by Khan, Jen
Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Acknowledgements
411
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Ninteen
Epilogue
Coming Soon
Holly Madison: Sins of the Father, Book 2
By Jen Khan
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Author-Jen-Khan/496570623787324
[email protected]
Twitter: @JenKhan_Author
Instagram: @JENKHN
Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Khan
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be distributed or reproduced in any form without expressed written permission from the author; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
All character and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real events or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is intended for mature adults only.
Editing done by Mickey Reed http://www.mickeyreedediting.com/p/freelance-editor.html
Cover Design and Image by Vanessa R. Mickey http://photographyonthebanks.com/
Image by Shauna Kruze http://www.kruseimagesandphotography.com/
Cover Models Lance Jones https://www.facebook.com/LanceJonesTattooFitnessModel
and Sky Kinz https://www.facebook.com/OfficialSkyKinz
Interior Formatting by Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs https://www.facebook.com/PinkInkDesignsbyCassy
****When you are done reading, please consider giving a rating and/or brief review where you purchased this book and on Goodreads. Thank you****
A HUGE, HUGE, HUGE thank you to all of my family and friends who have supported me every step of the way on this journey. You are freaking awesome!
Vanessa, who I had originally recruited to be a beta reader and ended up offering to be my cover designer. She is that great! Check her photography biz site…Amazing http://photographyonthebanks.com/
My beta readers: Steph (my fabulous and beeeeautiful lil sis), Courtney ‘Curly G,’ Heather, Crystal Sanders, Julie Mosher, Shannon Rees, Amy Wingo, and Danielle Meek who read this during the writing process and let me know what was shit and was “the shit.” This book became what it is now because of your help.
My editor Mickey who has helped me to become a better writer through her edits. She tears my books to shreds and helps me build them back up so that the rest of the readers of the world can enjoy it without wanting to vomit. You are also a fabulous motivator and friend.
This book deals with very sensitive topics that affect many men and women around the world that may very well trigger painful memories for some.
This book does not focus solely on these topics, but can be considered uncomfortable for some at times. We all know that I believe in the happy ending. I also believe in writing about real life situations. Life isn’t always rainbows and unicorns.
This book is intended only for mature readers and is not suitable for those under the age of 18. There is language, sex, alcohol and some laugh out loud moments not meant for young eyes.
Please enjoy and thank you for reading.
I punched that asshole right in the nose. Damn right I did. And now my hand hurts like a mother. Whatever. He deserved it. Who the hell does he think he is? I’m not his whore at his beck and call. Oh hell no!
Tristan Holt is an asshole. Not even worth the pain that is shooting through my left hand and up my arm, causing my elbow a ton of discomfort. I never realized how much punching someone would hurt. I guess that is because I’ve never had to punch someone before. I mean, there are plenty of times throughout my day at work where I may or may not have visualized myself serving up a knuckle sandwich to one of my coworkers. And Tristan is a real douche, but I have never acted on it.
Until now.
Lesson learned. Punching someone does, in fact, hurt the one delivering—quite possibly as much as it hurts the one receiving the blow.
I actually felt a hint of remorse at first. It was a fleeting moment, but it was there. He had come to my house in the middle of the night for a booty call. A booty call! Ahhh! I’m so pissed! The nerve of that man thinking that, in a moment’s notice, I would invite him into my bed after what I saw him doing this evening.
My body is wound tight. I feel the tension radiating throughout my body, and all I can do is pace my living room, fists clenched, seething like a madwoman.
Earlier this evening, I went to surprise Tristan at his gym. I dolled myself up in my lacy, black, sexy number and black heels, did my hair out to there, and strolled out wearing nothing but my trench coat as not to give the whole town a preview of what was guaranteed to be a sure thing tonight.
I snuck in through the back knowing that the gym was closed for the night and quietly made my way through. He lives in an apartment above the gym, so I knew he would be either there or in his office. Well, I found him in his office—along with a leggy blonde who also had a fashion for lacy numbers.
Before I knew it, I found myself pinned to the wall, holding my breath, and covering my mouth so that I didn’t scream at the top of my lungs.
Asshole.
The leggy blonde—who I will now refer to as Giggles because she giggled incessantly—was well…giggling. Tristan was moaning. How the hell could he have gone from me last night to Giggles in there tonight?
I heard the sound of a zipper followed by a male hiss and a female giggle-gasp. I thought I was going to be sick. My eyes roamed the hall leading to the office, taking in the clothing that was discarded on the floor. Then her lacy bra went sailing through the air in what seemed to be slow motion, like in one of those Bruce Willis action flicks, landing poetically at my feet.
My mouth watered and I could feel the bile slowly trudging up my throat. I needed to get the hell out of there and fast.
I squeezed my eyes closed and covered my ears when she giggled.
Again.
It was time to make my escape. I tilted my head back, opened my eyes, looking to the heavens for guidance, and thought, God, are you there? It’s me, Holly. Nothing. No? Of course not.
