by Gemma James
“What?” Was he purposefully speaking in riddles? I’d fucked Nikki the night Zach and I had gone head-to-head. I was still on a high from winning that title, knowing my dream of fighting in the UFC was a real possibility now. As for the rest of what this guy at my bedside said, it made about as much sense as his presence.
I glanced around the room and tried to figure out what I was missing. Plain white walls, standard hospital machinery, and that fucking beeping that increased the throbbing in my head. Most notably, someone was absent. “Where’s my dad?” I wasn’t surprised my brother hadn’t shown up. He was always too busy to differentiate his asshole from his mouth, and he’d never approved of my career anyway, but Dad would be the first one here.
The guy narrowed his eyes. “Something’s not right…” He jumped to his feet and hit the call button.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting help, ‘cause you’re not acting like yourself.”
“Dude,” I said, “How would you know? I don’t even know who the hell you are. No offense.”
He collapsed back into the chair, eyes wide, and his panic penetrated my tough veneer. His reaction scared me, and I didn’t know why.
“That is not funny,” he said. “Cut the crap.”
I shook my head. “Seriously, who are you?”
He pushed his hands through his hair. Three times now, he’d done that. Must be a nervous tick. “This isn’t happening.” His gaze bored into me. “Who’s the President?”
“Of the UFC?”
“No! Of the fucking United States.”
I furrowed my brows. “Bush, why?”
“Shit,” he said, then dropped his head into his hands. A few seconds later, he looked up, his face taut with stress. “What year is it?”
“2006. What the hell is going on?”
“You’ve lost eight years of your life, man. That’s what’s going on.”
Thank you for reading Torrent! If you enjoyed the story, please consider leaving a review, even a short note expressing your thoughts. Reviews mean the world to authors!
Rampant, book two in the Condemned series, will be available in late October!
BLURB
Life is twisted. Cruel. After being ripped from the safe haven of Rafe's arms, my new kidnapper is waging a sick game. Unable to make my body do his bidding, he's resorting to psychological warfare. He'll bend my mind until I break, and when I do, that just might be my saving grace.
I'll forge through hell to get back to Rafe, body and spirit broken and bleeding, but I'm unprepared for what I find. He's done what I can't: he's erased eight years of pain and betrayal. I don't know how to bring him back to me, because bringing him back means ripping him to shreds all over again.
Rampant is available as a pre-order for the promotional price of $0.99! Check out my website for more details. You can also add Rampant to Goodreads.
***
Would you like to receive occasional emails so you never miss out on new releases, contests, and promotions? Click below to sign up!
SNEAK PEEK OF VANQUISH BY PAM GODWIN
BLURB:
Her life is like a prison cell.
A self-made, to-hell-with-the-free-world existence that locks from the inside.
Stop judging. Her agoraphobia doesn’t define her. It simply keeps her safe.
He belongs in a prison cell.
The 6x8, make-me-your-bitch variety that locks from the outside.
But he’s free. To hunt. To take. To break.
And he just found a sexy new toy.
Capturing her is the easy part. Her fucked-up mind, however, makes him question everything he does next.
But he’s a determined bastard. If all goes his way, this will hurt like hell.
Warning: Graphic sex and violence. Age 18+ only. This is the sequel to Deliver but can be read as a stand-alone. Coming August 2014!
PROLOGUE:
Pain. Dense, maddening shards of pain splintered through Van Quiso's shoulder and reduced him to a pathetic mouth-breather on the kitchen floor. Heaviness settled over him, pooling down his arm and collapsing his chest. Each slogging beat of his heart drained more blood from his body, chilling his veins, soaking his t-shirt.
He should've known Liv Reed would be the death of him. If he could focus past the throbbing wound, maybe he'd hear a haunting serenade beneath her breath, beckoning him toward the cliff of oblivion with seduction dripping from her lips. He could only hope his descent into hell would be so enthralling.
He dragged his eyes heavenward and met the bleak despair wetting hers. Their gazes clung, motionless, as shock deadened the air between them. She'd shot him. Too damned late to take it back. He wanted to slam his fist into her beautiful face. Even more, he ached to kiss the path of tears streaking her scarred cheek.
