by Layla Frost
The heel of her foot dug into my shoulder as she silently demanded more.
She has horns, too.
I ate her harder.
When it came to Eden, I’d give in for the rest of my life.
*******
Seven years later…
Eden
“Are you sure you want to see these pictures?”
I side-eyed the iPad, knowing all I had to do was flip open the cover to see the proof. There was no doubt it was there.
I’d hired the best—he could find or, inversely, bury anything.
Before I could lose my nerve, I nodded quickly.
“Really sure? Because these are graphic. Once you see them, you won’t be able to unsee them.” He grimaced.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I sighed. “Maybe one of the tame ones.”
“You got it.” He tapped the screen a few times before saying, “Whenever you’re ready.”
I pried my lids open and nearly lost my lunch. “I said a tame one!”
Holden looked a little green, too. “This is a tame one. I’d charge you hazard pay if I didn’t like you so much.”
“I’m paying it anyway.” I shuddered. “And then I’m investing in brain bleach.”
“I’m going to have to burn this iPad.”
I laughed as I pulled out my checkbook.
His expression returned to unbiased professional. “Have you changed your mind about the plan?”
“No.”
A wide smile of approval spread across his handsome face. “Have I mentioned how much I like you?”
“That’s just because we’ve singlehandedly funded that shiny new bike you pulled up on.”
He shrugged. “That does help.”
Holden, Brooks’ fraternity brother, had graduated shortly after I’d left the school. And shortly after that, he’d seemingly dropped off the planet. No one had been able to get ahold of him, and he hadn’t reached out.
A couple years later, Governor Rivera had wanted to investigate some whispers, and I’d dug around to find the best PI. I hadn’t believed my eyes when Holden had walked into the meeting. Well, once I’d recognized him.
Gone was Bear.
He still had a thick beard, but it was trimmed neatly, as was his chestnut hair. A jaded hardness had replaced the warmth in his brown eyes. He’d always been thickly muscled, but now it was the body of a man, no sign of boy or teddy bear to be found.
He took the check and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “I’ll spread the images, but only the ones where you can’t see the woman’s face. Anything else?”
I shook my head before feeling a pang of something. Sympathy, maybe. Pity, more than likely. Whatever the reason, I said, “Wait.” I jotted down a name and address. “Send them to her first.”
“Your mom?”
“Not for a long time. But woman to woman, I want to give her the chance to jump ship before it sinks.”
And she will.
Knowing my mother, she’d use the wave of sympathy to lift her to bigger and better.
“Consider it done.” Standing, Holden grabbed the iPad. “Brooks said the twins miss you, but he’s assuming you won’t be coming for their party next weekend.”
I patted my rounded belly. “No travel for another two months, at least.”
He laughed. “It’ll be longer than two months.”
Shrugging, I conceded, “Probably. I’m sending the noisiest toys I can find for their presents.”
“Payback,” he drawled. “I like it.”
Dipping, he kissed my cheek. “I’ll be in touch when it’s done.”
“Thanks. Give Brooks and Alice and the twinkies my love.”
“I will.” He saw himself out, leaving me sitting with my hand on my kicking belly.
And a petty, satisfied smile on my face.
He’s going down.
I won.
In so many ways, I won.
“Let’s see if she’s in here,” I heard from outside the door just before it was flung open.
“Mama!” My four-year-old spitfire came racing in, her dark hair flying out behind her. Her midnight eyes were bright with excitement as she twirled around. “Look at my pretty dress!”
“I love it,” I said, lifting Wren to sit on the small amount of lap that remained beyond what her unborn brother, Oscar, was occupying.
“Ready, Mrs. Caine?” Damien whispered, his lips grazing my neck before his teeth scrapped.
A tremor ran through me, accompanied by a lot of inappropriate urges.
“Always, my husband,” I whispered, though I made no move to stand.
Reaching over, he plucked our daughter from my lap and snuggled her close. “Big day.”
