Aidan
Pierced
Sydney Landon
Contents
Copyright
Also by Sydney Landon
1. Aidan
2. Kara
3. Kara
4. Kara
5. Lucian Quinn
6. Aidan
7. Kara
8. Aidan
9. Kara
10. Kara
11. Aidan
12. Aidan
13. Aidan
14. Aidan
15. Kara
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Coming November 1, 2016
Copyright 2016 Sydney Landon
License Notes:
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
eBook formatting by Indie Formatting Services
Graphic Content Warning: This novel contains depictions of violence, sexual abuse and child abuse.
ALSO BY SYDNEY LANDON
THE DANVERS NOVELS
Weekends Required
Not Planning on You
Fall For Me
Fighting For You
Betting on You (A Danvers Novella)
No Denying You
Always Loving You
Watch Over Me
The One For Me
Wishing For You (11/1/2016)
THE PIERCED SERIES
Pierced
Fractured
Mended
Rose
Aidan
1
Aidan
I look around the outdoor beach bar as I ponder the latest email from my father. I know he’s not telling me something. Of course, I can’t really blame him, considering I left town almost a year ago and haven’t been back since. You don’t do that kind of shit when you’re an only child. But I couldn’t stay. When the woman you thought was the love of your life since childhood dies and you do nothing to save her, it tends to fuck you up in the head a bit. So yeah, as soon as my best friend, Lucian Quinn, married Lia and promptly popped out a kid on their wedding night, I’d taken off.
I didn’t have a particular destination in mind when I left Asheville, North Carolina, but when I stopped for gas in Charleston, South Carolina, I decided to stay the night. And I never left. I rented a house right on the ocean, spending my days wandering around in the tide and my nights drinking far too much. I also fucked my way through most of the women vacationing in the area. I know what you’re thinking: How could I sleep with someone else so soon after losing the woman I professed to love? First off, no sleeping was involved. It was straight fucking—hard—and then I’d show them the door. No strings, no feelings, no flowers. Instead of considering me a lousy bastard, look at it as me simply trying to avoid dealing with the shitshow I call my life.
Unfortunately, as it often happens, life has intruded on my frat-boy existence. My mother is sick, and my father is being as evasive as a dirty politician up for re-election. I know she hasn’t been feeling well for the last month, and she’s had some tests run, but that’s about as much as anyone’s told me. Since I’ve cut off most contact with my friends, I can’t really blame anyone other than myself for the fact that I’m three hundred miles from home and have no fucking idea what’s going on. Wasn’t that the way I wanted it? Hell, I laid down that law when I left. I gave Lucian and my father my new email address, instructing them both it was for emergencies only, and I hadn’t looked back.
Truthfully, I didn’t miss anyone for months. I’d been too mired in my own misery to wonder about the outside world. I received regular messages from both Luc and my father, and sometimes I replied, but more often, I didn’t. Lucian and I had been friends since grade school. We’d been quite a pair. He was the brains of the outfit, and I was the comic relief. Then Cassie Wyatt came along, and there were three of us.
I was crazy in love with Cassie from the first, but Luc had always been it for her, and that never changed. As in all famous love stories, theirs was eventually mired in tragedy and death. Cassie struggled with mental illness, and when she got pregnant during college with Luc’s baby, things took a turn for the worse. We were sharing an apartment, and despite my infatuation with her, even I’d noticed her increasingly erratic behavior. I was afraid being off her bipolar medication would send her into a tailspin, and my fears were justified.
I was in the habit of staying out late most nights just to avoid the almost daily fights between Luc and Cassie. On the night our lives changed forever, I’d gone home early. I’d been restless that evening and not really in the mood for the endless partying that had become so much a way of life. I figured I’d make some excuse about not feeling well and go straight to my room. With that plan in mind, it had been rather anti-climactic to find a quiet apartment when I arrived home. I had grabbed a glass of water and was walking down the hallway when I heard a muffled shout, followed by laughter that seemed eerily sinister.
I hesitated in front of their closed door for a moment. The last thing I wanted was to walk in on them having sex. I had almost decided to move on when something stopped me. The air was so heavy around me that I was having difficulty taking a full breath. I felt on the edge of a panic attack, and I had no idea why. All I knew was that every internal alarm was blaring, and almost in slow motion, I reached out to open their door. In the hours following that moment, I would wonder why I hadn’t at least knocked first. What made me barge in without extending that common courtesy?
Then the world had fallen away only to slam back into focus as I had attempted to process the horrifying scene before my eyes. Blood—so much blood everywhere. For precious seconds, I’d been transfixed by the crimson splashes against the pale color of the sheets. I honestly didn’t know what finally prompted me into action. Somehow, I called 9-1-1. The sound of Lucian choking and gasping and Cassie expelling some kind of broken, demented laughter has haunted me ever since. Out of the pieces I remember, I think those two things might be the worst. For the most part, I blocked them from my mind during my waking hours, but at night, they often slipped in when my guard was down.
