by Yessi Smith
Overwhelmed by the price.
The responsibility.
The commitment.
Walking over to the gigantic four poster bed, I collapsed, needing a moment to collect my thoughts.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Is buying a house always this overwhelming?" I asked, before adding. "Oh wait, you wouldn't know."
I felt the bed dip as he sat down beside me. I continued to stare up at the ceiling.
"No, I do. I bought a house once," he admitted, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it.
Sitting up to face him, I found a different man entirely. This Ryan was softer.
Vulnerable.
It's like he'd removed a protective shell from his body.
"When?" I asked.
"A long time ago. My wife and I did. It was right after I'd gotten my first few paychecks. When I said I'd started this business in my parents’ basement, I forgot to mention it wasn't just me living there, but my wife and me. We were so poor, we had to move in with them."
"I thought you were a Southern boy?"
"I am. Born and raised until high school when my father had a job transfer. Worst summer of my life, or so I thought until I met Stacy. We were high school sweethearts. Married after two years of community college."
"Is that why you ended up back with your parents?"
He nodded. "We both lost our jobs. Thankfully Stacy found another one right away. But not me. So I decided to use my unemployment time wisely and work toward a realtor license. Nothing like being barely twenty-one years old, unemployed, married and shacked up with your parents.
"But it didn't last?" I reminded him.
He gave a soft smile. "No, I was able to get us out after a year of so — once the money started to come in."
"I'm sensing a but here," I said, trying not to pry but failing miserably.
"A big one," he answered. "She left me and married her boss."
My jaw fell to the floor. "Her boss?"
"Yep. Have you ever heard of a little thing called irony? Well, it just so happened that job she took was at local realty agency. Nothing fancy, but she helped out with administrative stuff. It was a branch to a much larger company and the majority of them in the area are owned by one guy."
"No."
"Oh yes. I don't know how and when they met or if she even loves him. But I do know that I'm now worth ten times more than that old geezer and couldn't be happier."
I gently put my hand on his thigh. "In your rented apartment downtown?"
"You better believe it."
Our eyes met just then. The realtor with no home and the rock star obsessed with them.
"You and I are more alike than I think we realize," I said.
"Oh, how’s that?" he asked, placing his own hand atop mine.
"We're both trying to be someone we're not," I explained. "You're just a hurt man selling happily ever afters to everyone but himself. And me? I'm a musician trying to be anything but. I walk around trying to convince myself I'm not like the rest of my bandmates, that when I'm on stage, I'm just performing."
"But you're not?"
I shook my head. "I love it," I answered honestly. "The freedom, the fire, the frenzy. It's a rush I'll never get anywhere else?"
His hand, still firmly atop mine, moved slightly upward toward his inner thigh. "Are you sure?"
My breath caught in my throat as my heart kicked into gear. "I don't sleep with men on the first date, much less before. Besides, we're in someone else's house!"
His gaze roamed around the room, an idea forming as his smile broadened. "What if I promise to take you on two dates immediately following this?"
"Two dates, back to back? How is that possible?"
"Dinner and breakfast."
I bit my upper lip. God, it was tempting. But I'd sworn off players long ago. Looking into his eyes though, I wondered if I'd misjudged the sexy man in the elevator, just as he'd misjudged me.
"And the owners? What happens when they find us romping in their sheets?"
He leaned forward, his lips inches from my ear. "This is a winter house. They're in Europe for the season. Are you finished with excuses now?"
I bit my lip, seriously considering the idea. I was Crazy Kennedy after all.
"Almost," I answered. "I have one last question. What did you do with the house? The one you bought for your wife?"
"I bulldozed it," he answered frankly.
"What?"
He grinned mischievously, pushing me back down on the bed. "Kidding. I sold it and bought that ridiculously overpriced car outside."
"Now that's the best thing I've heard all day," I laughed, feeling his tongue against my neck.
"Really?" he purred, his hand finding the hem of my jeans. "You better hold on then. The day isn't over yet."
