The Burn List

by Jennifer Dawson

  “You’ve been waiting for me?”

  He nods again. “I want to get you a ring and properly propose, but in light of your worries, I think it’s more important for you to know how serious I am.”

  I gape. Lukas Marlow wants to marry me. He loves me.

  He runs his thumb over my lips. “So do I get an answer? Or would you rather wait and take things slow?”

  The boy I love, loves me in return. I’m the luckiest woman ever and there’s no way I’m letting him go. Not now. Not ever.

  “Yes! I’ll marry you.” I throw myself into his arms almost knocking him flat on his back before he manages to right himself.

  He holds me so tight I can’t get any air in my lungs, but I don’t protest. He growls low in my ear, “I warned you not to scare me like this again. I’m sorry, but you’re not going to be able to sit down for a week.”

  I lay my head on his shoulder. “I need to work on my communication skills.”

  “You do.” His mouth finds mine and he kisses me long, slow and deep. When he lifts his head, to stare into my eyes, I have no doubts about his intentions.

  “Now that’s settled.” He releases me, steps away, and assesses me carefully. “I’m going to leave. You go get naked and slip under your covers upstairs.”

  I laugh, swatting him on the arm. “Why would you leave if I’m about to get naked?”

  The wicked grin I love, the one that tells me he’s up to mischief and I’m about to be a very satisfied woman, flashes across his lips. “Because I’m going to climb in your window so we can knock that last fantasy off your list. The capture fantasy.”

  “Oh!” My heart kicks up to double time in my chest. So, it turns out I won’t have to settle for a boring guy after all. Instead, I’ll have Lukas and enough excitement to last three lifetimes.

  He grins. “I have a list of my own I want to work through.”

  I give him a smile. “Sounds promising.”

  “It is. Expect it in your email first thing Monday morning.”

  Hey there!

  Thanks so much for reading.

  I hope you enjoyed THE BURN LIST. Way back when I wrote several novellas under the pen name, Julia Devlin and this is one of those stories. I’ve changed a lot as a writer since then, but Lukas and Abby are still one of my favorites. I hope you agree they were worth the revisions and that, with the changes, I improved on what was already a fun story.

  If you’re interested, and want to find out more about my series and books. Come join me on my writing adventures by signing up for my newsletter. I promise it’s going to be super fun. You’ll find out about upcoming releases, get the first look at advanced chapters, participate in exclusive giveaways and bonus content.

  To sweeten the pot you get not one, but TWO stories for free! The first free book is CRAVE, part of the Undone series. But as a special bonus, you’ll get my top secret bonus story, IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT, part of my contemporary romance series, Love & Other Disasters. This little gem is available ONLY to my newsletter subscribers and can’t be found anywhere else. I hope to see you there!

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  P.S. Read on for sneak peeks to some of my other series …

  Internet Stalking Made Easy

  Sometimes it’s just handy to have everything in one place, don’t you think? Since I’m a considerate author, here’s some helpful links to that will help you find me as we wander the Internet. I hope to see you out there in the wild.

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  Also by Jennifer Dawson

  Want more books? I’ve got something for everyone.

  The Undone Series

  Romantic Erotica that’s all about the journey.

  Crave

  Sinful

  Unraveled

  Debauched

  Taken

  The Something New Series

  Small town, contemporary romance with a big city twist.

  Take a Chance on Me

  The Winner Takes it All

  The Name of the Game

  As Good as New

  She’s My Kind of Girl

  Head Over Heels

  The Love & Other Disaster Series

  Sexy Contemporary Romance inspired by real & imagined dating disasters.

  The Walk of Shame

  Out of Her League

  Twist of Fate Coming in January 2018

  Step into Crave

  For when you like your romance erotic & emotional…

  Chapter One

  Eleven P.M.

  Two months. Five days. Twenty-one hours.

  It’s my new record although I have no sense of accomplishment. No, I’m resigned as I walk down the dark, deserted alley. The heels of my knee-high, black patent boots click against the cracked concrete in echo of my defeat. The distant sounds of the bass thuds in my ears in time to the heavy beat of my heart.

  My own personal staccato of failure.

  I’m not sure why it’s always a surprise. Maybe because, at first, my conviction is so strong. By now my pattern is long and established—I vow, I crave, I give in.

  Rinse. Repeat.

  But, like any good addict, I always swear this time is the last.

  Of course, I try. My therapist has given me “management tools” to get me through the hard times, and like a good patient, I follow her instructions to a tee—I meditate, do yoga, and write all my crappy feelings in the journal she insists I keep.

  Only, it’s backfired and become part of the ritual. When the cycle starts, it’s a matter of time before I end up here.

  I’m sure when John brought me to this underground club the first time, he’d never envisioned I’d be back on my own, wandering through the crowds, looking for my next fix. The club reminds me of him, and I wish I could go somewhere else so I wouldn’t be confronted with my betrayal, but I don’t have a choice. There aren’t ads for places like this. Or maybe there are and I don’t know where to look.

