Dominic: Cerberus MC Book 4

by Marie James

  Warm breath hits the opposite side of my neck a split second before the weight of another person presses against my back. My seducer pulls his lips from my skin and the cold air mixes with the wet warmth his mouth left on my neck. Icy blue eyes glare over my shoulder for a brief second before calming to a cooler, if annoyed, slightly darker cerulean.

  Turning my head a few inches to the right, I notice the familiar shock of bright red hair hanging down my arm and roll my eyes as Charity clings to my shoulder. I do my best to resist the urge to shove her off me and pretend I don’t know her. The compulsion to stay in this moment with Mr. Nameless in lieu of helping a friend, who, in her obvious state, has no chance of making it home safe, makes me realize just how fast I’ve transitioned into the same girl who disgraced her loved ones several years ago.

  He sees the decision in my eyes before the words can make it past my lips, so I don’t even bother to speak them aloud. Unwilling to accept what he knows is going to happen, he reaches for me, and I do the only thing I can fathom: I grasp my drunken friend, arm under hers to lend a steadying hand, and get both of us out of there as fast as her stumbling legs will allow.

  More Than a Memory

  Sneak Peek

  Chapter 1

  Olivia

  “You look better.” I smile at my computer screen.

  What were once vibrant blue eyes peer back at me, red-rimmed and dull.

  “I still feel like shit.”

  Prominent shadows under his eyes, lines of exhaustion across his forehead, and the downturn of his once always smiling lips are evidence of his tiredness, but it’s to be expected.

  “You’re gorgeous. Even better looking than the day I fell in love with you.”

  “And what day was that, sweet cheeks?” His eyes brighten marginally. We’ve had this conversation more than once.

  I love the nickname he gave me so long ago. He was trying to act mature and look important in front of his friends. In high school, many guys thought acting like a douche was the best way to get the girl. It was never “beautiful”, “pretty girl”, or hell, even my first name. Years later, the intentionally derogative name stuck. I used to hate it, but now I wouldn’t want to be called anything else.

  “First day of freshman year,” I say with a knowing smirk. Even when he was propped up against the wall with a small group of buddies our first day of high school, spouting offensive comments my way, I knew he was mine.

  “I was covered in acne and had braces.”

  “Like I said, even better looking than the day I fell in love with you.” He chuckles at my wink. I love the sound of his laugh. I haven’t heard it as much lately, and today, it’s a balm to my saddened heart.

  His face grows serious and his Adam’s apple bobs with a rough swallow. “I miss you so much.”

  “Can’t be more than I miss you.” My face falls and my eyes tear up, unable to keep the pain contained at hearing the devotion in his voice.

  “I’ll be home soon. I promise.”

  I reach out and stroke his face on the computer screen. I miss him more with each passing day. “I love you.”

  “I love you, sweet cheeks. Chat with you later?”

  I nod just before the screen goes dark. Chat with you later…never goodbye.

  ***

  I’m knee deep in YouTube videos when my phone rings. I ignore it like I always do the first time, and continue to watch the panda bear as it swings upside down on a rope ladder. The phone rings again and I sigh, scooping it up off the table.

  “Yes, Mother?” I don’t even have to look at the screen. She’s the only one who calls me anymore, and for that, I’m grateful. I lost my tolerance for fake, nosy people months ago.

  “How are you?” The lighthearted tinkle of her voice drives me nuts. At least, it seems to these days.

  “Fine.” Miserable.

  “You know why I’m calling, Olivia. Are you ready to discuss it?” She’s been hounding me for weeks. It’s either talk about it now, or wait and try to put her off again tomorrow. The longer I take to discuss the issue, the greater the chance of her showing up on my doorstep—and that’s the last thing I need.

  Closing my computer, I sit up straighter on the couch, strengthening my resolve for what’s to come.

  “Now is fine,” I say, the words coming out in a huff. I pick at the stickers covering my laptop, my lips purse as I wait for my mother to preach the same sermon she’s been shoving down my throat for months.

