Reaching For You: A New Adult Contemporary Romance (Anything For You Book 2)

by Hopkins, Faleena

  Reaching For You

  “Anything For You” Series, Book 2

  Faleena Hopkins

  Contents

  Copyright

  Description

  Epigraph

  1. Tommy

  2. Tommy

  3. Rebecca

  4. Rebecca

  5. Annie

  6. Rebecca

  7. Brendan

  8. Annie

  9. Brendan

  10. Annie

  11. Brendan

  12. Annie

  13. Rebecca

  14. Annie

  15. Tommy

  16. Brendan

  17. Rebecca

  18. Tommy

  19. Rebecca

  20. Annie

  21. Rebecca

  22. Annie

  23. Rebecca

  24. Brendan

  25. Rebecca

  26. Tommy

  27. Annie

  28. Brendan

  29. Rebecca

  30. Brendan

  31. Rebecca

  32. Brendan

  33. Annie

  34. Brendan

  35. Tommy

  36. Annie

  37. Brendan

  38. Christiano

  39. Brendan

  40. Annie

  41. Brendan

  42. Annie

  43. Brendan

  44. Annie

  45. Tommy

  46. Annie

  47. Brendan

  48. Brendan

  49. Christiano

  50. Annie

  51. Annie

  52. Mark

  53. Brendan

  54. Annie

  55. Brendan

  56. Tommy

  57. Annie

  58. Brendan

  59. Annie

  60. Brendan

  61. Annie

  62. Brendan

  63. Annie

  64. Brendan

  65. Annie

  Thank You.

  Brendan - from “Searching For You” - Finale

  Searching For You

  You Don’t Know Me

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by Faleena Hopkins

  All rights reserved.

  Cover images licensed through shutterstock.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Description

  Who can you trust when you can’t trust your friends? Powerful Rebecca wants what she wants, and so does unpredictable Tommy. Brendan has no clue what he’s up against with these two, and Annie, even with all of her Italian lessons in love and life, is still is too innocent to truly fight the wills of people more devious than she can imagine. Love is never easy, but can it win? Available Now! Click here to purchase on Amazon. Add To Goodreads.

  "Oh my goodness I need more! Definitely need more! What I like so much about this series is that it is so like real life...the character's lives and loves are all so messy…definitely captures that aspect of life so perfectly that it really draws you in." - TripsDownImaginationRoad.com

  I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I promise it won’t be boring.

  David Bowie

  Chapter One

  Tommy

  Third red light: blown. Pedal: in danger of breaking through the floor of my BMW. When: the night of the robbery.

  I have to make it to the Golden Gate Bridge. I have to get to my parent’s house. They’ll know what to do. I punch the dashboard with my fist, the silver bull of my ring flashing red from the stoplight’s glare. “Shit! Motherfucker! FUCK!”

  The pain in my left shoulder is insane, shooting over my chest, down my arm, and up into my skull. The inside of my leather jacket is stuck to my bloody shirt and the hole is irreparable. That fucking bitch shot a hole in my jacket. How’d she get the gun away from me? How did I not shoot her like I wanted to? Brendan sure did surprise me this time, no doubt about that. Mr. Hero taking a bullet for Lady Goth? I never would have seen that coming. Fuck her, yes… she’s gotten hot since college, but take a bullet for the bitch? Never would I have guessed he would have done something like that.

  I slam my fist on the dash again, to stave off the pain. “FUCK!! This fucking HURTS!!”

  I don’t know what I’m going to tell my dad. That I got taken by a girl? There is no way I can tell him that. It’s bad enough I pulled the trigger. We don’t take the shot unless we have to. That’s not what we do and I know this. I’ve been doing this shit with my family my whole life and murder ain’t part of the game.

  It wasn’t my time. I had another six months before the planned date and that was going to be of a place in Tiburon – a residence, some billionaire’s place Dad had scoped out that was perfect.

  We only do residences. It’s been that way ever since Dad and his buddy got into that mess with the bank robbery when they were kids. Not only that, but Le Barré is in my neighborhood. You don’t shit where you eat. But I couldn’t help myself. I was leaving Tamara’s apartment and she’d said the words that fucked up my whole life: “Have you checked out that new bar, yet?”

  “What bar?” I’d said, without much interest, sure she was just stalling to keep me around so she could trick me into sleeping over. She always tried that – and it was never gonna happen. Not with a whore like Tamara.

  She leaned against the door of her puny apartment, her dress all crinkled from our fuck-fest. “A couple doors over. You’ll love it. Really. You should check it out. Really cool, dark vibe. Just like you.”

  She got me there. That was what did it. Fucking flattery. “Yeah? Alright, I’ll check it out. I’ll see ya, babe.”

  “Anytime you want to, Tommy,” she said to my back as I headed for the crotchety staircase.

  She lived in a hovel above a small liquor store, her apartment dirty, and overdone with scarves on tables and lamps like an old bordello. But I didn’t have to pay for the sex. Tamara gave it away. She’d probably live somewhere nicer if she’d just face the music of who she is, and start charging people. No one was gonna do what she wanted, which was to take her away from all of this and make a wife and mother of her. Fucking women. They’re so fucking stupid.

