gift, A Kiss, and the Truth
32. Daylight Chasing the Night
33. Crawl
34. Submission
35. Valentine’s Day
36. The Darkness and the Light
37. Blessed and Cursed
38. Everything Counts in Large Amounts
39. A Storm on the Sun
40. Craving
41. Slowly, Madly, Deeply
TELL ME A STORY
CRAVING MORE STORIES?
About the Author
1
The Distant Past
Tengo hambre de tus ojos, de tu boca, de tus besos…
Those were the first words I heard Rafael say.
I hunger for your eyes, your mouth, your kisses …
On a warm October day, he stood at the front of the University of Miami classroom, reciting a poem in both Spanish and English. It was the second week of school, and he’d transferred into Public Speaking 101. He’d missed a few classes already and because of that, everyone noticed him on the day he read aloud.
All the girls couldn’t stop looking at him. Neither could I.
Rafael was tall and wore faded jeans and a plain black T-shirt. The dark stubble on his face, combined with his black eyebrows, dark eyelashes, and short black hair, made him look like the devil’s best student. A flashing red hazard to my heart.
As he spoke, Rafael stared. At me. I was sitting in the second row. His eyes were so filled with possessive desire that I longed to kneel at his feet and beg him to do anything he wanted with my body and soul.
When he finished speaking, Rafael watched me, his mouth open in a half-smile, one that held the promise of pleasure.
I was breathless. Hypnotized.
“Thank you, Mr. Menendez. Ms. Lavoie, you’re next,” the professor called out, startling me enough that I hurriedly gathered my papers. One fell to the floor, and I scrambled to retrieve it, scooping it up with shaking fingers.
Stepping to the front of the room, I passed Rafael as he took his seat. I swallowed hard when our eyes met for a quick second. My mouth was uncomfortably moist, and I folded my arms. I was aware of how my vintage, black-and-rose-printed Betsey Johnson slip dress and black flip-flops rubbed against my skin and would’ve liked to strip everything off. Rafael’s gaze made me feel naked. Made me want to be naked. With him.
“Please tell us the title of the poem you’re reading,” said the professor.
“I’ve selected ‘Sonnet Seventeen,’ by Neruda,” I replied in a thin voice, staring at the ground.
“Uncross your arms. And you’re going to have to speak louder. Remember, this is a public speaking class, not a public whispering class.”
The few students who bothered to pay attention laughed, and I raised my eyes toward Rafael. He slouched low in his chair, his long legs sprawling and taking up space in the front row. His lips curved upward and built into a sensual smile. I tucked my wavy hair behind my ear.
With a deep breath, I began.
Rafael consumed me with long, slow glances as I recited the poem. His lips parted, and I caught sight of his tongue in the corner of his mouth. By the time I reached the second sentence, I smiled. A secret, just for him. It was as if we were the only two people in the room.
When class ended, I hurried outside into the white-bright Florida sun, shivering with restless longing. A hand gently grabbed my wrist, and the fine hair on my nape trembled.
“Justine?” he asked, his voice gentle and flecked with a slight Spanish accent.
“Yes.”
I was nineteen and inexperienced. I’d only kissed a few guys, maybe gone a little further. I was pretty shy back then. And I stayed away from guys who looked like Rafael, mostly because I assumed they wouldn’t be interested in a girl like me.
“Where are you from?” My small wrist looked so fragile in his big hand.
“St. Augustine.”
Rafael’s grin revealed dimples under the stubble.
“So, Justine from St. Augustine,” he said, rhyming and stealing my heart. “What are you doing this weekend? Are you going to that party everyone’s talking about, the Fantasy Fiesta costume party? Isn't that a stupid name? Are you dressing up?”
I laughed, temporarily mute. My best friend Diana had told me about the party and was urging me to go. I’d said no, thinking that yeah, it was a pretty stupid name.
But if Rafael would be there, maybe I would go. My skin flared with heat, as if I had spent a day at the beach in August. His eyes were the most unusual color, a rich, deep copper, and they glinted in the sun.
“I don’t have plans,” I murmured.
Another grin, this one wicked. I had never seen such long eyelashes on a man.
“Do you know what you should be for Fantasy Fiesta?”
I shook my head again, and he stared at me for a smoldering beat.
“Mine.”
2
A Steamy Morning
FIFTEEN YEARS LATER
I am standing on a sidewalk next to a pirate.
“Seriously?” I say out loud.
I flick my hand at the man sprawled in front of my newspaper building. A black hat with a purple feather hides most of the guy’s face.
“A drunk pirate? Today?”
