The Right Direction
Kathy Coopmans
Contents
Untitled
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Kathy Coopmans
Copyright
All rights reserved. Copyright@ Kathy Coopmans.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.
Cover Models- Ryan VanDyke and Tessi Conquest
Photography by- Eric David Battershell
Cover Designer- Sommer Stein
Editing done by Julia Goda of Diamonds in the rough editing.
Proofreader- Cat Parisi
Format done by- HJ Bellus
Dedication
For Jill Sava
You my sweet friend inspired this story.
Prologue
Prologue-
My back hits the mattress with a soft thud as Roman stares down adoringly at me lying naked. His arm is resting right between my thighs. I spread my legs, run my hands up my sides, and palm my aching breasts.
Please, God, don’t let my intuition be right.
He’s leaving me.
My head keeps churning away, telling me this will more than likely be the last time I have this insatiable, dirty-talking man inside of me. I’m breaking into tiny, fragile pieces.
A few more hours is all we have left, and all I can do is tuck the past twelve years away. I have to keep it all inside.
Every minute that ticks by is another minute closer to the dreaded word ‘good-bye.’
“Fucking hell. Do you know how gorgeous you are? Especially when you touch yourself like that? You were meant for me in every way possible. Mind, body, and soul. I have all kinds of filthy things running through my mind. Get on your knees, my beautiful, filthy girl. Spread your hands in front of you the way I like. Now, Joslyn,” he commands as he pulls his belt through the loops of his pants, whipping it through the air with a loud, thunderous snap.
“We’re meant for each other. Are you going to tie me up with that?” I prod, turn around like he asked, always ready to please him.
“Only if it guarantees you’ll go with me.”
“I can’t.”
“I know. Four years is a long time, but we’ll make it, Joslyn. We have to keep telling ourselves that every day is one day closer. It’s always been you and me. Our someday is going to be here before we know it.” I wish he could promise me that. I don’t say that out loud, not when promises can be broken.
“Let's not talk about it anymore. Fuck me already.” Desperation seeps from my pores and filters out of my mouth. A deep noise erupts from Roman’s throat. The sound of his belt buckle hits the wooden floor with a clunk, clothes shuffle off, and the familiar condom wrapper tears open.
“You should get on the pill before you come see me,” he says, as slides his hand down the cheeks of my ass until his fingers dip deep into the place I need him to be. The connection of being loved. Two broken souls who always believed destiny brought them together.
“I will,” I moan, arch my back, and allow the ripple effect only he has given me drown out the painful drips of emotions crawling around my spine.
He’s leaving me.
“Fuck,” I scream. My arms begin to shake while his skillful digits play me as well as he strums his guitar.
“That’s right. You come for me before I give you my cock,” he roars. I can feel his grin graze the side of my neck. The man always knows how to set me off.
With a slight tilt upward of my ass, he removes his fingers, replacing them with his thick, heavy shaft. One slow, tortuous thrust buries him deep. He stills, savors our connection for a few moments like he always does. I close my eyes, fight with all my might to hold back my tears.
“You feel incredible, Joslyn. Always have. Always will. I’m going to make going away up to you. Dreams, Joslyn. You reach yours, and I’ll reach mine, and in the end, I’ll be waiting for you. We were always meant to be together. You and me, baby. Forever.” Those unwelcome tears sting my eyes as he works himself into a steady pace. I remain on lockdown inside. I have to, or the years of memories we shared will fade away.
* * *
I, Joslyn Reynolds, need to keep all my emotions about Roman Nixon tucked away, or I’ll drown in them.
I’m afraid I’ll never get my someday or head in the right direction again.
Chapter 1
Eleven years later
Roman
Sweat drips down my body. Anger threatens to grind my teeth to ash as I sit in this musky, puke-smelling cell and stare at the drunk fucker who finally passed out after nearly choking to death on his own vomit.
The shithole place looks the same as it did all those years ago when I was tossed in here for thinking I was some badass above the law. More like shoved, smacked around, and taunted by the officers who didn’t take kindly to a young twenty-one-year-old wasted punk who popped an officer in his face, all because he showed up at my home to tell me to turn my music down. I was strung out on coke, higher than a kite, and don’t remember a damn thing except telling him who I was, plus “Fuck off” and “Get your ass off my property.” Man didn’t take too kindly to that when he slammed me up against the wall, cuffed me, and told everyone to get out of my house or they would be following behind me in another cop car.
Thought I learned my lesson when I woke up to this same dingy smell that’s surrounding me now.
And I did, up until the cops came to my home in the Hollywood Hills last night, where I happened to be sitting on my deck staring at the one thing that reminds me of her while waiting for my publicist to tell me what I should do after I gave a member of the paparazzi a good beat down. He deserved it. Hell, I should have yanked his tongue out of his throat and shoved it up his ass for what he said.
