Torn

by Deborah Bladon

  TORN

  a standalone novel

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  Deborah Bladon

  FIRST ORIGINAL KINDLE EDITION, MARCH 2016

  Copyright © 2016 by Deborah Bladon

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written consent from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual person’s, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-926440-35-4

  Book & cover design by Wolf & Eagle Media

  www.deborahbladon.com

  Also by Deborah Bladon

  THE OBSESSED SERIES

  THE EXPOSED SERIES

  THE PULSE SERIES

  THE VAIN SERIES

  THE RUIN SERIES

  IMPULSE

  SOLO

  THE GONE SERIES

  FUSE

  THE TRACE SERIES

  CHANCE

  THE EMBER SERIES

  THE RISE SERIES

  HAZE

  SHIVER

  For Jeff.

  You saved this.

  CONTENTS

  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

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  Preview of HEAT

  Preview of TENSE

  Deborah’s Mailing List

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Falon

  "Are they low enough?"

  "Pull them up." I wave my arm in the air towards one of the three female assistants he walked in with. "I want them higher."

  He pushes their eager hands away as he adjusts the waistband of his button-fly jeans. I'd told him to strip down to just his pants as soon as he stepped foot into my studio. He'd done that effortlessly. His hands tugging the white sweater he was wearing over his head to reveal a chiseled stomach and toned chest covered by the expected tattoos.

  I'd walked closer to ask him to remove the bracelets and necklaces he had on. His eyes had been glued to mine the entire time.

  I admit he's much more attractive than most of the men who traipse through here. His hair may be a tousled mess of brown, but his eyes more than make up for that. They're framed by long lashes, the irises a shade of chestnut I haven't seen before.

  It's no surprise that he warrants the attention he does in the media.

  Asher Foster has the number one song in the country right now. On top of that, he wrote it. I listened to it on my phone before he arrived. It's moody, soulful and surprisingly brilliant.

  I look through the lens of my camera. "I need that light moved to the left."

  My assistant, Remy, darts into action. She moves the base of the light along the floor until it's precisely where I need it to be. I'd be lost without her, especially right now, given that the small space is filled with at least ten people too many, all part of the entourage that arrived with Asher.

  I take another glance. Everything is almost perfect except for the fact that when I asked him to show me some skin, he took it to a level that's bordering on obscene.

  I step around the tripod that I've attached my camera to and walk back towards where he's standing in front of a pale, grey canvas hung from the ceiling.

  I point towards his jeans. "You can button those back up."

  He looks down. "I thought you wanted me almost naked."

  He's taller than I am, but only by an inch or two. It helps that I'm wearing boots with heels today. I wouldn't have chosen this short of a skirt if I'd have known that he'd be here. I try my best to always look professional but when it's over one hundred degrees outside, you have to make concessions. I'm thankful that I, at least, took the time this morning to wash and sweep my curly brown hair up into a bun so it looks controllable.

  I've already established myself as the go-to photographer for celebrities in New York City. Granted, it only constitutes part of my business, but it's the most lucrative part. I'm making enough off this shoot today to pay my rent for both the studio and my apartment for the next two months.

  "It was my understanding that the photographs need to be tasteful."

  "You don't think this is tasteful." There's a low growl to his voice. "Tell me what's not tasteful about it."

  The room may be milling with people, but his focus is entirely on me. I've felt that since he walked in. I imagine he's used to women taking him up on everything he offers to them. There's no denying it's tempting. I only need to look down at the thick root of his cock that is partially visible through the opening of his jeans to know that the man is very comfortable with his body.

  "I'd prefer if you buttoned your jeans up."

  "Why?" His eyes darken. "You don't think I look good like this?"

  There's no way in hell this man needs his ego stroked. If that's what fuels his fire he need only turn around to where every single woman in the room, including Remy, is standing with their lips at the ready.

  I've always been mildly curious about why so many women are drawn to musicians. I don't have to wonder anymore. His confidence is undeniable, but it hasn’t crossed the line to cocky yet. He's just the right balance of tenderness mixed with blatant aggression.

  "I think I look good." He playfully nods towards his groin. "You think I look good too, don't you, Falon?"

  I look around the room before I rest my hand against his shoulder and lean in just a touch. "As impressive as your dick is, I don't want it in my pictures."

  His mouth curves into a soft smile. "How can I resist when you put it like that?"

  I keep my eyes locked to his even as I sense the movement of his hands as he buttons his jeans back up. I take the time to carefully study his face.