  “Are you planning to go back to school this semester?”

  “No,” I say, blinking into the empty room, my voice portraying every bit of the shitty attitude I have toward the topic. She already knew the answer. It’s the same every time she asks.

  “You need to come home then.” Her voice grows deeper, which means she’s losing her patience—another thing that seems to be happening more readily these last few weeks.

  “I’m not coming home.”

  Her sigh is so loud, I have to pull my phone away from my ear. “I knew you were going to say that.”

  Then why did you ask?

  “I’m going to rent the other room,” she says, a coolness in her voice, as if she didn’t drop a damn bomb in the middle of my living room.

  I chuckle with a flippant defiance. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I need help with the rent.”

  Annoyed, I almost hang up on her. She’s clearly lost her mind. My mother hasn’t worked a day in her adult life. My father has been beyond successful in numerous business endeavors. We’re what people would consider upper-upper class. She spends half of my apartment’s rent on her hair each month. She’s far from desperate in needing assistance to pay for the empty room.

  “Think of something else. The rent excuse isn’t going to fly.” Frustrated with the broken record, I grab my laptop and head to my bedroom. A long nap after this conversation is a must.

  “I’m tired of you being alone.” Her voice holds more emotion than I’m used to. It’s genuine. She’s dedicated her entire life to me, and I know it breaks her heart to see me making decisions she can’t control. I feel like a failure, but it’s what happens when life fails you.

  “I’m fine. I promise,” I say with growing frustration. Lying back on my bed, I focus on the rotation of the fan blades—constant, never-ending, reliable when so many things in life aren’t.

  “Are you taking your medicine?”

  I clench my teeth until I swear they’re about to crack. “I don’t need the medicine.”

  “The doctor said—”

  “I know my body. I don’t care what the doctor said.”

  “Have you been eating?”

  I sigh, not caring if the sound rings loud in her ear. “I eat.”

  “Have you left the apartment this week?”

  I scrub my hand over my face. “What’s with the twenty questions? I’m not coming home. I like it here. I’m not leaving.”

  “Well,” she says with more indignation in her voice than before.

  I sit up on the bed and listen with sharpened focus for the first time since she called. Not one good thing ever comes from my mother using that word.

  Well, pads are better than tampons. Insert embarrassing middle school volleyball game here.

  Well, trucks are better than cars. They don’t have a back seat. Almost lost my virginity in the bed of a truck.

  Well, I sold that desk because you don’t use it anymore. All of my money from working the previous summer was stashed in a hidden compartment in one of the drawers.

  “A young lady is coming in an hour to look at the apartment. I suggest you make it presentable.”

  I roll my eyes so far back, I can almost see my own ass. Like this damn place isn’t spotless already…

  “Damn it, Mom! I don’t want a roommate.”

  “It’s time. She’ll be there shortly.” With that, she hangs up the phone.

  I fall back onto the bed with a huff and toss my phone to the side. My last r
oommate was my best friend from high school. We started college together, full of hopes and dreams last fall, then I dropped out shortly after spring semester began and she continued her journey. She’s now in a sorority on campus, and I haven’t seen her in months. I could say I miss her, but we’ve changed so much over the last year, I guess I miss who we used to be.

  Refusing to sit idle any longer, I get up with a renewed determination and a devious plan. Fifteen minutes later, the apartment is a wreck. Dirty clothes everywhere, the mini-blind cords pulled so they hang askew, food wrappers from the trash on the floor and counter, and dishes piled up in and around the sink—clean dishes, but enough for a good visual alarm. I’m not crazy enough to dirty a bunch of dishes.

  I sit on the couch and can’t help the calculating smirk settling on my lips when the doorbell rings. My antisocial mask in place, I pull the door open.