We’re the only ones on the street, but he doesn’t hear me. Because he’s out cold. If his belly weren’t rising and falling, I’d take him for dead. Dirty green pants, black boots, and a black vest. No shirt. His torso is fish-belly white, naked and flabby. The sour stench of beer hits my nostrils, and my nose wrinkles instinctively. A thin sigh escapes my lips. The guy had probably gone on a bender over the weekend during the city’s annual pirate festival. He’d run out of steam and stamina here on the concrete in front of the St. Augustine Times, the final stop on the Sunday night parade party route.
A strand of green beads hangs limp around his neck, and I curl my lip in disgust.
Because it’s the city’s biggest tourist draw, my newspaper celebrates the ten-day soiree of stupidity with a snappy headline. As it has for every pirate festival, every year, for decades. Hell, I even wrote the headline this year because, as publisher o
f a small paper, sometimes you have to step in when your city editor’s on vacation.
Pillage the Village: Like Mardi Gras! With Pirates!
I snort out loud. Pirates. Tourists. Florida.
Ridiculous.
Now it’s Monday morning and I—the youngest female newspaper publisher in America—am the cleanup crew. On the day I’m supposed to look gorgeous, sound sharp, and make a case for salvaging my business.
Fucking awesome.
“Hey. Excuse me? Hey!” I shout in the guy’s direction, and he doesn’t move. I don’t need this, not today. Taking a few steps, I prod the pirate’s forearm with my black, pointy-toed stiletto that’s already rubbing my heel raw. He’s not budging.
Larry, the newspaper’s security guard, opens the front door and peers down at the slumbering man. I take a few steps back and grimace. It’s all I can do to contain my annoyance that Larry didn’t deal with this when he arrived that morning. I wave my hand at the drunk.
“We need to do something. Now. Call the cops. We can’t have a potential investor stepping over a passed-out pirate on their way into the paper this morning.”
Larry ducks back inside, and I pace, the skin of my left heel eroding with every step. I check my watch. It’s eight-thirty, and the morning air is as putrid as the beer that’s in the plastic cup sitting a few feet from the pirate. Already a bead of perspiration is trickling down the back of my thigh.
I pause on the corner, trying to figure out if we can somehow drag the drunk out of sight, near the loading dock where the circulation crew tosses newspapers into the trucks at three every morning. Moving the guy ourselves might be quicker than relying on the local sheriff’s department, which hasn’t been thrilled with me since the paper did a kickass exposé six months ago on a string of officer-involved shootings in the city’s black neighborhood.
I sweep my long hair off my neck, hoping to cool off, then let it fall to my shoulders in a thick, sticky curtain. Why had I taken the time to blow it straight when I could have slept for an extra half-hour? I hate wearing my hair down when it’s this hot. My natural waves are fighting the humidity already.
The humidity’s winning.
Maybe I should retreat into the air-conditioned comfort of my office, twist my hair in a bun, and pretend I never saw the drunk. Feign ignorance when the vice president from the private equity investment fund shows up for our meeting at nine.
No. Can’t do that. It’s too cowardly. A real woman looks a challenge in the eye and winks.
I tap my foot faster. The guy’s beefy, and I doubt if Larry and I could handle him on our own. Who else can help? Is anyone even in at this hour? Over the past few weeks, since rumors about our impending bankruptcy started to swirl in the city’s alt-weekly newspaper and on a local blog, reporters and editors and ad salespeople have been coming in a few minutes later each day and leaving a few minutes earlier every night.
My gaze falls on the newspaper’s building, a four-story concrete-and-stucco behemoth built by my great-grandfather. To me, the building always had its own personality. Imposing. Serious. A place of importance.
It takes up an entire block. It’s an ugly building, but it’s my ugly building and I’m trying like hell to save it.
I sigh. Crap, I forgot to tell maintenance how I’d driven by the previous evening and the light of the letter s on the building’s sign no longer illuminated. The Time, it said in bright green letters. Add it to the long list of broken things at the paper.
I’m item number one on that list.
“Justine!”
Diana, the paper’s chief finance officer and my oldest friend, bursts out the front door, belly-first. She’s pregnant. Very, very pregnant. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her tanned skin—I keep telling her to use sunscreen or else she’ll look like an alligator in ten years—is shiny with sweat.
“Hey. Watch out for the pirate.” My hand instinctively goes to my forehead, and my thumb circles my temple. I shouldn’t have had that second glass of chardonnay last night while preparing for today’s meeting.
“Oh, hell.” She steps around him and rushes to me, breathless. Why is she in such a hurry? She’s never in a hurry, pregnant or not.
“Yeah, we need to get him out of here. Do you know if Larry’s calling the cops?”