The cold linoleum pressed against his back. He'd fucked her on this floor countless times, bent their joined bodies over the wobbling kitchen table, and slammed her against the fridge until her moans drowned out the whine of the old motor.
But their best moments had happened in the attic chamber, where her ass reddened under the fall of his whip, her lithe body hanging from the ceiling, the sound-deadening walls absorbing her screams. For seven years, she'd been his to discipline, fuck, mentor, and keep.
Pulsating shadows framed his vision, closing in and threatening to take him from her permanently. Final judgment awaited him in death, but his punishment had already been inflicted. She no longer feared him. She was no longer his. The burn in his shoulder ignited. If he died, what would become of her?
His lungs clenched, not from injury, but from something much more debilitating. He suffocated with the need to tangle a fist in her hair and never let go. She knew better than anyone the justice of his death, yet her full lips quivered. Lips that tasted like butter-soft caramel.
She knelt over him, shocks of brown hair tangling around her arms, the curve of her body taunting him. What he wouldn't give to feel her tight, reluctant cunt gripping his cock one more time. But she loved another man.
His ribs squeezed against the swell of rejection. She'd actually pulled the trigger. How could she think he was going to kill her? Didn't she know he'd die without her?
Dots blotted his vision. From the blood loss? Or was it the tremor of ice-cold fear passing through him? Hard to deny that he'd earned her distrust, kidnapping her when she was seventeen, taking her virginity without asking, and blackmailing her into delivering slaves for Mr. E. But every second at her side had nurtured Van's stupid-as-shit hope that she'd grow to love him. A hope that slipped through his grasp the night she abducted Joshua Carter against her will. She fell in love with her newest slave, and that betrayal hurt worse than the lead buried in his shoulder.
But the blow that turned him against Mr. E's operation came six days ago. Van had sent her to meet with a slave buyer, there was a disagreement, and the buyer brutally raped her.
Renewed rage boiled in his gut. If he'd gone with her, he could've protected her. Sweat beaded on his lip. What was he thinking? He couldn't even protect her from himself.
He stared into the gorgeous, watery eyes of his first captive as her fingers caressed his jaw. He'd beaten and fucked her into submission and failed to stop Mr. E from killing her mother, and still she cried for him. His breath hitched. He loved her suffering in a way he couldn't rationally understand.
When he'd gone after her rapist, it hadn't been some chivalrous act of heroism. He'd fucking reveled in the dismemberment of limbs, the flaying of skin, and the gurgled screams of a man as atrocious as he was. His with the stain of his first kill dripping from his hands, he'd put his exit plan in motion. One that would free them from Mr. E's operation and bind them together. A family.
But her pretty boy was a menacing blockade in his plan. Joshua hovered behind her, his ridiculous linebacker brawn flexing to finish the job if the bullet failed. Despite the boy's apparent willingness to sacrifice his life for her, he couldn't protect her
from their boss.
Was she still trying to wrap her mind around everything she'd just learned? Her face had blanched a chilling shade of white when he'd told her Mr. E was not only his father but the police chief of Austin. And he hadn't disclosed the worst of it.
His pulse weakened, and his breathing thrashed. He needed to get the bullet out. If he survived, it would take days to recover. Days he and Liv didn't have. "Have to kill him." He blinked through fading flashes of light. "He'll avenge me." Now that she knew Mr. E's identity, he was certain she'd hunt down their boss and finish the job, but she needed motivation to do it quickly. "He'll kill Livana." If Mr. E hadn't killed her already. His throat tightened, choking his breaths.
"Livana?"
The angelic quality of her voice and the shape of her lips forming their daughter's name for the first time produced a wet burn in the corners of his eyes. There was so much he needed to tell her.
The flat line of her mouth wobbled. "Mattie's real name is Livana?"
He lifted his chin, attempting a nod. Beyond the infrequent video footage of their daughter, they'd never been allowed to see her. Liv didn't know where she lived, didn't even know her real name. For six years, she'd heartbreakingly referred to her as Mattie.