  “Olivia?” The pretty brunette standing in the doorway takes in my appearance and has the class not to wrinkle her nose. My hair is all over the place and my clothes are practically torn to shreds. “I’m Emerson Daniels. I spoke with your mother about the room available.”

  “Ollie,” I offer, ignoring her outstretched hand.

  I almost feel bad for what I’ve done to the apartment—almost. Looking at her bright smile brings more sadness. In a different lifetime, I could’ve been friends with this girl. She has an air about her, sophisticated yet down to earth.

  Stepping away from the door, I sweep out my arm, indicating for her to come inside, and point down the hall. “Last door on the left.”

  I ignore her as she tours the apartment on her own. My fingers itch to open my laptop, but I space out, watching a penguin documentary on Netflix instead.

  “Is there a laundry room?” she asks, walking back into the room. I pop up on the couch, startled by her reappearance, and search for the time. The apartment is only so big, how long had she been checking it out? What had she been checking out for so long?

  She picks a towel up between her forefinger and thumb and places it on the end of the couch near my feet before settling in to the armchair.

  I put that towel there to deter anyone from sitting and getting comfortable. I almost smirk at her—almost.

  A soft smile tilts her lips up and I overanalyze the response, wondering just what in the hell my mother told this girl. “Laundry room?” she asks again.

  “Stacked washer and dryer just off the kitchen.”

  She acknowledges me with a quick nod, but doesn’t get up to verify. I turn my attention back to the television, praying she takes a hint.

  “This is a great apartment,” she says, talking more to herself than me as she gazes around the living room.

  I know it is. I also know trying to trash it up was a futile attempt at giving it less appeal. There’s only so much damage that can be done on short notice.

  “Only two blocks from campus,” she murmurs, and I wish she’d take her contemplation out to her car. “How far is it to the baseball complex?”

  I cut my eyes to her, but refuse to give the appearance of her owning my undivided attention. The last thing I need is a cleat chasing roommate.

  “All the way on the opposite side of campus,” I say, even though it won’t make a difference. She doesn’t seem deterred.

  “Okay then,” she says with a quick slap to her knees before standing. “We’ll make it work. Can’t beat furnished with a laundry room.”

  “Great,” I mutter without getting off the couch.

  “I’ll contact your mother and make sure the contract is signed and emailed back. Move in next week,” she says, clapping her hands. “I’m so thankful we found this place. I think he’ll be pleased.”

  The door closes behind her with a thud and my eyes narrow in annoyance. All the work I put into destroying my apartment was futile.

  If she shows up with her boyfriend and the expectation he’s either moving in or spending all his time here, she’s got another thing coming. A roommate is bad enough. One who has a man glued to her isn’t even an option, unless she stays mostly at his place. That would totally be acceptable.

  I spend the next hour de-trashing the apartment. I wish I could leave it nasty as a way to try to deter her one last time when she arrives next week, but I couldn’t live in the filth for a couple hours, much less several days. My mother calls it OCD, but it’s just due diligence.

  An email alert draws my attention as I settle on the couch with a dry box of cereal. Opening my laptop, I check for the unread mail. Just as I suspected, it’s a copy of the signed contract from a Bryson Daniels. Well, at least rent will be on time if her father is taking care of the lease.

  Chapter 2

  Bryson

  Just my damn luck. I lean forward and tilt my head, angling it closer to the windshield, trying to find a break in the pelting rain. The sky opened up five minutes ago and hasn’t relented since. This is what I get for complaining about the heat when I had to pull over an hour ago to change my flat tire, which I’m sure was karma for driving past the crazy-eyed hitchhiker ten miles outside of my hometown. I was finally leaving La Grande and Eastern Oregon University behind me, the last thing I needed was to get shanked in my truck by a man with more desire to get away than I had.

  Taking a fortifying breath, I push my way out of the truck and manage to grab my duffle bag, but everything else will have to wait. The apartment I’m moving into is furnished, so everything I brought with me is in the backseat, at my mother’s insistence. Apparently, she actually bothered to look at the forecast before I left.