“No idea. Did you see the Wall Street Journal this morning?”
She flips a copy of the paper at me. It’s folded twice to a manageable rectangle.
“No. Only had time to read our paper, get ready, and guzzle a gallon of coffee. And stress about today. What’s up?”
“Florida Capital.”
“What about it?” I snatch the paper from her.
“Read the article.”
“Later. The meeting’s in fifteen minutes. I’m waiting for the VP to show up. I don’t want him to see that drunk—”
“I know when the meeting is. That’s why you need to read this.” She points to the bottom of page one with a chubby finger. Pregnancy and humidity have conspired to make her fingers look like sausages, but I won’t tell her that.
Squinting, I read the first sentences aloud. “In a surprise move, MDA of Miami has agreed to buy a majority stake in Florida Capital. As part of the $800 million cash deal, MDA will assume all of Florida Capital’s investments and continue to expand its acquisition of media properties and other companies throughout Florida and Latin America. Assets under MDA are valued at $18 billion.”
The article jumps onto another page, and I don’t bother to search for it. I look up into Diana’s wide, blue eyes and shrug. “So? Sounds like this is good news. They’ll be more likely to take a chance on giving us money. Score!”
She takes the paper and smacks my arm with it. “Read the rest.”
I shove the paper toward her. “I need to deal with this pirate. Do you think you, me, and Larry can haul him across the street? Wait, no. You can’t. You’re too pregnant. Is anyone in the newsroom?”
“A couple of guys. But keep reading. Second paragraph. Top left column.” Diana’s lilting Southern accent is uncharacteristically blunt.
“Okay, Jesus, you’re pushy today.” I grab the paper, flip it over, and read fast, out loud in a buzzy voice. “Founded just one year ago, MDA backs midmarket companies in a variety of industries, including media, consumer and business services, consumer products, distribution, and financial services. MDA is owned by Florida’s wealthiest man and number 275 on the Forbes 500, Miami condo king Rafael Menendez de Aviles…”
My voice trails off, and my chest tightens. My eyes read the name five times. I haven’t said it aloud in years.
“Oh God,” I whisper. It’s suddenly hotter than hell and half of Florida. I fan myself with the newspaper and look around. My headache erupts with a vengeance. “Oh God.”
“I think it’s the same Rafael.”
“Thanks. Of course it’s the same Rafael.” For a second, I suspect a vein in my temple is going to burst. I inhale.
This is bad. Worse than bad. Disastrous.
3
Save Me From You
Diana frowns. “He probably doesn’t know you approached Florida Capital, but I thought you should read that before you sat down with someone from the company. If you still want to sit down with someone from the company.”
I nod and gulp in a few breaths. “Right. Okay. Yeah. I’m sure he has no idea. We’re pocket change to a company like his, yeah?” My voice sounds tight, strangled.
“Mmm. I hope.”
I’m nearly hyperventilating. I try swallowing, but my mouth is dry and the swallow sticks in my throat. The coffee is burning a hole in my stomach.
Rafael Menendez de Aviles. I glare at the newspaper again. My hands tremble. This is what seeing his name in black-and-white does to me.
“I’m sure everything’ll be fine.” Her tone isn’t convincing. She turns to squint into the morning sun and at the pirate.
“Yeah.” I draw out the word. “Just. Peachy.”
We stand in tense silence for a few minutes, me with shaky hands, fanning my face with the paper, Diana staring at the drunk and rubbing her belly. My earlier resolve to drag the pirate away is gone. It doesn’t matter if there are a dozen passed-out drunks sleeping in front of the building.
If Rafael now owns the private equity firm, there’s no way he’ll—
Diana interrupts my dismal thoughts. “Every year, it’s always the fat, old guys in the puffy shirts and eye patches who end up at our building after the parade. It’s never a dude who looks like Johnny Depp.”
Now she’s trying to calm me by cracking a joke.
The newsprint has gotten on my fingers and mixed with my sweat. I pass her the paper and wipe a moist, grimy palm on my black pencil skirt. “Whoever thought the St. ARR-gustine Pillage the Village Fest was a good idea a hundred years ago should be drawn and quartered. Or made to walk the plank. Or shot.”
“How long do you think the cops will take?” Diana asks.
“Who knows? Not soon enough. Guess I should’ve scheduled this meeting after the festival was over. Or not scheduled it at all.”
We’re verbally dancing around the real issue.
Rafael.
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault that a guy’s using the sidewalk to sleep off his buzz. Not like we didn’t pillage the village back in the day. Remember the time I dressed like a glitter pirate princess?”