“It is. Are you excited?”
Before he could answer, Wren threw her arms up. “I am! There’s cake, Mama. Caaaaake!”
“Then we better go get it.”
Stepping out of the meeting room, there were balloons and streamers everywhere. A massive cake was off to the side, waiting to be cut into. Though, from the blue tinge on Wren’s fingers, I had a feeling there was a corner missing some icing.
“That’s our name,” she said, pointing to a banner. “I learned it at school. Candy cane, but with an i because I love candy!”
“Good job, baby,” Damien said, kissing her forehead. “You’re brilliant like your mama.”
Unlike my own, our daughter’s childhood was far from shitty. We doted on her, though we also set firm rules. Surprisingly, Damien was the softie while I was the hardass when it came to enforcing said rules. We spent time together, were affectionate with her and each other, and made sure she knew our home was filled with love.
“There you are,” Minnie huffed before talking in her headset. “We’re good to go.” She grinned at us as she quickly snatched Wren. “Ready, Lieutenant Governor?”
Damien wrapped his arm around my waist to rest his hand on my belly as he dipped his head so only I could hear. “We’re going to christen the desk tonight after the party. I’m going to tie you on your side and fuck your tight, little ass until you’re filled with my come. I love you so damn much.”
Filthy-sweet words from my filthy-sweet husband.
Dave’s voice cut through the microphone. “After a campaign fought with dignity and honesty, it’s my pleasure to introduce our new Lieutenant Governor… Eden Caine.”
“So damn proud of you. Go get ‘em, angel.” Damien spanked my ass hard enough to jolt me onto the stage.
It was the push I needed to give in and live my untangled life—my dream—trusting he’d always have my back.
And every other part of me.
The end
About the Author
* * *
Layla Frost has always been a rebel. A true badass.
Growing up, Layla used to hide under her blanket with a flashlight to read the Sweet Valley High books she pilfered from her older sister. It wasn’t long before she was reading hidden Harlequins during class at school. This snowballed into pulling all-nighters after the promise of “just one more chapter”.
Her love of reading, especially the romance genre, took root early and has grown immeasurably.
In between reading and writing, Layla spends her free time rocking out (at concerts, on the couch, in the car… Anywhere is a stage if you get into it enough), watching TV (the nerdier the better!), and being a foodie. Though she lives in NY (the state, not the city), she’s an avid Red Sox fan.
Connect with Layla Frost
* * *
I love connecting with readers. Please stalk… I mean, follow me… I post all the best memes:
Facebook
Naughty Cupcakes Group
Goodreads
My Amazon Store
My Site
Twitter and Instagram: @LaylaFWrites
Email: [email protected]
Coming Soon by Brynne Asher
Bad Situation
Book 1 of The Montgomery Series
Add to
your TBR list here https://bit.ly/2Nt8UH5
Chapter 1 – Four Minutes
* * *
Jen
Adult purgatory.
I swear, it’s where I’m stuck.
I don’t have time to keep up with old friends and, with the ones I have, I’m drifting in nowhere-land somewhere between I’m popping out babies and I’m too old to act like this. Since there’s no way I’m popping out a baby anytime soon, I finally relented and let the friends who are too old to act like this twist my arm.
Tonight, I shut my laptop and stored my Jimmy Choo’s away in the neatly labeled storage container on their assigned shelf in my closet. I traded my smart business chic for ripped jeans, a slouchy tee that hangs off one shoulder, and threw on some wedges because my college friends from SMU called me over a week ago and talked me into reliving our college days. When I reluctantly said yes, I hadn’t planned on my week turning into a shit show but they wouldn’t take no for an answer.
In the past four hours, I’ve drunk enough to be slightly buzzed yet bloated. The good old days aren’t what they used to be.