“Leave your message after the beep,” was more like the response I was used to.
I skirted by the office unnoticed only to be captured by Giggles’s lacy bra that had wrapped itself firmly around my ankle and was holding on for dear life. I lifted my leg, doing a one-legged hop, and tried to shake it off, but the damn thing wouldn’t give up. It had me in a death grip. I reached down, grabbed the bra, peeled it from my ankle, and slung it behind me as I ran out the back door.
Fast forward a few hours. Now, here I am, pacing my living room floor, blown away by the audacity of that asshole, and trying to work the pain out of the fist I used to connect with Tristan’s face. Too bad for him that he taught me how to throw a punch in one of our self-defense classes.
Serves him right.
My phone chimes—“dun dun duuuun”—as a text is received. I walk to the counter where my phone rests, pick it up, and stare at the screen.
Tristan: Next time, do you think you can talk to me instead of using your mean fists to unleash your fury?
Are you
fucking kidding me? No. Next time, I plan on punching him twice. Maybe three times. And possibly drawing blood.
Oh God! My fist is killing me and I’m actually itching to do it again. I can feel the tingling sensation in my palm that begs me to hit him harder, maybe even knock him out cold next time.
I turn and head into the kitchen, opening the cabinet and snagging a glass before turning on the faucet and filling it up with water. Then I snatch the bottle of ibuprofen from the counter and shake out two. No, this is going to take three. My phone chimes again with another incoming text from Tristan.
Tristan: Cupcake, we’ll talk tomorrow.
The hell we will. And that is exactly what I tell him.
Me: The hell we will.
I power off the phone and chuck it onto the couch on my way through the living room to my bedroom.
I am officially done with Tristan Holt. No, really. I am!
North Carolina summers can be brutal. Today is not one of those days. The sun warms my skin as it relaxes me, forcing my body to sink deeper into the chaise lounge on the deck of my apartment. I close my eyes and lift my chin to absorb every last ray and ounce of vitamin D it provides me with. There is something about direct sunlight that puts me at ease and creates a sense of calmness. I need this today.
It’s been a rough few days. Work has been a bitch and Tristan has been calling relentlessly. I guess he didn’t get the hint that I was done with him after I kicked him out and punched him in the face. He’s a womanizer, a player, a dog—whatever you want to call it. I tried for months to get him to see me as more than just someone to keep his bed warm at night. I wanted him to see me for the woman I really am—not the woman he perceives me as. Hell, if I truly want to be honest with myself, I should just go ahead and admit that it’s all my fault. I gave it all up too quickly. Of course he isn’t going to look at me as anything more than a piece of ass.
I thought that things were changing between us. He was being more attentive and sweet lately, calling me beautiful. Another classic example of how Holly overthinks situations.
I’ve never been easy. Hell, many consider me a prude. I prefer to call it classy with a side of standards. There is something about Tristan that I can’t put my finger on, yet that is the very thing that draws me to him. Every time he is near, my body reacts. The hair on my arms stands up and I get tingles that shoot through my core when he simply touches me.
Whatever. I’m done with Tristan Holt.
I sigh deeply when I hear the car doors slamming down below in the parking lot and Olivia’s high-pitched, “HOOOOOOOOOOOME BITCHES IN THE HOUUUUUSE!”
Here we go.
I invited the ladies over for lunch a few days ago and completely forgot all about it.
I tilt my head to the side, peering at my two best gal pals, when I hear the sliding glass door open. Emma and Olivia come bounding out onto the deck toting margarita mix, tequila, triple sec, beach towels, and a sack containing El Chili Rojo. Emma is also carrying a water bottle. Being pregnant means no margaritas. She looks amazing. Her first trimester was rough with morning sickness. Now that that wave of the pregnancy is over, she simply glows.
I am so happy for her.
I smile at my girls as they walk toward me. Olivia has blue and purple streaks running through her light-brown hair today. The girl changes highlights like others change shoes. It is amazing that she hasn’t gone bald yet.
They are both wearing bikini tops and short shorts. My girls are stunning in their own way, quirks and all.
“Perfect timing, ladies. I’m starving,” I announce, sitting up to help them lay everything out on the table.
Olivia immediately begins pouring tequila into a shaker.
“All right, Holly. Time to spill. Why are you avoiding Tristan like the plague?” Emma prods as she takes a heaping bite from her burrito.
I whip my head to her and feel my eyes bugging. I haven’t told anyone yet about what happened the other night.
“Tristan came over the other night lugging a case of beer and demanding that Braden drink it with him. I overheard him say that you won’t take his calls and that you punched him?” Emma looks at me incredulously.
I nod and swallow the bit of chicken taco I shoved in my mouth right before the interrogation.
“You punched him?” Olivia gasps.
I wince. “I did. Sorry, girl, but he deserved it.”
“No doubt, no doubt. But why? What did he do this time? What’s going on, sweet cheeks?”