  Except for Rebecca. She’s different. Classy. Smart. And she’s got that look behind her eyes that says she could join the life I lead if she just had the right door in.

  I want her and Brendan is the only thing in my way.

  I was thinking about Rebecca – that ass, those legs, those almond-shaped baby browns of hers – when I walked up to the new bar, to check it out just for the hell of it. I looked in the window and couldn’t believe what I was looking at. Brendan was inside and with him, some redhead he was feeling-up. I almost knocked on the window, but I hesitated and looked closer, drawn in by something familiar about the chick’s face. She’d changed, but that was her; that crazy Goth chick from State. I never forget a face. I let Brendan think – just like I let my father think – that my memory is shit, that I’m stupider than I am.

  I’m not even close to stupid. And I remember everything.

  I remember every time Brendan shot me down with a look I ignored just to piss him off more. I remember how he took my place the second he and Sara broke it off, moving in with Mark and locking me out of their little twosome. I remember how he tried to make sure I didn’t get hired at the age
ncy, how Margaret made it happen thanks to my showing her a good time behind her husband’s back on more than one occasion. Brendan had no right to keep me from that job. I’m smarter than he is. I’m better at the job. I’ve got better ideas, and he always makes sure no one listens to them.

  And I sure as shit remember every time that little Goth bitch shot me a look of death back then, like she knew me or something. We never even had a conversation. She didn’t know me. She had no right to look at me like that.

  Staring at them, my blood heated up. I stepped back from the window and walked off to the side to consider what I was thinking. Could I end this, once and for all? I could be the shoulder Rebecca would cry on. I could wait an appropriate amount of time, and then take over as Creative Director with Brendan gone, too. I’m the next in line and he’s already feeling the heat of my breath on his back at meetings. I could even take his room in the penthouse, get close with Mark again. It used to be just me, Mark and Ross – who was always an easy guy to be around because he never tried to ride shotgun in life. He was high most of the time and cool with sticking to the backseat. I wonder what happened to him?

  I paced the sidewalk and headed back to my car. I had my gun in the glove compartment like always. Hitting the keychain, I unlocked the doors and slid in, staring up the street, eyes locked on Le Barré’s door. Twisting in my seat slowly, I scanned the block. No one was out anymore. The bars had all closed.

  Could I do this?

  It was asking myself the question that answered it. Why am I even questioning IF I could? I can do anything I fucking want to. I’d be free. I’d have nothing between me and the things I want.

  I reached into my glove compartment and pulled out the gun and mask. Then I practiced a few times lowering my voice to make it unrecognizable and figured if he recognized me, the dead can’t be called as a witness. Which meant one thing. They would both have to go. I’d make it look like a robbery. Get some money while I was at it. Money I could take Rebecca out with, secretly knowing the whole time where it came from. The thought put a smile on my soul that didn’t get wiped off until Brendan jumped in front of the bullet and threw everything to shit.

  I hadn’t seen that coming. I planned to get her first, then him. The surprise was just enough for that fucking bitch to pull some martial art bullshit and change the game.

  My BMW, silver and fast, blends and slices through the fog racing over the Golden Gate, with lights dimmed. I need medical attention and I need it now. Searing agony is blurring my vision badly. I’m fighting to stay focused, using the planning of multiple routes of escape from police to help me stay awake. I roll down the windows to let the fog in…and to let it out of my head.

  I’m almost there.

  Almost there.

  Just a little bit longer.

  Their house – a two-story suburban in a sea of nice middle-class homes – is dark and quiet as I pull into the driveway. Throwing my legs out of the car to use their strength to lift myself up, I throw a look back and see blood on the seat, dripped down. Shit. I hit the lock button on my keychain, the chirp going off behind me as I zigzag to the front door. Pulling out a credit card and a wire from my pocket, I pick the lock and stumble into the darkness of my parent’s living room, knocking into the table that holds keys and other random things like change and rings; things people ditch when they get home. Their clanging jingles echo in my head like a high-pitched alarm and behind me I hear the familiar sound that no one wants to hear: the safety being released.

  “Don’t take another step,” a voice growls, the gun aimed on my back.

  I freeze, feeling dizzy, the room spinning. “Dad. It’s Tommy.”

  He hesitates. “Tommy! Why the fuck didn’t you use your keys?” He turns on the light. “What if someone saw you, you fuckin’ moron? Oh shit. What’d you go and do?”

  My mother’s voice from the top of the stairs behind him, calls down in horror, “Is that blood?”

  I look up at her, throw a look out of the slanted corner of my eye. “I got shot, Ma.”

  Then I’m on the floor, cloaked in darkness.

  Chapter Two

  Tommy

  Where the fuck am I? Eyes: focusing on two heads hovering above me. Shoulder: possessed with a pain I’ve never before known.