I’m not regretting what I did one Goddamn bit. The fucker brought up something I never discuss with anyone. My past and the one woman who very few people know about. They know about her now, that’s for sure. “Fuck. I hope Marcus can find her. She needs to be warned.”
There are only two things in my life I regret. One of them should have been out of my life for good a year ago, and the other is walking away from her.
I refuse to let my thoughts drift to the only woman who ever really owned a piece of me while I’m sitting in here. The memory of Joslyn will not be tainted by the smell of this jail cell. Her name is going to be dragged through the mud over something I’m positive she’ll never forget. I know I never will. Not even after I take my last breath.
I close my eyes, thump my head against the dingy white plaster, and let my mind roam to the reason why I am here.
I don’t blame the assholes who were lurking around t
he courthouse yesterday just hoping they would be the one to get the famous Roman Nixon, lead singer of the rock band Trained in Black, to finally open up and confirm or deny the rumors about me getting a divorce. I do blame the little pin dick fucker from Hollywood Living, one of the worst gossip rags there is, for opening a door and leaving it wide open for anyone to walk through and destroy an innocent person’s life. A woman who doesn’t have a thing to do with why I was there.
Not only did he blow the lid off my past, but he also caused a scene that made me lose my temper, and before I knew what was happening, I was being yanked off him, shoved through the crowd, and pushed into the back seat of my car.
I’m not telling anyone jack shit. You’d think they would know that by now. Even before I got married, I spoke only to a respected member of the press, not some makeshift wannabe motherfuckers who lie through their teeth. Goddamn paparazzi are a group of people who get away with breaking the law. I hate every single one of them.
I’ve done the talk show thing, private interviews; and that’s enough. Not once have I spoken to any of those shadow-walking lurkers who crawl out day and night. They all make me sick.
My estranged wife, Gwen, has always been the one front and center of the press. Lights flashing, microphones shoved in her face, and enjoying the limelight. I usually let her have at it. I had a few respectable rules for her to live by. As long as she kept the band, what she thought she knew about my past, anything involving my personal life, and the truth that I hated her guts out of the press, then she could talk all she wanted.
Gwen was as big of a waste as living in this fucking city. Los Angeles is a dump. A place where people move in hopes their aspirations of becoming famous lead them to living the good life. Money, booze, constant parties. Over half the time, their dreams end up at the bottom of the ocean, and they end up living on the streets, or they wind up sitting here. Young dumb fucks like I was who think they can live above the law. Most of all, it’s the city of musical beds. People are jumping from one person's bed to the other because a guy can’t keep his dick to home or a woman opens her legs for a man who isn’t her husband. It’s fucking pathetic.
Even though I’m grateful I left Gwen when I did, I still walked the straight and narrow while we were married. Still kept my dick in my pants. It didn’t have a damn thing to do with loving my wife or trying to fix a marriage that had been over before it even began. It had everything to do with my band and maintaining the good reputation we fought hard to have.
Gwen and I had been on the outs for well over a year. We hadn’t slept in the same bed for just as long. I knew she was messing around, and I didn’t give a shit if she did. I even told her to go file for a divorce way before I did. Hell, I should have done it myself when I first suspected she was cheating. Sure as shit didn’t care what anyone but my fans and my bandmates thought of me, and I have no family I care about protecting. But we were getting ready to tour. I didn’t have the time to fight with her. Not when I had millions of people all around the world relying on me to perform.
Before Gwen, I had women at my disposal for years. Won’t lie to anyone about taking advantage of every chick who thought she could get her claws in me and own a piece of the famous Roman Nixon. None of them did. Not even Gwen could take hold of the piece of me she wanted. It was and always will be retained for someone else.
Gwen strolled into my life like a bright, shining star. The pretty makeup artist who worked for the photographer we hired to shoot the cover for our latest album.
She had the looks of a model. The personality of the girl next door. The ones who act all innocent and sweet until their polished, trimmed-down-to-nothing nails snake out and deadly pointy hooks take their place.
Three fucking years I put up with her shit. Spending my money, lying to all her friends about how wonderful it was to snag a man like me. A man she claimed she had never heard of until the night we met. A man who helped get her foot in the door for an audition. And once she was told over and over again she wasn’t what they were looking for, I tried doing more. Gave her full reign of helping us decorate the offices, waiting room, and anything else she felt needed a woman’s touch in our new up and coming recording studio. Access Records is now a multi-million dollar corporation. Lord knew it took a hell of a lot of weight off all of us having someone we thought was invested in our success as well as others back home to take care of details that didn’t interest us as much as booking clients. I did everything I could think of to keep that woman happy, yet she made my life a living hell.