  The draw to capture people in photographic form has been at the center of my life for as long as I can remember. It started as a hobby when my dad bought me a cheap used camera for my eighth birthday. He did it because I'd crafted a make believe camera out of cardboard, colored markers and tape.

  Once I held the real camera in my hands, my drive to be creative was born from the necessity to make each image count. I couldn't afford to waste a single frame.

  I took on extra chores to earn enough money to buy film and to pay for it to be processed at the photo lab that was tucked into the corner of the drugstore on our block.

  My siblings, my parents, and my friends from school all became unwilling models. I'd take my time setting up each shot, opening and closing the horizontal vinyl blind in my bedroom to seize just the
right amount of sunlight to shadow my subject's face the way I wanted. It was a labor of love and to this day, I'm still proud of every single one of the small prints I took of the faces of the people who were the center of my world back then.

  I keep them all in a photo album on a shelf in my studio. The composition and definition of the snapshots in that book pale in comparison to the images in my current portfolio. They're more a reminder of the people who believed in me than they are of my raw and natural talent.

  "Is my face impressive too?"

  "What?" I ask quietly. "Your face?"

  "You're staring at me." He scratches the back of his neck. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I'm just wondering if you like what you see."

  I can't tell if he's trying to goad me into telling him how incredibly good-looking he is or if the question is genuine. "We should get to work. I'm ready. Are you?"

  His index finger traces a slow path under his bottom lip. "I'm all yours, Falon. Work your magic."

  I straighten, shrugging off the momentary thought of what it would be like if he was actually mine. That's my body's ache to be fucked trying to shepherd the direction of my imagination's path. I haven't had sex in three months. Why in the hell am I thinking about that now?

  "Remy, let's go," I call across the room. My voice is pitchy, the tone too curt. "Let's get this done now."

  "Are you okay?" Remy's hand trails across my back as soon as she's by my side. "You look flushed, you sound pissed."

  She draws the last word across her tongue slowly as if its meaning will change with the speed at which she says it. She's questioning me in front of a client, not to mention the small army he walked in with. I don't need that. I scold her with a look that quiets her instantly.

  The air conditioning is running on high but it's doing nothing to curb the heat that's being generated by all the warm bodies and movement in the room. I feel sweat dot my upper lip. I ignore it knowing that the sooner I start shooting him, the sooner he'll be out of my studio. Once that happens, I'll finally be able to breathe again.

  This shoot wasn't supposed to happen until next Wednesday. That's when I booked him in, but less than an hour ago his manager called in a panic, wanting the session to happen today. I didn't want to lose the money so I pushed the jewelry shoot I was supposed to do this afternoon to tomorrow and I told her to bring Asher down as soon as she could. They arrived within minutes after that call with their own hair and make-up team in tow.

  Not one of them has touched him. His hair is slightly damp as if he just stepped out of a shower but didn't have time to style it. He looks like they rushed him here without giving him a second to look in a mirror. He obviously didn't take the time to put on a pair of underwear. Unless he always walks around like that all the time, with his cock uncontrolled.

  I'm doing it again.

  This is a job. That's all it is. I'll take his picture, he'll leave and he'll go do whatever it is rock stars do when they're not on stage.

  "Look this way, Asher," I call out without bothering to glance in his direction. "Look right at me."

  "I am, Falon," he says gruffly, his voice carrying over the moderate hum in the room. It's a combination of the many conversations taking place among the people who follow him around, and the music that Remy turned on to help set the mood. I should be grateful that she had the insight to stream his album through the speakers, even though the low rasp in his voice as he sings is only intensifying whatever this is I'm feeling right now.

  I look up, my heart pounding for no conceivable reason. I don't get nervous when I work. I'm not thrown off course because a hot guy smiles at me. No, this doesn't happen to me, yet it is right now.

  I take one picture, then another, and as he turns slightly and poses for the camera, I listen to the soulful sound of his voice as it fills the room and I watch his expression as he stares right through the camera's lens and into me.

  CHAPTER 2

  Asher

  I fucking hate this part of the job. Technically, it's not an actual job. People pay me for my music. It's a far cry from the life I used to lead.

  There was a time, in the not-too-distant past, when I worked with my brothers. I was in charge of sales for one of the most recognizable fashion brands in the world. I did my job because my family expected me to. I hated it. I hated every hour, of every single day, that I had to put on a suit and tie and walk through the doors of that office building in lower Manhattan.

  I'm not like Caleb or Gabriel, my older brothers. They were born to sit behind a desk and delegate. They love that life. They yearn for the rush that comes with current quarterly sales figures that exceed the profit the company made the year before. A day is a hailed a success when a prominent women's magazine does a spread on the lingerie line that Gabriel launched.