Of course, now I had new horrors to add to the fucked-up slideshow in my head—Cassie trying to kill Lucian’s pregnant girlfriend, Lia. I tried to save them both, but in the end, Cassie didn’t let that happen. Realistically, I’d come to accept that Cassie’s life had always been destined to end tragically. By saving her the first time, I simply delayed the inevitable. That’s the benefit of hindsight as they say. You can’t cheat death, though, especially when one person is determined to dance with it at every opportunity. It didn’t make it any easier to accept, but that’s where the alcohol and women came into play. On the days when I’ve been too close to the edge, I did and still do whatever’s needed to dull the pain.
I’m swallowing the last of my Dewar’s scotch when I see her walk past. My hand
freezes, holding the glass suspended in midair before I slowly lower it back to the table. Her hair is dark—almost black—but that’s not what has my attention. Even from a distance, she looks familiar. Then it hits me. Lia. Outside of the dark hair, she bears an uncanny resemblance to Lucian’s wife. Lia is a blonde, and there’s no reason she would be here. I’ve never known Luc to vacation in this particular area.
I’ve almost written it off as everyone having a twin somewhere when she turns in my direction and our eyes meet. In that split second, I see it. She recognizes me. I’m not even sure how that’s possible. I look nothing like my normally well-groomed self. My hair is longer than it’s ever been and curls in a way that would bug the hell out of me if I gave a good damn. I’m wearing shorts and a faded T-shirt instead of a suit, and I’m sporting way too much facial hair since I haven’t shaved in days.
She appears hesitant, as if she’s second-guessing herself. Then she runs what looks like a self-conscious hand over her dark locks before making her way to me slowly. Despite myself, I’m intrigued. She stops several feet away and studies me uncertainly. Up close, she’d almost be a dead ringer for Lia. Then realization strikes at almost the exact moment she opens her mouth to speak. Kara Jacks, Lia’s cousin.
“Aidan?” she murmurs softly. She’s wearing a long, flowing dress that blows in the breeze, and the glow of her skin indicates she too has been here longer than a few days.
“Kara,” I say confidently, as if I hadn’t just figured out who she was a split second earlier. I get to my feet and then wonder what to do. I’ve seen her a few times, but we’re merely acquaintances. It seems ridiculously formal to shake her hand but a bit too personal to hug her. Instead, I put my hands in the pockets of my shorts and rock back on my heels. I haven’t had to put this much thought or effort into conversation since I left Asheville, and I feel awkward as hell. I must admit, that’s a first for me. Charming the ladies has been second nature to me since I was old enough to appreciate the difference between the sexes. I can’t seem to find any of that ease right now, though. She’s looking about as uncomfortable as I feel. Clearing my throat, I add, “It’s good to see you again. How long have you been here?”
She shrugs her slim shoulders before saying, “A couple of weeks. I’m staying at Uncle Lee’s place just down the beach.” She points in the opposite direction from my rental house. “How about you?”
I find it hard to believe she hasn’t heard through her family connections that I’ve been AWOL for a year, but I decide to let it go and simply answer with a vague, “A while,” instead. I don’t feel like socializing, but I find myself asking, “Would you like to sit down and have a drink?” I feel certain she’ll say no, as it’s obvious she’s ill at ease.
Therefore, I’m surprised when she steps up to my table and pulls out a chair. “Sure, it would be nice to have some company for a change.” She’s already seated, and I’m still standing. Fuck, why did I have to revert to being a gentleman? At best, this will probably be thirty minutes of awkward and strained conversation.
I take my seat. “What would you like?”
She looks me in the eyes for the first time, and I feel a funny catch in my chest. Her resemblance to Lia makes me homesick for my friends. But something else is there as well. She has the type of familiar haunted look I see in the mirror every day. I find myself wanting to fix whatever’s bothering her, which is a fucking joke since I can’t even deal with my own problems. It takes me a minute to realize she’s said something. “Sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t catch that.”
The polite expression falls away, and she gives me a genuine smile. Fucking beautiful. I stare, mesmerized by the transformation. She’s almost glowing now as mischief dances in her eyes. You’re playing with fire, sweetheart. I damn well know she’s not one of my usual evening partners, but my hard cock isn’t getting that memo. She chuckles, which makes it even worse. “I said I’ll have whatever you’re having. The chick drinks make me sick.”
I hold my glass up, shaking the melting ice cubes together in the bottom of it. “You do know this is scotch, right? Maybe we should start you with something a bit tamer.”
She seals her fate when she says, “Bring it on, Spencer. I promise I can handle it.” Well, fuck. My dick is no longer listening to reason. He wants what he wants, and that’s the woman sitting in front of me looking equal parts college girl and temptress. I motion for Charlie, the bartender, and hold up two fingers. Since I’m usually here at some point each evening, he and I have developed our own sign language. He knows what I want without me putting forth the effort of opening my mouth, and I reward him with a big tip at the end of the night. If only all relationships could be so simple.