A helpless, foreign feeling stabbed his chest from the inside, over and over, pulling him further into darkness. Killing Mr. E meant he could finally meet their daughter. He was so damned close. He would not die.
Shivers wracked his body, and Liv's features vanished behind a veil of black.
"Van? Where's Livana?"
"She's..." He forced his eyes open. The outline of her face seemed so far away, yet he could make out her slim brown eyebrows as they formed a sharp V. He reached for her cheek, his fingers tingling, numb.
She leaned in to meet his hand, her eyes swimming in tears. "Van." Her voice rasped, and the tears fell over, splattering his chin. "What's Livana's last name?"
She needed a name to find their daughter, but she wouldn't have to look far. His fingers fumbled over her scar. From her eye to her lips, the seven-year-old laceration mirrored his own. Even now, he didn't regret the actions that had led to their matching punishments. Her pregnancy had given him immeasurable relief, a means to ensure she wouldn't be sold as a slave. She belonged to him, his greatest accomplishment.
The pain in his shoulder jolted deep into his bones as he traced her lips and lingered on her jaw, dreading the answer he'd kept from her for so long. He'd had no say in who raised Livana, but he'd controlled Liv by withholding Livana's name and whereabouts. He didn't carry Mr. E's last name, but his daughter did. Liv might very well shoot him again when she learned Mr. E had been raising Livana since birth.
He opened his mouth and strangled on the words. Pinpricks assaulted his body. His vision blurred. He clung to the edge of consciousness as the muscles in his arm shook and gave up. His hand hit the floor.
"Nooo." She scrambled atop him, fingers trembling over his face. "No, Van. No, don't go," she screamed.
Wails bellowed from her throat. Her anguish filled him with warmth, pumping his heart. She cared. He tried to open his eyes and failed. His body grew heavy, struggling against the leaden weight of gravity. But that was okay. She thought he was dead and fucking cared.
"Oh, Van. I'm so sorry." She hugged his waist, weeping, nose sniffling.
He melted against the floor, blacking in and out. Time seemed to stop and start, his mind full of cotton, spinning around...something. He'd lost so much blood, but there were things to do. He needed to get up.
The warmth of her body vanished, and a scuffle of rubber soles squeaked on the linoleum. Joshua must've dragged her away. Was she fighting him? Come back.
He couldn't lift his arms. Couldn't open his eyes. Her hiccupping sobs teetered off. Or did he teeter off? He strained his ears through the hum of white noise. Somewhere, water dripped. Plop. Plop. Too soon, his world faded to nothingness.
He woke to the silence of an empty room and blinked rapidly, catching the low rays of the sun where it had dipped below the kitchen window. Christ, he'd passed out. For twenty, thirty minutes? Long enough for Liv to determine him dead and leave, but it wasn't dusk yet.
Now that the shock of watching her pull the trigger had past, he needed to find his balls and get the fuck out of there. He wiggled his fingers and toes and tested his strength in his wrists and ankles. Breathing noisily but still coherent, he slowly bent his elbows and knees. With a surge of impatience, he rolled his shoulder and jerked against the sudden stab of pain. "Fuuuuck."
If she failed in her attempt to kill Mr. E, the cops would come. If she succeeded, she might alert the cops anyway. He needed to get his ass up, make a call, and disappear.
Getting shot wasn't part of his plan, and dealing with a lodged bullet magnified his aggravation. A hospital would report the gunshot wound. He could wedge it out with a steak knife. And inflict nerve damage. And gouge an damned artery. Or he could drive to Mexico and pay a seedy doctor to take care of it.
Fucking Mexico. Ahi vamos.
He tugged a disposable phone from his pocket and dialed.
"Yeah?" rasped the CTS Decon technician.
"Change of plans." Van had approached the professional cleaner a day earlier and offered a quarter of a million to discreetly and quickly mop up a crime scene. The blood was supposed to have been Mr. E's, the prearrangement to remove Van's DNA from the scene, and therefore, eliminate him as a murder suspect. Liv's bullet changed that. Now, she would have to deal with Mr. E on her own while the technician dealt with Van's blood.
He rattled off the address of his location. "Need this done by the end of the hour."
