Complicated Parts: Book Two

by Jade, Ashley

  Complicated Parts

  Book Two

  Ashley Jade

  Contents

  Author Note

  Complicated Parts

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Gamblers Anonymous

  About the Author

  Also by Ashley Jade

  Dedication

  For my Dad.

  Thank you for not only being the best man I’ve ever known, but for sharing your memories with me. This series—these characters, and myself—wouldn’t be the same if you hadn’t.

  I promise, I’ll keep your memories with me forever.

  First published in USA, August 2018

  Copyright © Ashley Jade

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be circulated in writing of any publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, or events is purely coincidence.

  Cover Photographer: Sara Eirew

  Other Photo Acknowledgments:

  Some photos and photo elements were used via creative commons license.

  https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/

  Pixabay (CC0)

  http://pixabay.com

  Author Note

  This book isn’t what you were expecting.

  I’d ask you to trust me, but I don’t have any right to ask that considering this was supposed to be a duet that’s now a three-book series.

  So, don’t trust me.

  Trust Preston and Kit.

  Because the greatest love stories…are never easy.

  They’re messy, strange, and unconventional.

  They’re complicated.

  Don’t give up on them.

  Complicated Parts

  Book Two

  It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.

  —Chaos Theory

  Preston Holden wasn't a butterfly.

  He was dangerous chaos.

  And the moment my broken wings fluttered for him.

  Everything would change.

  Chapter 1

  “Warm, it’s so warm.”

  “This is nothing, you should visit in the summer.” I kick the door behind me closed and drop her on the outdated floral comforter. “Don’t puke in my bed.”

  She murmurs something I can’t decipher before turning on her side. I try not to stare at the curve of her ass as I walk into the bathroom to get a cool washcloth.

  I make sure to grab a bottle of water from the mini-fridge on my way back. “Here.”

  Soft snoring is my only response.

  Cracking open the bottle of water, I ask the good Lord for some patience. Then I roll her back toward me, place the washcloth on her forehead, and prop her up to take a few sips.

  I should have asked him for some willpower instead because the top of her dress slips down ever so slightly and those pouty lips of hers moan around the bottle before she swallows.

  I’ve been with lots of women, but none of them have ever sent me reeling quite like she does. I still want her in every capacity, on every surface, and at my every disposal.

  You’d think three years would have diluted the potency, taken some of the shine off the apple, but it didn’t. Not even close.

  Every time I jerked and every time I fucked…she was there. Lingering like a stain that won’t come clean.

  Reminding me that we always want what we can’t have.

  I bite the inside of my cheek when the tip of her tongue darts out to catch the liquid trickling from the corner of her mouth.

  She misses it completely though, and I watch as the drop runs down her suprasternal notch—otherwise known as that sexy little indent between her clavicles, before gliding down her chest and continuing to her...

  “This is good water.”

  Feeling like I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar, I peel my gaze away. “I’m pretty sure it’s just tap with a fancy label.”

  “Can I have more?”

  Nodding, I go fetch her another one from the mini-fridge. “Aside from going to bars and popping ecstasy, what else are you doing in Vegas?”

  “Work.” Her voice is low, and her words are still a bit garbled. “I really loved my job.”

  My ears tune in at her use of the past tense. “Loved? What happened?”

  She drops her head in her hands. “I’m not sure.”

  The sadness in her tone makes me want to put my fist through a wall and I have to remind myself that whatever the issue is, it’s Kit’s bullshit and not mine.

  I hold the bottle out to her. “Here.”

  She makes no move for it, instead, she sinks down, dozing off for a second time.

  Placing one knee on the bed, I wrap an arm around her for support and haul her back up. “Not yet, sleeping beauty. You need to drink some more water first.”

  “No thank you.”

  “Kit.”

  When she starts to decline again, I push on her chin until her lips part and shove it between her lips. “Take a sip.”

  Finally, she concedes. Swear it’s like dealing with an infant. My chest contracts with that thought, but I focus back on Kit who takes the water from me and begins guzzling it down like she can’t get enough of it.

  I seize it back and place it on the nightstand. “You’ll get sick if you drink too much too fast.”

  I freeze when her palm slides over my chest. “This is really soft. What’s it made from?”

  I’m about to tell her it’s just a regular black t-shirt, but the words fall from my lips when she ventures lower, causing my abs to contract under her touch. Apparently, I’ve unknowingly entered one of the circles of hell because this is the sweetest form of torture there is.