Kara surprises me when our drinks arrive. Instead of sipping the scotch, she throws it back. Her eyes water for a moment, but that’s her only visible sign of discomfort. Damn, I’ve known many grown men who couldn’t shoot scotch without cringing. I tap a hand to my forehead giving her a salute. “Very impressive,” I say and mean every word. Hell, it’s a proven fact I’ve always been a sucker for a crazy woman. Instead of waiting for me, she holds her empty glass up and signals Charlie to refill it. I’m in the middle of taking another sip when she says bluntly, “So you’re running away too?” Shrugging at my surprised expression, she adds, “Don’t bother to deny it. You know how families talk. Everyone’s worried about you at home. I personally figured you were in a cave somewhere roughing it.” Then she gives a lazy perusal of my body. “But other than needing a haircut and a razor, you don’t look too bad. I even like the casual clothes better. You were almost too pretty in those expensive suits you wore.”
Well, fuck. Again, she’s thrown me for a loop. Too pretty? I can honestly say no one’s ever accused me of that. Refusing to let her see that she’s rattled me, my eyes drift over her. I don’t bother being subtle about it because she certainly wasn’t coy. “Well, it seems you have me all figured out. So why don’t you tell me why you’ve flown your ivory tower and are here hiding away as well. Because trust me, princess, I’ve seen that same vacant look staring back at me for months now.” I see her grimace at my use of princess and know she doesn’t particularly like it. However, I learned long ago that it’s easier to use a nickname than to possibly call a woman by the wrong name. And princess seems to suit her aloof manner.
She runs a fingertip around the rim of her recently replenished glass as she ponders my words. “We’re all running from something, aren’t we?” She dips a finger into her drink and sucks the alcohol from it. “I don’t want to think about the reasons why I’m here, and I don’t believe you do either.”
Intrigued despite myself, I ask, “So what does that leave us to talk about, princess?”
Giving me a direct look that I recognize, she says, “At this point in my life, conversation is overrated. I’m sure we could make better use of your talents. I’ve heard you’re very good at what you do.”
I’m far from inexperienced, but I feel the need to clarify that she’s indeed talking about what I think she is. What little I do know of her has never led me to believe she’s the one-night-stand type, but unless I’m mistaken, she just propositioned me. “Are you saying you want me to fuck you?” Blunt and to the point—why bother with anything else?
Thankfully, she stops sucking the scotch off her finger and downs the glass before answering. “Yeah, I’m glad you picked up on that. Your place or mine?” She gets to her feet while I’m still trying to figure out what in the hell is going on. She takes a few steps and then stops when she sees I’m not following her. Looking confused, she asks, “What’re you waiting for?”
I get to my feet and pull my wallet from my pocket. I toss some bills onto the table and slowly follow her. What in the fuck is happening here? The odd thing is that I’m not sure why I’m even questioning it. I’ve lost count of the number of women I’ve spent a few hours with in the last year. It’s not complicated—it never is. It’s certainly not a matter of me not f
inding her attractive, because she’s gorgeous. Maybe it’s her strong resemblance to Lia. Hell, that’s not it. I doubt many men out there would refuse the chance to fuck the clone of their best friend’s hot wife if given the opportunity. Women don’t call us pigs for nothing. Shaking my head, I catch up with her at the parking lot. “Sorry, princess, you’re not going to find your carriage here. I walked.”
If I think that’s going to deter her, I’m mistaken. “So did I. Which way to your place? I haven’t done much housekeeping lately, and frankly, I’d like some clean sheets for a change.”
This is turning into one of the most interesting nights I’ve had in a long time, so I just go with it. Tossing an arm over her shoulders, I point her in the direction of my house and nudge her forward. “What makes you think I have clean sheets or that you’ll even make it to my bed?”
I expect her to toss some kind of insult at me. But without missing a beat, she says, “I figure I’ll suck your dick against the wall as soon as we get there. Then we’ll move on to the bedroom. You’ll eat my pussy while you recover and then you’ll fuck me. Probably from behind because I think you’re an ass man.”
Holy shit! Kara Jacks is a full-on, dirty-talking badass, and I’m going to fuck her so hard she’ll still be feeling it next week. Even though I’m doing nothing but thinking of my cock in her mouth, I still manage to keep my voice level as I say, “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out. You do this kind of thing every night?” I have no clue why that thought bothers me, but it does. I don’t want to be just one in a long line of men she’s fucked while she’s here. This whole thing is messing with my head, so I do what I’m good at—I shut it down. Fucking doesn’t require thinking. For most men, it’s as natural as breathing and can be done on autopilot if needed.
“Do you really care?” she tosses back at me, and my silence hopefully gives her the answer. I apply slight pressure to her shoulders, steering her across the sand to the front door of the house I’m renting. I release her while I pull out the key and open the door. She steps into the dark foyer and stops, obviously waiting for me to flip the light on. Screw that. There’s plenty of time later to see how she looks when she comes. Right now, I’m ready to ensure her words come to life.
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