  Making a mad dash to the covered awning over the apartment door, I manage to step in a puddle large enough to soak both of my damn shoes. I’m frustrated as hell by the time I knock on the door. As if traveling over five hours from home isn’t stressful enough, let’s add sopping shoes and planning to live with a dude before meeting them to the tension of the day.

  I knock again when the first rap goes unanswered.

  Finally, the door pulls open and the most adorable blonde looks up at me. Petite and almost fairy-like, she only comes up to my shoulder. My frustration washes away as my award-winning smile floats across my face. That’s not false advertising either—I was named “best smile” in high school, and it’s caught more women than I care to mention.

  Her eyes narrow at the sight of me and my face falls. She must be Ollie’s girlfriend. The last thing I need is to get kicked out of the only apartment we were able to find on such short notice. Plus, poaching really isn’t my thing.

  “Hey, I’m Bryson.” I drop my duffle bag to the ground and stretch my arm out for a shake, but she ignores it. Tough crowd. “You Ollie’s girlfriend?” Her eyes narrow further. “Sister?” I ask, hope filling my tone.

  “I’m Ollie,” she says, venom in her voice. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Bryson,” I answer. “Daniels? I guess we’re roommates.”

  “Like hell,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and taking a step back. “I thought Bryson was that girl’s dad.”

  “It is. He just happens to be my dad also. I’m a junior. Look,” I say, trying not to let my renewed frustration rear its ugly head, “it’s no big deal. You have a room. I need a room. Two plus two equals I’m your new roommate. I’m paid in full through the end of the school year.”

  I grab the strap of my duffle and walk farther into the apartment. Brushing past her, I ignore the look of confused disgust on her face and take in the small, yet very tidy apartment. The snap of the door closing either means she’s accepted my arrival, or she’s planning to kill me and doesn’t want any witnesses. I can’t discern the look in her eyes, but since I see no weapons, I’m hoping it’s the former.

  “My room?” I hold up my arm, indicating my heavy ass bag.

  “Stay here,” she demands as she swipes her phone off the living room table and stalks down the hallway.

  I follow, unable to take my eyes off her. Even in sweats, this woman is deadly. She d
isappears behind a door, and I take it upon myself to wander down the hall, ducking my head inside rooms until I find mine—not a difficult task with only a couple options to choose from. The room is simple. Dresser, bed, night tables—more than I’ll really need. A place to crash and not having to drag baskets full of dirty clothes across town were my only two requirements, and Emerson assured me there was a washing machine inside the apartment. Seems like the perfect setup.

  “No,” I hear Ollie hiss through the wall, “I’m not saying that, Mother.”

  Two things. One, what kind of name is Ollie? I need to find out, because I’ll be damned if I call that woman Ollie. Two, why are the walls so damn thin? So much for getting any action. Here, at least.

  “Well, he’s not ugly, that’s for sure.” I can’t help but smile. “No. I said no. He doesn’t seem like a serial killer.”

  I find myself leaning closer to the wall to hear the rest of her conversation, ignoring the slim ounce of guilt trying to sneak its way up at invading her privacy.

  “You’re not one bit sneaky. I know exactly what you’re doing—and it’s not going to work.”

  Having heard enough, I drop my duffle bag on the bed and head out of the room in search of the washer and dryer. I have a meeting first thing tomorrow, and being the procrastinator I am, I didn’t wash my clothes before packing everything up.

  I find the small laundry room and look in awe at the pristine labels on the shelves beside the stacked washer and dryer. Turning around, I take in the rest of the kitchen. I only thought the apartment was tidy when I first walked in, but this place is beyond spotless. I was concerned before, but now I’m not sure this is even going to work.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and call my sister.

  “You told me I’d fit in here. You said my roommate is just as filthy as I am. You also failed to mention she’s a fucking girl!” I say as soon as she picks up, before she can utter a “hello”.