  I catch her wrist while I still have the restraint to stop her. “Don’t touch me.”

  She shrugs, not looking at all put-off. “Sorry.” Her eyes become droopy and she slumps down on the pillow. “Thanks for the wa—”

  “I want you out of here by morning.”

  I start to move off the bed, but a tug on my arm halts me. “Why?”

  Because I can’t stand being in the same vicinity as you.

  My jaw works. “I have shit to do.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Against my better judgment, I look at her…and immediately regret it.

  On impulse, I go to wipe away the black crap smearing her cheeks due to her tears, but reach over and turn off the light instead. “Get some sleep.”

  I go to stand again, but she tugs me back, more f
orcefully this time, and my composure snaps. I’ve had about all I can take of this.

  “What the fuck do you want from me, Bishop?”

  I don’t realize how deadly my tone is until her eyes go wide. “You’ve never been this mean in my dreams before.”

  A callous, bitter laugh escapes me—of-fucking-course she would think this is all some kind of hallucination in her delusional state.

  Shifting, I prop my arms on either side of her body, hovering above her. “Well, I hate to tell you, sweetheart, but this isn’t a dream.” I incline my head so we’re nose to nose. “However, if you don’t shut the hell up and stop pissing me the fuck off, it will become your nightmare real quick. Got it?”

  “I don’t understand—”

  I punch the mattress. “That’s just it. You don’t understand, and you never will, so do us both a favor and stop talking.”

  She scowls and the organ inside my chest skitters to a stop altogether.

  “I don’t know why you’re being so mean to me when—”

  “When what?” I lean in farther, ghosting over her lips. “When I hurt your little feelings by getting sucked off?” I tilt my head, brushing my mouth along her ear. “What’s the matter, angry girl? Did it make you jealous?” She whimpers, but I don’t stop. I need her to hate me. I need to push her buttons the way her mere presence seems to push every single one of mine.

  But mostly, I need her to get the fuck out of my life again. For good.

  I nip at her neck, deliberately provoking her. “That’s it, isn’t it? You wished it was you taking me deep and sucking all the cum out of my dick. Don’t you?”

  “No—” A moan cuts her off and it surprises us both. But not nearly as much as what happens next.

  She starts grinding against the leg that’s wedged between both of hers.

  A flush spreads from her cheeks to her chest. “I can’t help it.” Embarrassment floods her features. “Oh, God. I need to wake up.”

  I’m torn between wanting to burst that bubble of hers with a reality check, and my own selfish greed. As usual, the latter wins out.

  I look down the length of her body and a surge of arousal hits me like a freight train, making my dick strain against my zipper. All of her dry humping has caused her dress to bunch up past her thighs…the only thing preventing me from seeing every inch of that smooth holy grail is the leg she’s still rubbing herself on.

  My jaw tics and I peel my gaze away. “You’re not wearing any panties.”

  It’s like she’s intentionally provoking me.

  Either she doesn’t hear me, or she’s too far gone to acknowledge my question. Her eyes roll back and her chest heaves, causing the top of her dress to dip more—revealing an agonizingly, teasing peek of her pink nipples.

  Like a cobra who wants to sample his meal before he devours it whole, my mouth finds the exposed skin and I give it a little flick with my tongue. “What happened to your panties, Kit?”

  My self-control is hanging by a thread. She has less than a second to stop what she’s doing, or I’m going to do us both a solid by spreading her legs, grabbing the headboard, and fucking her into the middle of next week.

  “My boss took them off with her teeth.” She winces. “Right before I ran out of the room because she wanted me to have sex with some old guy.”

  Two things happen at that moment.

  One—I have the sudden urge to find this boss of hers and toss her off the nearest bridge. No wonder she was walking around by herself.

  And two—I grow a conscience. Based on what she just told me and given the dazed state she’s in; her boss is either an unprofessional sexual manipulator or a conniving bitch who doesn’t give a shit about Kit—because Kit’s too drunk and high to stop anyone from taking advantage of her. Hell, depending on what else Kit might have been slipped, she may not even remember any of this tomorrow. There’s low and then there’s scum.

  Promptly, I get off her and stand up, the clarity of the situation slamming into me.

  “Will you be back tomorrow night?”

  I have no clue what she’s talking about, and I don’t think she does either because she closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep. With a heavy sigh, I pull the comforter around her. Until something catches my attention, rendering me immobile.

  Attached to the thin, silver necklace she’s wearing, nestled between those small, perky tits…

  Is my lucky poker chip.