Day after day, she reminded me that it was all my fault no one wanted to hire her because rumors had floated around she was either pregnant or lost a baby from partying too much with her husband. A baby that was never there. The best rumor of all was, how could Roman and his wife think about having a baby when all they did was travel around the world? Well, a couple would have to fuck first, for one, and fucking after her true colors came out was the last thing I wanted to do. I could go on and on about the lies they strummed up while she sat back and ate them up like it was candy. Wouldn’t surprise me if she added to their bullshit herself.
The funny thing is, she eventually fell out of love with me and in love with having her name plastered everywhere. She fed right into the celebrity web, and after a while, I started touring without her. She made the world believe the stories they were printing, and I was too fucking tired to give a shit. Up until the day I caught the back of a man she was fucking sitting in my kitchen, at my bar, drinking my beer. In my fucking apartment in New York City. The bastard just sat there, not once turning around to allow me to see his face.
At first, I was pissed seeing another man in a place I’d worked my ass off to buy. It took me less than fifteen minutes to grab the shit I wanted and get the hell out of there with a big “Thanks” and “Good luck” to the both of them. I filed for divorce two days later. Found out he wasn’t the first or the last man she was messing around with.
I was prepared to get her gone as quickly as possible. But Gwen is a smart, cunning little bitch, and that same man she was fucking happened to be her lawyer, and the two of them wiped my ass all over the place the first time we went to court.
Come to find out the prenup papers I signed, the ones that were her idea we had drawn up in the first place, were never properly filed.
Coincidence? I think not. The slut was playing me for a fool the entire fucking time, and I made the mistake of trusting her.
On the flip side, I owe the rest of the blame to my attorney for not doing his job and following the whole thing through. Wanted to bust his jaw when he tried making up the excuse he could have sworn he did. Bullshit, he let it slip through his fingers somehow. More than likely was paid a hefty amount of money to fuck me over. Doesn’t fucking matter anymore. He allowed a woman who had planned it all along to rob me fucking blind. Take half of my assets while she no doubt is sitting back plotting against her next victim in her shallow-hearted little mind. Cunt.
Firing my old attorney is the reason why I’m still sitting here. I refuse to have the court appoint me one. Didn’t need one to show up to sign papers yesterday, and now I wish to fuck we’d started interviewing lawyers weeks ago, because my stubborn ass wants out of here so I can find out what the hell is going on out there.
As far as Gwen goes, she got what she wanted. Bitch can have it all. Knew over a month ago when the judge told me I could fight not having a legally binding prenup I was firing my attorney for making a big mistake. Sure as shit wasn’t stalling my divorce. I told him no thank you. I was done. I wanted out. I made sure she understood she was not touching a damn thing in my Hollywood Hills house or getting one dime from my share in Access Records. What I should have done was start the process of finding one then. The problem is, trust is a hard thing for me these days. However, I trusted my lawyer, and where did that get me? In fucking jail with dried blood on my knuckles and nursing a headache from hell.
I know Gwen’s the one wh
o tipped off the weasel fucker who shoved his microphone in my face and asked about Joslyn. How the hell she found out is a mystery. There are only a handful of people who know about her. Brock, Dean, and Miles, all my brothers from the band, my publicist, my PR people, and our roadie Grim. All of whom have been with me for years. All of whom are the only people I trust.
Looking up, I see the band's publicist, Markus, making his way down the hall with the snarky cop who arrested me. The second they step to the side, my dick twitches when my sight flies up to the beauty in a red dress that lands just below her knees and wrapped tightly around her waist.
Holy fucking long legs and tits all swathed in one devilish color.
“I don’t believe there’s a need for any introductions here,” Marcus states, his finger pointing back and forth between her and me. His brows are shooting into his hairline. Eyes puncturing several more holes in my head to tell me to shut the fuck up and don’t ask questions. He doesn’t have to worry. I’m stunned to silence anyway.
“Hello, Roman. I’ve been informed you need an attorney.” Say what? Jesus, that sound. It has always been the sexiest, sultriest voice I’ve heard in my life. It shoots straight to my dick.
While her presence has captured my tongue, my eyeballs are working fine. They roam down the delicate slope of her neck. My eyes nearly pop out of my head when she juts out her hip, places a hand on her waist, and a familiar silver bracelet dangles from her dainty wrist. I swallow. Hard. She’s also sporting a small script tattoo on the inside of her arm. I can’t make out what it says from this angle; it has me wondering if there’s more hidden underneath her dress. Hot as fuck.
For shit’s sake, she is stunning. I’m talking any man would fantasize over this woman. Might draw blood for her, too, and they probably have. Some have probably dreamed of lying flat on their back, positioning her over him, and gliding her right down to sit on his face. I’m harder than the steel of these bars thinking about how good she tastes. My mouth is getting wetter by the second. She tasted divine back then. Bet anything she’s ripened to fucking delicious.
The Right Direction Page 1