I hate sounding like a boring hag, but I don’t have the luxury of wasting an entire Sunday recovering from a hangover from Satan himself. I have important meetings first thing Monday morning about our newest—and biggest ever—acquisition and since I just flew in this afternoon from New York, I need to work all day tomorrow.
But unlike years ago when we were drinking Boones and shooting cheap tequila, we’ve all graduated to martinis, top-shelf mixed drinks, and fancy shooters.
The benefit of not being in college anymore is now the shooters don’t go down like a sack of nails.
A couple standing next to me at the bar have been all over one another for at least the last fifteen minutes. Juggling enough drinks for a small tribe, they’re finally off to deliver their big-ass order that took forever to fill. As soon as they clear out, something catches my eye and I can’t make myself look away.
Leaning into the bar is a man who doesn’t belong and it has nothing to do with his appearance. He’s tall, solid, and clearly not out to impress anyone and even less impressed with those around him. In fact, by the stony expression engraved into his profile, he seems to be enjoying himself less than I am—and that’s saying something.
He lifts a glass of ice water to full lips to take a swig and the muscles in his strong jaw flex, causing his Adam’s apple to bob. I find myself staring unabashedly at him as the pounding of the music and roar of the crowd melt away.
Tipping my head, I study him—strong and resolute, yet aloof and melancholy. He exudes boredom even though the way he’s subtly surveying the room, he’s incredibly attentive. As the crowd around us creates a brash hum with bodies clashing, he invites none of it, creating a berth around himself.
I’m not sure what makes me do it since he’s clearly not making eye contact with anyone, but for some reason the words pop out of my mouth anyway. “So, you’re the DD?”
His eyes move first, jumping to me so fast it might be an optical world record, followed by the lazy shift of his head. His dark eyes minutely narrow but the rest of his face remains stoic. He looks me up and down and when he speaks, he doesn’t even raise his voice, yet his low baritone comes out loud and clear. “Yeah.”
I raise a brow, wondering what the fuck is up with this guy. No one intimidates me—besides my dad when he’s pissed off—and, since I’m bored, I turn to him and take a step, closing half the distance between us. It’s probably my personality mixed with the buzz and a strong dose of my own boredom, but I really want to get this guy to talk.
I love a challenge. Hell, I get off on it.
“How did you draw the short straw?”
His apathetic countenance breaks and he turns toward me, setting his water glass on the bar and leans into it. When his arms cross on his wide chest, my eyes go straight to the tattoo running down the outside of his forearm of some sort of intricate map. Just when I’m trying to make out the words entwined within it, he says, “We didn’t draw straws. I’m new to town and my co-workers insisted on dragging me out tonight. But when I saw the rate they were going, I switched to water.”
“The responsible one.” I tip my head and raise a brow. “I like it.”
He lifts his head once and doesn’t seem interested in my line of conversation, but still doesn’t take his eyes off me. “You drew the short straw?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Just sick of being here but trying to act like I’m having fun for my friends’ sake.”
“You’re not a very good actress.”
“Ouch.” I feign before correcting him. “And by the way, the PC term these days is actor—equal opportunity and all that.”
His eyes only widen slightly. “I don’t give a shit about political correctness.”
For some reason this makes me smile. I’ll take someone real over a bullshitter any day of the week. “I should be offended but since I’m not an actor, I find that strangely refreshing.”
“I’m not here to impress anyone,” he adds.
“Oh, I can tell.” I smile bigger and extend my hand. “Jen.”
He pauses and looks me up and down for a split second, warring with himself. After giving his head a minute shake, he sighs and puts his large hand in mine for a very firm grip. “Eli.”
“Eli, the politically incorrect, straight-talking new guy in town. Welcome to the Big D.”
He doesn’t let go of my hand, hesitating, but I’ll never know what he was going to say because we’re interrupted and his hand is ripped from mine.