  Swift and sudden, anger clogs my throat, and for a split second I hate him for changing me so irrevocably, and leaving me so permanently. Fast on the heels of anger, the guilt wells, so powerful it brings a sting of tears to my eyes. In the pockets of my black trench coat, my nails dig crescents into my palms.

  I push away the emotions. Exhaling harshly, my breath fogs the air as I spot a hint of the red door that signals both my refuge and my hell. I hear the muffled hum of music that will crescendo once I’m inside to pump through me like a heartbeat.

  My pace quickens along with my pulse.

  As much as I hate giving in, I can’t deny my relief. Once I step through that door, I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to be normal.

  The tension, riding me all day, distracting me in meetings, making me wander off in the middle of conversations, ebbs. A twisted excitement slicks my thighs as the bare skin under my skirt tingles.

  I haven’t bothered with panties. It makes things easier, quicker. Less about getting off and more about taking care of business.

  I have on my usual club fare: short, black pleated skirt that leaves a stretch of thigh before my stockings start. A sheer, white silk blouse that’s unbuttoned low enough to show the lace of my red demi-bra. My lips are slicked with crimson and my dark chestnut hair is a tumble of shiny waves down my back.

  My outfit is carefully orchestrated. I leave as little to chance as possible.

  No leather or latex. I’m not into bondage. Chains and rope do nothing but leave me cold. Once upon a time I loved to be restrained by fingers wrapped tight
around my wrists, digging into my skin, but now I can’t handle even a hint of being bound.

  I reveal plenty of smooth ivory skin, my clue to guys into body modification or knife play to stay away. I like fear, but not that kind. I want my bruises and scars hidden away, not worn like a badge of honor for the world to see.

  My wrists and neck are free of jewelry so the Masters don’t confuse me with a slave girl. I tried that scene once, thinking all their hard play and intense scenes would focus my restless energy and make me forget, but there is no longer anything submissive about me.

  I don’t want to obey. I want to fight.

  Chapter Two

  The scream leaves my throat, echoing on the walls of my bedroom, as I start awake. I jerk to a sitting position, sucking in great lungfuls of air. Drenched in sweat, I press my palm to my pounding heart, the beat so rapid it feels as though it might burst from my chest.

  I had the dream again. Not a dream—dreams are good and full of hope—no, a nightmare. The same nightmare I’ve had over and over for the last eighteen months. An endless, gut-wrenching loop that fills my sleep and leaves my days unsettled.

  I miss good dreams. Miss waking up rejuvenated. But most of all, I miss feeling safe. I’d taken those things for granted and paid the price.

  Lesson learned. Too late to change my fate, but learned none the less.

  On shaky legs I climb out of bed and pad down the hallway of my one bedroom, Lakeview condo and into the kitchen, my mind still filled with violent images and blood trickling like a lazy river down a concrete crack in the pavement.

  I go through my morning ritual, pulling a filter and coffee from the cabinets. Carefully measuring scoops of ground espresso into the basket as tears fill my eyes.

  I blink rapidly, hoping to clear the blur, but it doesn’t work, and wet tracks slide down my cheeks. But even through my fear, my ever-present grief and guilt, I can feel it. It sits heavy in my bones, familiar and undeniable.

  The want.

  The need.

  The craving that grows stronger each and every day I resist. That the dream does nothing to abate the desire sickens me.

  I know what Dr. Sorenson would say: I need to disassociate. That the events of the past, and my emotions aren’t connected, but she can’t possibly understand. Throat clogged, I brush away the tears, and angrily stab the button to start the automatic drip.

  My phone rings a short, electronic burst of sound, signaling an incoming text. I’m so grateful for the distraction from my turbulent thoughts I snatch up the device, clutching it tight as though it might run away from me.

  I open the text. It’s from my boss, Frank Moretti. CFO is leaving to “pursue other opportunities”. Need to meet 1st thing this AM to discuss.

  I sigh in relief. As the communications manager at one of Chicago’s boutique software companies this ensures a crazy day I desperately need. Frank will have me running around like a mad woman. I take a deep breath and wipe away the last of the tears on my face.

  Salvation. I won’t have time to think. Won’t have time to ponder what I’m going to do tonight. I type out my agreement and hit send, hoping against hope I’ll be too exhausted this evening to do anything but fall into a bed, dreamless.

  Too tired to give in to my drug of choice.

  My morning is filled with back-to-back meetings and I don’t sit at my desk until eleven. On autopilot, I make my way through voice mails, jotting down the calls I need to return. All the while the all too familiar ache has only grown more insistent.

  The morning’s pace has done nothing to ease the tightness in my chest, or curb the craving. Other than momentary periods of respite, it’s distracting me.

  Reminding me in countless little ways I can’t resist.

  My sister’s voice comes over the line, ripping me away from my thoughts. Tone light and happy, she tells me she’s looking forward to our lunch at noon. I dart a quick glance at the clock on my computer and groan.

  April is the last person I want to see.