I smile softly at the two of them, so grateful for the fact that I have two of the most amazing girlfriends ever. They know everything about me. They can read all of my Ps and Qs. Sometimes, on days like today, it can be a curse. I feel the tears threatening as they burn the backs of my eyes. Apparently, I am not handling this Tristan thing as well as I thought I was.
“Holly? Babe, you don’t have to spill, but we would like to help if we can,” Olivia pipes in.
I take a minute to swallow back the lump that is forming in my throat. I know that, right now, in this moment, if I speak, it’s going to be shaky. I clear my throat. Where do I even begin? I run my fingers through my hair and dive in.
“I went to surprise Tristan at the gym the other night. You could say he was unwrapping another surprise in his office when I got there…”
“That motherfucker,” Olivia hisses. “My brother is such as asshole sometimes.”
I nod and continue. “I got the hell out of Dodge. Later that night, after I was already in bed, he came over for a booty call.” A sob escapes and I try desperately to reel it back in.
I place my hands in my lap, looking down at them. Then I start rubbing the back of my right hand, which holds the deep scar, a slight disfigurement from an accident when I was little. I have a few scars from that accident. My mother always said that it added personality to my appearance. The scar that rests below my right cheek and runs down my jaw has lightened over time, but that one really gets me to this day. It is a constant reminder about that accident every time I look in the mirror. A hell I am forced to relive every day.
Olivia and Emma both slide out of their chairs and come around to the chaise lounge, sitting on either side of me. Emma’s arm drapes over my shoulder, pulling me into her while Olivia rubs my back in slow, circular motions. I wipe a tear that has escaped, sit up, and extract myself from their hold.
“Do you want me to beat him up for you? Because I will. I will totally beat him up!” Olivia declares, lifting her fists and jabbing them out one after another. “These fists are full of ferocity and they’re gunning for that dumbass brother of mine.”
I can’t help it when a giggle rolls out, which leads to a hysterical laugh-cry-hiccup combo.
Emma reaches over and gives me a reassuring squeeze of my shoulder before she stands and rounds the table, sliding into her own chair and returning to her food. “This baby in me is hungry,” she proclaims and digs back in.
Olivia refills my margarita and clinks my glass. “Drink up, doll-face.” She turns, reaches into her tote, and pulls out her Ipod. “I’m going to get you drunk and we’re gonna sing and dance around like a bunch of fools.”
Pat Benatar’s Love is a Battlefield blares through and Olivia starts spinning around and singing into her imaginary microphone while whipping her head around and flashing her rocker horns.
I bring my gaze to Emma, who is giggling and singing along to the music all while waving what is left of her burrito around in her hands. I shrug and join them. It is impossible to sit around and hold a pity party when you have friends like I do.
Screw Tristan Holt.
“Girl! What are you doing?” Curtis asks in his overdramatic squeal as I watch my computer screen.
I lift my head and look at him as he stands in the doorway to my office. “I have to get through these files before Friday.”
I put my head back down and hear him mutter under his breath, “Jesus, hun.”
My head is occupied by ten per
cent files, ninety percent Tristan. See, he has called and left me voicemails every day since I jabbed him with a TKO last week. Okay, not quite a TKO, but I rocked him—just a little. This little game of cat and mouse is starting to get old. At least, that is what his last message said. So, with my mind on files and Tristan, I don’t have time for Curtis and his antics.
I hear but don’t pay attention to him coming into the room and flopping down on the chair, which sits on the opposite side of my desk. I definitely don’t pay attention when he props his feet up on my desk, crossing his legs at the ankles. He is wearing his normal black suit jacket, white-collared button-up shirt, black tie, matching black slacks, argyle socks, and black shiny patent-leather shoes.
Curtis is a tall, slim, dark-haired, brown-eyed, handsome gay man who I swear is so hot that he could be one of those unrealistically hot underwear models. Women adore him. If he weren’t gay, he could have his pick of the litter, I kid you not.
“Ahem!”
My eyes slide over the top of my computer screen at him. “What?”
“Honey? What? Do you know what time it is?”
“I have a clock. I know the time.” Okay, really, I didn’t. I completely lost track of time during the process of trying to stay off the thought of Tristan.
“It’s after six o’clock. You’ve been here since god knows when. Girrrrrl! What’s on your mind?”
I sigh deeply, lean back in my chair, and tell him about the wild and amazing orgasms, Giggles, the notorious punch, and how I had to stay and work long hours to boot all things Tristan Holt out of my head. I explain that it is so I don’t answer Tristan’s calls, because chances are, if I did, I would end up on my back, on my knees, or in any other sexual position he chose to have his way with me.
All damn good positions, might I add, and though that sounds amazing, I know that, if I allow it, I would be heartbroken, sobbing over wine and chocolate truffles, with an added ten pounds to my frame, which would most likely settle straight in my ass by Monday morning.
Curtis’s eyelids begin to twitch.
