Yeah, yeah, talk about your first-world problems, but I can’t deny my future mother-in-law her happiness.
The whole time Brandon had sat there, shaking his head and rolling his eyes, but I knew he was happy she was happy.
With me around, I’d been forcing him to spend more time with his parents. It turned out the Townsends all secretly wanted the same thing, unity and connection, but they were all too stubborn to admit it.
Since I didn’t want to be a hypocrite, I’ve made peace with my own parents, who, as I predicted, welcomed Brandon with open arms. Almost as though he’d been their idea all along. I let them have their pride because Brandon and I know the truth, and that’s all that matters.
With me pressing the issue, we’re all starting to resemble—gasp—an actual family.
Everything is falling into place.
Winston was out of the picture after a reporter dug up stories of him abusing young women. And since I pressed assault charges against him, he’s currently awaiting trial, and too busy working on his defense to worry about suing Brandon.
The other night our families had dinner together and preparations for the wedding began. Brandon tried to contain our mothers, threatening to elope if they didn’t rein it in, but they didn’t listen. By the time the night ended they had a list of five hundred people to invite.
Later, as we lay in bed, sweaty and exhausted, I promised him I’d take care of it. I’m still formulating a plan to give everyone what they want. My current idea is an intimate wedding just for us, and a reception for our families. It doesn’t seem like a bad compromise.
“Where is your mind off to?” Jillian asks, startling me from my thoughts.
I smile at her, shrugging. “I was contemplating how I was going to satisfy Brandon and our families on this wedding business.”
Ruby laughs. “Good luck with that.”
“It will work out.” I grin. “By the way, I made joint appointments for us at Belle Vie Bridal Couture the Saturday after Layla gets back from her honeymoon.”
Ruby wrinkles her nose. “At that expensive place?”
“Uh-huh.” I tilt my head as I see Brandon, Leo and Chad coming in our direction. “I told them to pull dresses with an edge for you, and I promise you won’t be sorry.”
Chad slides up to Ruby and puts his arm around her. “Won’t be sorry about what?”
I wave a hand. “I’m going to find Ruby her wedding dress, and it’s going to be spectacular.”
“Oh no,” Ruby says, sighing but laughing at the same time.
As Leo settles in next to Jillian, Brandon wraps his hand around my waist, slowly curving down to my hip encased in silk. He’d insisted on picking my dress for the wedding, and I think I’d been fucked in every changing room in Chicago during our shopping excursion. He’d finally settled on a body-hugging, pale yellow silk slip of a dress that managed to be both wedding appropriate and sexy.
His fingers brush over my hipbone, calling my lack of panties to attention. “And will you be finding a dress for yourself?”
“Of course.” I smile up at him. “It will be nice to pick out my own clothes for once.”
It’s an exaggeration, but they all laugh, as I knew they would.
He leans in close and smiles against my skin before kissing the curve of my jaw right next to my ear. “How’s my gorgeous girl?”
“I’m fabulous. How about you? Are you surviving?”
He squeezes me tight. “As long as you’re around, I’m more than surviving.”
“So does that mean you’re happy you’ve officially hired me?”
He laughs, brushing his lips across mine. “Best decision I ever made.”
“Good.” I pull back and clap my hands. “I have a surprise for you.”
“Oh really?” Brandon’s eyes gleam with happiness and it makes him so devastatingly handsome my heart skips a beat. “Do tell.”
“I think I found you and Chad a building. It’s not for sale yet and I promised the agent a bonus if we made an offer, if she showed it to us before it went live. I made an appointment for us Tuesday after work.” I turn to Chad. “Can you make it?”
“Yeah, that should work.” He pulls his fiancée close. “Ruby will come too and we’ll go to dinner after.”
She taps him in the stomach. “Hey, don’t I get a say?”
“Of course not.” He kisses her temple.
Layla and Michael come over, hand in hand, smiling.
Leo clasps Michael on the back. “It’s official now, we’re forever entwined.”
He laughs. “We were already the second you married my sister.”
“Nope. Now Layla can’t escape either.” He winks at his new sister-in-law. “You’re trapped, girl. And we all know how you hate that.”
There’s more laughter and when a waiter comes by we all grab fresh flutes of Champagne.
Michael holds out his glass and we all rise up in a circle to meet him.
When we’re all joined he says, “To us.”
My throat grows a little tight as I look at this group of people who have all come to mean so much to me. I glance sideways and my gaze meets Brandon’s. I can’t believe I wondered if love was possible for us. How silly. I don’t think my heart could be any more full.
Glass still raised, eyes never leaving mine, he says, “To happily ever after.”
Yes, I believe it will be.
Hey there!
Thanks so much for reading.
* * *
I hope you enjoyed TAKEN. In a writer’s life there are always characters that you absolutely love, but are also impossible to write. Brandon Townsend III is one of those characters! After three false starts and one horrible middle, I finally managed to get him done and give him the story he deserved. Veronica is more than a match for him, don’t you think?
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P.S. In case this if your first Undone book, keep reading for a sneak peek at CRAVE...
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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
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The Something New Series
Small town, contemporary romance with a big city twist.
Take a Chance on Me
The Winner Takes it All
&nbs
p; The Name of the Game
As Good as New
She’s My Kind of Girl
Head Over Heels
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The Love & Other Disaster Series
Sexy Contemporary Romance inspired by real reader’s dating disasters.
The Walk of Shame
Out of Her League
Enjoy this sneak peek
Of Crave
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.
Taken Page 28