Also by J.L. Berg
The Ready Series
When You’re Ready
Ready to Wed
Never Been Ready
Ready for You
Ready or Not
The Walls Duet
Within These Walls
Beyond These Walls
Behind Closed Doors
The Cavenaugh Brothers (includes Within These Walls, Beyond These Walls, and Behind Closed Doors)
Lost & Found
Forgetting August
Remembering Everly
Standalones
The Tattered Gloves
Fraud
The Choices I’ve Made
About The Author
J.L. Berg is the USA Today bestselling author of the Ready series, the Walls duet and the Lost & Found series. She is a California native living in the beautiful state of historic Virginia. Married to her high school sweetheart, they have two beautiful girls that drive them batty on a daily basis. When she’s not writing, you will find her cuddled up, watching a movie with her family, obsessing over minions or devouring anything chocolate! J.L. Berg is represented by Jill Marsal of Marsal Lyon Literary Agency, LLC.
The Right Direction
By Kathy Coopmans
Prologue
My back hits the mattress with a soft thud as Roman stares down adoringly at me lying naked. His aim is resting right between my thighs. I spread my legs, run my hands up my sides, and palm my aching breasts.
Please God, don’t let my intuition be right.
He’s leaving me.
My head keeps churning away, telling me this will more than likely be the last time I have this insatiable, dirty-talking man inside of me. I’m breaking into tiny, fragile pieces.
A few more hours is all we have left. I’m tucking the past twelve years away. I have to keep it all inside.
Every minute that ticks by is another minute closer to the dreaded word ‘good-bye.’
“Fucking hell. Do you know how gorgeous you are? Especially when you touch yourself like that? I have all kinds of filthy things running through my mind. Get on your knees. Spread your hands in front of you the way I like. Now, Joslyn,” he commands as he pulls his belt through the loops of his pants, whipping it through the air with a loud, thunderous snap.
“You going to tie me up with that?” I ask as I turn around. Always ready to please him.
“Only if it guarantees you’ll go with me.”
“I can’t.”
“I know, beautiful girl. Four years is a long time, but we’ll make it, Joslyn. We have to keep telling ourselves that every day is one day closer. It’s always been you and me. Our someday is going to be here before we know it.” Someday most likely will never come. I don’t say that out loud. I think it. Know it. Can already feel it to the inner depths of my bones. It hurts.
“Let's not talk about it anymore. Fuck me already.” Desperation seeps from my pores and filters out of my mouth. A deep noise erupts from Roman’s throat. The sound of his belt buckle hits the wooden floor with a clunk, clothes shuffle off, and the familiar condom wrapper tears open.
“You should get on the pill before you come
see me,” he says, slides his hand down the cheeks of my ass until his fingers dip deep into the place I need him to be. The connection of being loved. Two broken souls who always believed destiny brought them together.
“I will,” I moan, arch my back, and allow the ripple effect only he has given me drown out the painful drips of emotions crawling around my spine.
He’s leaving me.
“Fuck,” I scream. My hands give out. His hands play me as well as he strums his guitar.
“That’s right. You come for me before I give you my cock,” he roars. I can feel his grin graze the side of my neck. The man always knows how to set me off.
With a slight tilt upward of my ass, he removes his fingers, replacing them with his thick, heavy shaft. One slow, tortuous thrust buries him deep. He stills, savors as he claims like he always does. I close my eyes. All I want to do is keep the memory of him alive.
“You feel incredible, Joslyn. Always have. Always will. I’m going to make going away up to you. Dreams, Joslyn. You reach yours, and I’ll reach mine, and in the end, I’ll be waiting for you. We were always meant to be together. You and me, baby. Forever.” Tears sting my eyes as he works himself into a steady pace. I remain on lockdown inside. I have to, or the years of memories we shared will fade away. They probably will over time.
Me, Joslyn Reynolds, I need to keep all my emotions about Roman Nixon tucked away, or I’ll drown in them.
I’m afraid I’ll never get my someday or head in the right direction again.
Chapter One
Roman
Sweat drips down my body. Anger threatens to grind my teeth to ash as I sit in this musky, puke-smelling cell and stare at the drunk fucker who finally passed out after nearly choking to death on his own vomit.