  Just like that, I’m cracking, splintering right down the center like the ground during a magnitude eight earthquake.

  “Be gone by sunrise, Bishop.”

  With that, I make my way to the bathroom so I can take care of my hard-on, figure out how to get Campanelli a million dollars in the next twelve hours…and find a way to forget all about the girl sleeping in my bed.

  I look down at the damp spot on my thigh and curse.

  I need Kit Bishop gone and out of my life for good before she ruins everything.

  For the second time.

  Chapter 2

  A Lady Gaga song pierces my eardrums and I wake with a jolt, cursing Juan for making it his ringtone.

  Stretching my arm out, I reach for my phone on the nightstand and end up knocking over what sounds like a bottle of water instead. I open my eyes to investigate the damage, but the second I do; sharp shooting pain steamrolls down the center of my skull and I burrow under the covers.

  Much better. Aside from the fact that my mouth tastes like I’ve been gargling with sewer water, and my jaw is so sore it feels like I’ve been grinding my teeth all night.

  And Juan is as relentless as a coupon hoarder running for the Sunday paper.

  “Hello?” My voice sounds like it belongs to an eighty-year-old chain smoker.

  An image of my nanna whizzes through my head and I cringe. Unfortunately, that only makes the steamroller zipping through my cranium kick up a notch.

  “Where are you?”

  Before I can process Juan’s question, he adds, “The first workshop started a half hour ago. I had to sneak into the bathroom to call you.”

  Workshop? I bolt up quicker than lightning when I realize I’m not at home in my bed, but a hotel in Vegas. Where I’m supposed to be attending a workshop for my job.

  “Crap, I can’t believe I overslept.”

  “I know, Jess is pissed.”

  Throwing the covers off, I stumble out of bed, my brain feeling like scrambled eggs. A feeling that only gets worse when I take in my surroundings.

  A television from the early 90s sits on a dresser that has seen better days. A crooked row of empty beer bottles lines the dingy windowsill, along with an ashtray; which explains the faint stench of stale smoke. But all that pales in comparison to the fact that there’s only one bed. Juan and I are roommates—yesterday, there were two queen beds in our room.

  It looks nothing like the hotel I remember checking into yesterday.

  I clutch my chest, panic settling in. I know who I am and who Juan is…but I can’t recall where I am or how I got here. It’s like some men in black suits zapped me with a mind eraser and expunged my memory from last night. Or rather, parts of it, because I do remember some things. Enough to know something’s terribly wrong.

  “Juan?” I gulp. “How much did I drink last night?”

  I can almost feel his own bewilderment on the other line. “I don’t know, I chased after Ronald after you accused him of being a murderer, remember?”

  “I don’t—wait, yes that I do remember.” I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m still freaked out, but maybe it’s not as bad as I thought. As soon as Juan told me what happened, my brain automatically caught up and put some of the pieces together. Unfortunately, thanks to me insulting Ronald, Juan can’t fill in the rest of the blanks for me.

  “Okay, you’re kind of scaring me. Where are you?”

  “That’s the thing, I’m not sure.”

  “What do you mean you’re not sure? I figured you ended up hooking up with someone after I l
eft the bar last night and that’s why you never came back to the hotel.”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible, I guess. The last thing I remember is you being upset with me and chasing after Ronald like you said.” I rub my temples. “Wait, no. I remember Jess. I saw Jess at the bar and—”

  “And what?”

  I squeeze my legs together, the urge becoming unbearable. “Holy cow, I really have to pee.” My eyes scan what I can only assume must be the door to the bathroom and I jet for it. “Is it weird to use the bathroom in a place I have no recollection of entering?”

  “Are you asking me if it’s weird to use the toilet belonging to a possible killer who could have drugged you, tied you up, and done Lord only knows what to you last night? No, Kit. That’s not weird at all. Get the hell out of there.”

  “I will, but nature is calling.” I plop down on the toilet so I can take care of business. “It’s a biological impulse beyond human control.”

  He tuts and I take the opportunity to look around the small area. There isn’t a tub in here, but I hear water running from the other side of the door. Must be one of those connecting bathrooms.

  “I think whoever I came here with is taking a shower.” I inspect my arms and legs. “But I don’t think they tied me up or hurt me. I’m not sore and I don’t have any bruises.” I notice a few small cuts on my knees. “I take that back. My knees are scraped.” My memory jogs something free and I close my eyes, trying to connect more dots. “I think I might have tripped and fallen on the sidewalk.”