  Working in that world suffocated me. It strangled every ounce of creativity I had out of my body. Now, that I'm making music and it's selling, I'm living my dream.

  Having my picture taken is something I can do without, but the label insisted on it. They bitched about the last set of promotional shots I had. I don't blame them. I look nothing like I did a year ago. I eat clean, I work out, and I do it all to avoid the temptation of my addictions.

  I thought my cousin, Noah Foster, one of the world's most recognized photographers, would handle this but he's the one who directed my publicist to Falon Shaw. She's a former assistant of his, and judging by the range of portraits on her website, she's the one almost everyone who works in entertainment, in New York City, goes to when they want to look good.

  I hadn't bothered to check her 'About Me' page on her site because I didn't give a shit about who was behind the camera. That changed though when I walked into her studio and saw her.

  The way she's pinned her brown hair up makes her look like she either just woke up or just got fucked. It's a reckless mess on the top of her head. Her blue eyes are piercing, striking and wide. Her lips are full and pink. If she's wearing any make-up, I can't tell. She's beautiful even though she's not trying to be.

  I've known my fair share of women who are a vacant shell underneath the eye shadow, lipstick and bronzer they meticulously apply before they face the world. This one, the photographer who can't take her eyes off of me, is breathtaking in her own right.

  The skirt she's wearing skims the middle of her thighs each time she moves. Her legs are long and toned. She's not rail thin, like the model I dated a few months ago. Falon's body is athletic. She's lean with curves in all the right places.

  Even before she walked over to talk to me, I knew I'd need to ask her out. I doubt she'll say yes to me. She may be staring at me with the same hunger that I feel inside of myself, but there's something beneath the surface. I saw a flash of hesitation in her eyes when she studied my face. With my fucked up luck, she has a policy against dating celebrities. It wouldn't be the first time a woman caught my attention only to hear her tell me that she wasn't interested in a guy whose face pops up on every online gossip site at least once a week.

  Fame is great until it steals your life away.

  Falon stiffens at the exact moment my phone rings. I saw the sign posted on her studio door about silencing all electronic devices. I get that distractions mess with her creative process. It's the same for me. I shut myself off from the world when I'm writing music.

  On any other day I would have turned my phone off or handed it to one of my assistants, but I've been waiting for this call since this morning. I'm not missing it, even if it pisses the hell out of Falon.

  "You'll need to turn that off," she calls across the space towards me. "I'd appreciate if you silenced your phone."

  I raise my index finger in the air, motioning that I need a minute. It's going to take longer than that. This call could change everything for me. I'm not going to miss it because some executive at my label thinks I need a new, edgier set of headshots. Falon, and every other person in this room, can wait until I'm done.

  "That's not go
ing to work for me." She marches across the floor towards me, her hands firmly planted on her hips.

  I tug my phone from where it's vibrating in my back pocket. I glance down, my breathing quickening at the sight of the incoming number.

  "My assistant will hold the phone for you." Falon's hand reaches towards me. She catches the edge of my phone's case between her index finger and thumb. "We should be done in thirty minutes. You can call whoever it is back then, can't you?"

  I calmly pull the phone back towards me. "I can't. It's urgent. I'm taking this."

  She says something under her breath but I'm too preoccupied to decipher what it is. I feel an unexpected rush of disappointment surge through me knowing that I've pissed her off. I'll probably never see her again after today but I don't want her to view me as the arrogant asshole who doesn't respect her creative process.

  I shake off the thought as she turns on her heel to walk towards her assistant.

  I swipe my thumb over the screen of my smartphone, bring it to my ear and try to level my tone as I say a harsh "hello" to the man who holds the key to my family's fucked up secrets.

  CHAPTER 3

  Falon

  "Why did you clear the room?" I finally ask. I'd stood silently in confusion as he ended the whispered phone call before turning to order everyone, including my own assistant, out of my studio.

  No one had moved an inch at the first request but when he barked the order out again, the room had quieted before most of his entourage gathered around him. Their discussion was muffled but it was clear that whatever he said to all of them was enough to drive them towards the exit in a hurry. They'd left, in single file, before he calmly asked Remy to follow them.

  Her raised brow was a mute question about whether she should listen to him or stay put so she could do the job I'm paying her to do. I shrugged my shoulders before tipping my chin towards her. She'd taken it, as it was meant, and when she closed the studio door after she walked out, I wondered if I should have fallen in step behind her.