“Jenson-fucking-Montgomery!” Becca yells over the music as she breaks our hold like a Red Rover game on the playground. Her sloppy grin is wild and her hair even wilder from dancing. She shoves another glass at me, this one filled with pink liquid with an orange slice tucked on the rim. I start to shake my head and push the drink back at her, but she interrupts. “Those guys who’ve been eyeing us for the last hour finally got off their asses and sent us drinks.”
Rolling my eyes, I glance over my shoulder toward the duo Becca has been talking about for what seems longer than an hour. Sending a drink is lame and cliché, not to mention, I have no idea what this is.
Becca lifts her glass to her lips and takes a gulp, shrugging. “Cosmos. It’s not the same in a highball, but whatever. Still good.”
I don’t take a drink and not because I hate cranberry juice, but because it’s late, and, again, I’m bloated and should’ve been out of here two hours ago. Not to mention, I have no idea if this came straight from a waiter. No way am I drinking this even though I know Becca will no matter what I say. It’s past one in the morning and as I hold a fresh drink in my hand from some lame-ass man who thinks all women love fruity drinks, I decide it’s time to get out of here and shove the glass back at her. “I’m not drinking this and you shouldn’t either. I’m texting Donny.”
I pull out my cell to call for the car I’ve had on hold all night, but Becca pleads, “Noooo. You’re a fucking workaholic and we never get to see you. We’re closing the place down. I won’t take no for an answer.”
I shake my head as I send a text. It shouldn’t take long for Donny to get here and I try to let her down easy. “Sorry, Becca. What can I say? I can’t keep up with you anymore. If you want to stay, I’ll send him back for you and the rest of the girls so you don’t have to Uber.”
She huffs and nudges me with her elbow, sloshing her drink in the process, but she’s at the point where she just doesn’t give a fuck. “Are you kidding me? You work circles around everyone in that company and you’re going to stand there and tell me you can’t stay for one more hour to close the bar? I call bullshit.”
“You know I have no choice but to put in long hours. I have to prove—”
I trip over my words when her eyes go big as she looks over my shoulder right before she announces in a way that is not cool or lowkey, “Oh, shit. Here they come!”
I turn and she’s right.<
br />
Dammit. Not only do I have to tear myself away from Becca and the girls, but now these guys.
“Hi!” Becca’s voice is too high as she bats her lash extensions and thrusts the cosmo back at me. I only take it so I don’t wear it. Plastering her Miss Ft. Worth First Runner-Up winning smile from back in the day across her pretty face, she goes on. “Thanks for the drinks.”
“How have you ladies not been snatched up by this time of night?”
I do my best not to groan and look up at the early middle-aged man and his friend. The leader of the duo has dirty blond hair that’s perfectly messy, falling over his sun-kissed face. I know it’s late October but, unless he works outside for a living, to be that tan this time of year utters nothing but vanity. His eyes come to me as a slow smile spreads across his perfect, all-American-man face and when his lips part, I’m surprised his teeth don’t twinkle like a cartoon from over bleaching.
His partner in crime isn’t any less beautiful of a man …if you’re into that. I might wear Jimmy Choo’s and have a shopping addiction that would rival any junkie, but I prefer my men to be all man. I’ll take rugged over beautiful any day of the week and, at one o’clock on a Sunday morning, I only want my empty bed. Patience is not my friend on a good day, but when I’ve had too much to drink in a way that’s only made me tired and not a fun party companion, I’m over it. Any tolerance I would normally have for a man who has prettier teeth than me has flown the coop.
I set the glass down on the bar between us and give Mr. Blondie a tight smile. “Thanks for the drink, but I’m done for the night. My ride is on its way.”
“Jen, no!” Becca starts in again but the blond steps forward and puts his hand lightly on my arm, interrupting, “Just one dance.”
I shrug him off quickly and take a step back. “Like I said, no thanks.”
Blondie’s friend shimmies up to Becca and she doesn’t argue. Becca reaches over and gives my hand a drunken squeeze, slurring, “Come on. The other girls are out there, too.”