  The room comes into focus and I see I’m lying on a workbench in the garage with my legs sprawled out, my shirt and jacket off, and Uncle Paul’s head above me as he surveys the wound. My dad is on the other side of him, peering down with disgust that I know from experience is directed at me, not the bullet hole. I yell out as Uncle Paul pokes around, inspecting what’s going on so he can formulate a plan on what to do.

  “It’s deep in there. This is gonna hurt.”

  My dad growls, “How’d you get shot?” I stare at him, not answering, so he yells in my face, the spittle hitting my cheeks. “I said, HOW’D YOU GET SHOT?”

  Through gritted teeth, I mutter, “I shot him first. He went down first.”

  Paul glances to Walter, my dad, but gets nothing in return.

  He doesn’t care what Paul thinks of his yelling at me. My dad could give two shits about what anyone thinks, but himself. That’s the ways it’s always been. Walter is the alpha. He runs this house and this family. He will always be in charge and anyone who ever thinks otherwise will be stomped to the ground. Like a pack of dogs, we know our place and it’s always behind him. I fucking hate it, but I put up with it. For now.

  “So… what? Someone pulled a gun, so you shot them? Were you at a club or somethin’?”

  Paul turns and I follow him with my eyes to see what he’s going to do to me. From a bag, he pulls out what looks like very long tweezers.

  My eyes cut back to my dad and I wince at the throbbing ache in my shoulder. “It was Brendan.”

  His eyes flicker and he looks to the ceiling. “Oh fuck. You mean to tell me this is all about your stupid rivalry? What have I told you?”

  Staring at the ceiling and gritting my teeth against the pain, I keep my mouth shut.

  Paul mutters one of the family slogans we all know too well: “Never let emotions get in the way of the goal.”

  My dad throws him a deadly look. “Was I talkin’ to you?” His head swivels back to me. He takes his finger and presses his thumb into my wound, shooting blinding pain into me. I scream out and struggle not to punch him in the face. If I did, he’d kill me. Maybe that would be better than this.

  “Don’t even think it,” he hisses, like he can read my mind.

  Gasping against the pain, I grunt, “He was fucking some bitch from our college in a bar. He was naked. Vulnerable. It was my chance to take him out. The fog was in. The streets were empty. I could have gotten away with it! I had to do it!”

  “How’d he get the jump on you?”

  My jaw locks and I say through my teeth, “He pulled some martial arts shit. But I shot him first.”

  Paul mutters to my dad, “He probably choked.” Then looks to me. “First time you ever shot someone, Tommy, right?”

  I nod. Dad glares at me. “Did he know it was you?”

  I jerk my head. “No. He had no idea.”

  He wants to believe me. He knows I’m good at what I do. I may have gotten shot, but I don’t normally fuck up. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Paul lifts the shiny metal tool and has the decency to look apologetic. “We have to get this out, Tommy.”

  “What the fuck is that thing?”

  “It’s tweezers. What does it look like?”

  “Tweezers are smaller than that. That looks like…”

  “They’re long fucking tweezers. What do you want from me?” He leans in and pokes them into my shoulder.

  I scream out and my dad smacks me hard in the face. “Shut it. Take it like a man, not a fuckin’ pussy.”

  Having no choice, I squeeze my jaw tight and fight back impossible tears, focusing on the covered light bulb above us in the garage, light refractions puls
ing out from it with each burst of pain, a glowing heartbeat.

  “Man, I’d hate to be you right now!” my cousin Bruce yells out from somewhere, voice sounding muffled, hollow. I didn’t know he was here, but of course he is. I should have known the whole family would have to be involved. I crane my neck with sweat dripping down it. He’s in my car, cleaning blood off the seat. They must have brought the car inside the garage when I was passed out. Probably while they waited for Uncle Paul and Bruce to show up. What time is it?

  “You better get all the blood out, Bruce, or I’ll kick your ass,” I shout at him through clenched teeth.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he yells back. “Hey! Here’s a wallet. Looks like he got Brendan’s wallet, at least!”

  Dad and Uncle Paul are both hovering over me and I close my eyes, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth telling me I bit my own tongue.

  My dad calls over, “Bury the wallet deep. How much money’s in it?”

  Bruce counts it and calls back, “Sixty-two dollars.”

  “Give it to me,” he holds out his hand without looking back, the sunspots dark on his arm. My dad was a good-looking guy, but his love of the pool and no sunscreen have weathered the fuck out of his body.

  Bruce walks over a little too daintily and slaps it in Dad’s hand. “Why don’t I get to keep it for cleaning the car?”

  Dad yells in his face, “Are you really asking me that, Brucie?!”

  Paul, his beady eyes squinting with determination, mumbles, “Walter, shut the fuck up so I can concentrate.” The fingers of his free hand push open the hole in my skin to give him room to see.

  “Jesus! Can’t you give me some fucking drugs or something?!”

  My uncle ignores me and cuts his eyes to his brother. “Who’s Brendan?”

  With a booming voice, my dad grandstands, “Brendan is my boy’s gauge for how badly he’s fucking up!”