  Not that I don’t love my sister, I do. She’s great. It’s just that being around her reminds me of all I’ve lost and how I’ll never be the person I was again. Today, I can’t bear to witness that look of expectation my family gives me, like they’re waiting for the Layla Hunter I used to be to show up. I hate the disappointment, the loss, shinning in their eyes when they search and don’t find her.

  I don’t know how to tell them I miss that girl as much as they do.

  This is not a good day to remember. Not when I miss John so much it’s a physical hurt. If he hadn’t died, I’d have been married a year and a half now, living the younger woman’s version of April’s life. Despite our dirty little secret, John and I were like every other couple we’d known in our late twenties, living in the city, having as much fun as we could before I got pregnant and we moved out to the suburbs to claim our white picket fence, four bedroom, and two and a half bath dreams.

  Unlike me, my sister’s path didn’t deviate, falling perfectly into place as she’d planned all along. Her successful executive husband adores her; my twin nieces are right out of a stock photo they’re so cute. Beautiful, golden-haired angels that break my heart every time I see them they’re so precious. April even has my dog, the Golden Retriever John and I said we’d get the second we moved out of the city and had a yard.

  His memory is close today, and with April’s call, I can see it—that charmed, blessed life I’d believed I was entitled too. A life where the evils of the world were so out of my hemisphere I’d never dreamed they’d happen to me.

  Obviously, I was wrong.

  Panic fills my chest, breathless in its intensity. I look down to realize I’m clicking the button on the top of my pen over and over. Stilling my restless fingers, I take a deep calming breath. Counting to twenty as Dr. Sorenson has taught me.

  I can’t go to lunch with April. Not today of all days when I need so badly what John used to give me that it’s a dull, persistent ache.

  I dart a quick glance at the clock and pick up the phone. I might be able to catch her. But then I recall I canceled on her two times before. My sister might be a happy little homemaker, but she’s no pushover, if I cancel again, she’ll come drag me to lunch by my hair.

  I swallow all of my turbulent emotions threatening to bubble over and drop the receiver back into its cradle. Resigned.

  I spot April already waiting for me in the little French bistro two blocks away from my work. She wears a worried, uneasy expression as her gaze darts around the room. As soon as she spots me she beams, flashing her trademark, million-dollar smile.

  My stomach tightens as I walk toward her. She looks gorgeous and the sight of her makes me feel like a poor carbon copy of my former self.

  While we have the same clear, sky-blue eyes, she’s a California blonde to my brunette. Today she’s wearing a casual dress the exact color of red autumn leaves falling to the ground outside. The simple cut, and jersey fabric, skims her body kept toned by walks and grueling sessions of hot yoga. It highlights golden skin, sun-kissed from her recent four-day jaunt to Naples, Florida, for a little alone time with her husband, Derrick. She radiates good health.

  In essence, my complete opposite.

  She throws her arms out in greeting and I begrudgingly step into her embrace.

  “You look wonderful,” she says, squeezing me tight.

  Liar. I look horrible. Lifeless and flat in the light of her glowing, earth goddess warmth.

  “So do you,” I murmur back, except I mean it. I suck in her scent. She smells like flowers and sunshine. Achingly familiar, so reminiscent of a time hovering out of my reach, I want to stay in her embrace forever.

  But, of course, I don’t. I break away and step back. Her lightly raspberry-stained mouth tucks down at the corners, her hands still resting on my arms as though she means to pull me in for another hug.

  I tug away, retreating to the safety of my seat.

  Her lips press together, but th
en she flashes me another brilliant smile, and settles into the chair across from me. She lays her crisp, white linen napkin daintily across her lap before looking at me. And I catch it, the hope shining in her eyes.

  I pick up the menu resting across my plate and stare at the words without reading. An awkward silence, which never existed between us before, fills the empty space.

  April clears her throat. “How are you?”

  “Good.” Another lie. Today, I am drowning. “Work’s crazy.”

  “I’m glad you were able to get away, you need a break, Layla.”

  I put down the menu. “I’m fine.”

  I want to reassure her. If we have a good lunch, she’ll be able to report back to my mother that I’m making progress. Peace might elude me, but I want it for them.

  The frown makes another appearance, but before April can say anything, our waiter comes over and places a big bottle of sparkling water down on the table. Young, with a mess of golden-streaked hair, and the chiseled bone structure of a model, he’s all fresh-faced innocence. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  My sister orders a glass of white wine.

  I shake my head and he disappears into the lunchtime crowd, leaving us alone with our uncomfortable silence.

  I manage a smile and settle on the safest possible subject, one guaranteed to make my sister forget her worry. “How are the girls?”

  Her whole face lights up. “Their dance recital is in a couple of weeks and they love their costumes so much I can’t get them to take them off.” She picks up her phone and swipes over the screen before holding it out to me.

  I take it and the image of my two nieces, Sasha and Sonya, fill the screen. As soon as I see their precious little faces, decked out in lavender leotards with matching tutus accented by pale green bows, I realize I’m longing for information about them. They’re so adorable it brings a sting of tears to my eyes that I blink away.