"On my way." The technician disconnected.
Now for the grueling part. He grit his teeth and dragged his body up the side of the counter, stars invading his vision. After a few long, ragged breaths, he finished the climb and stumbled to the medical kit beneath the sink.
As he collected bandages, he tried not to think about what Liv was doing, if she had killed his father, if he'd killed her. He pulled his shirt over his head and the damnable pain staggered him sideways.
He gripped the counter-top and panted through the blades of heat ripping up and down his arm. The pain was real, pushing his pulse and inflaming his skin. He was breathing, hurting. Alive.
With Liv and Livana's uncertain near future, he had a helluva incentive to live. And to avoid arrest. He draped his upper body over the sink, splashed water over the dime-sized wound, and taped up his shoulder. He needed a bottle of Tequila Herradura and long nap in the worst fucking way.
Blood smeared the counter, the cabinets, and the linoleum. He had no choice but to trust the expertise and discretion of the technician to erase all evidence of his existence. Hopefully, it would be enough to deceive detectives if they went hunting for DNA.
He dragged his feet to the kitchen table, each step heavier than the last. Two mannequins sat in the chair where he'd left them. When he reached them, he slid his fingers through their silken mahogany hair. Liv's hair. He'd collected it for years, meticulously weaving it through the mesh caps made for the dolls, one large, one small. His perfected replicas of Liv and Livana. No one could fucking take them away.
Liv didn't understand his need for the dolls. Only someone who'd experienced a lifetime of loneliness could comprehend what they meant to him and why he couldn't let them go.
With his arm hanging limp at his side, he gathered them under the other, careful not to overextend their joints, and carried them to the van in the garage.
Liv thought he was dead. If she succeeded in killing Mr. E, she would be free for the first time in seven years. Would she leave town and try to disappear, or would she stay in Austin, near their daughter? Either way, he'd find her. He'd always find her.
Copyright © 2014 Pam Godwin
ADD VANQUISH ON GOODREADS!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
You’d think after finishing a book, writing the acknowledgements would be
easy, but I think this is the hard part. I owe so many people heaps of gratitude in the creation of this novel. Firstly, I want to thank the readers. Consider my mind truly blown over your enthusiasm of my work. Without you guys, I would just be a writer stringing together words that impacted no one. I love reading your emails and messages on Facebook, and I guess I have a sadistic streak because when you tell me you’ve lost sleep from reading something I wrote, I have to admit to being thrilled. I’ve been there many times myself. Drink a cup of coffee, or five, and think of me. Cheers to my fellow night owls! :)
And that brings me to betas and bloggers. Let’s call them the Amazing B’s. Huge thanks to the following bloggers for your support: Amber and the girls at The Reading Room Blog; Becs and her crew at Sinfully Sexy Book Reviews; Kathy at Romantic Reading Escapes; and Cariad at Sizzling Pages Romance Reviews. I also want to shout out to the following promoting badasses: Debra at Book Enthusiast Promotions, Franny and Silvia at Dark World Books, Giselle at Xpresso Book Tours, and Natalie at Love Between the Sheets Promotions. There are countless other bloggers who deserve a thank-you—each and every one of you who work tirelessly to promote authors simply because you love books. I’m in awe of the work you put into your blogs and reviews. THANK YOU!
A million and one thank-yous to Pam Godwin and Amber for giving me invaluable feedback that helped turned this monster into something that didn’t totally suck. I adore Pam and her style of critiquing. Her comments made me laugh-out-loud, and I’m honored that such a great wordsmith worked with me on Torrent. And Amber, who ripped my story to shreds in the best way possible and demanded a Rafe who wasn’t such a pussy—you so rock! Knowing what you’ve been through lately and seeing the way you’ve picked yourself up to face each day, it inspires me. You’ve got strength, girl.
A heartfelt thank-you to Ann Everett, whom I “met” online three years ago (can’t believe it’s been that long). We’ve traded everything from publishing advice to critiques. You’ve got a gentle spirit yet such a naughty mind, lol! I love your work, and I’m so thankful for all the little things you caught in this manuscript that no one else did.