The shithole place looks the same as it did eleven years ago when I was tossed in here for thinking I was some badass above the law. More like shoved, smacked around, and taunted by the officers who didn’t take kindly to a young twenty-one-year-old wasted punk who popped an officer in his face, all because he showed up at my home to tell me to turn my music down. I was strung out on coke, higher than a kite, and don’t remember a damn thing except telling him who I was, plus, “fuck off” and “get your ass off my property.” Man didn’t take too kindly to that when he slammed me up against the wall, cuffed me and told everyone to get out of my house or they would be following behind me in another cop car. Learned my lesson when I woke up to this same dingy smell, and I meant it. Up until they came to my home in the Hollywood Hills last night, where I happened to be sitting on my deck staring at the one thing that reminds me of her while waiting for my publicist to tell me what I should do after I whaled the shit out of a member of the press. He deserved it. Hell, I should have yanked his tongue out of his throat and shoved it up his ass for what he said.
I’m not regretting what I did one Goddamn bit. The fucker brought up something I never discuss with anyone. My past and the one woman who very few people know about. They know about her now, that’s for sure. “Fuck. I hope Marcus can find her. She needs to be warned.”
There are only two things in my life I regret. One of them is finally out of my life, and the other is walking away from her.
I refuse to let my thoughts drift to the only woman who ever really owned a piece of me while I’m sitting in here. The memory of Joslyn will not be tainted by the smell of this jail cell. Nor will I allow her to be brought up by them again if I can help it. Her name is going to be dragged through the mud over something I’m positive she’ll never forget. I know I never will. Not even after I take my last breath.
I close my eyes, thump my head against the dingy white plaster, and let my mind roam to the reason why I am here.
I don’t blame the assholes who were lurking around the courthouse yesterday just hoping they would be the one to get the famous Roman Nixon, lead singer of the rock band Trained in Black, to finally open up and tell his side of why I got a divorce. I do blame the little pin dick fucker from Hollywood Living, one of the worse gossip rags there is for opening a door and leaving it wide open for anyone to walk through and destroy an innocent person’s life.
I’m not telling anyone jack shit. You’d think they would know that by now. Even before I got married, I spoke only when I had to. I’ve done the talk show thing, private interviews and that’s enough. Not once have I spoken to any of those shadow walking lurkers who crawl out day and night. They all make me sick.
My ex-wife, Gwen, has always been the one front and center of the press. Lights flashing, microphones shoved in her face and enjoying the limelight. I usually let her have at it. I had a few respectable rules for her to live by keeping the band as well as what you think or don’t think you know about my past to yourself and the truth that I hated her guts out of the press, and she could talk all she wanted.
Gwen was as big of a waste as living in this fucking city. Los Angelas is a dump. A place where people move in hopes their aspirations of becoming famous lead them to living the good life. Money, booze, constant parties. Over half the time, their dreams end up at the bottom of the ocean, and they end up living on the streets, or they wind up sitting here. Young dumb fucks like I was who think they can live above the law. Most of all, it’s the city of musical beds. People are jumping from one person's bed to the other, because a guy can’t keep his dick to home or a woman opens her legs for a man who isn’t her husband. It’s fucking pathetic.
Even though I’m grateful I got rid of Gwen, I still walked the straight and narrow while we were married. Still kept my dick to home. It didn’t have a damn thing to do with loving my wife or trying to fix a marriage that had been over before it even began. It had everything to do with my band and maintaining the good reputation we fought hard to have.
Gwen and I had been on the outs for over a year. We hadn’t slept in the same bed for just as long. I knew she was messing around, and I didn’t give a shit if she did. I even told her to go file for a divorce. Hell, I should have done it myself when I first suspected she was. Sure as shit didn’t care what anyone but my fans and my bandmates thought of me, and I have no family I care about protecting. But we were getting ready to tour. I didn’t have the time to fight with her. Not when I had millions of people all around the world relying on me to perform.
Before Gwen, I had women at my disposal for years. Won’t lie to anyone about taking advantage of every chick who thought she could get her claws in me and own a piece of the famous Roman Nixon. None of them did. Not even Gwen could take hold of the piece of me she wanted. It was and always will be retained for someone else.
Gwen strolled into my life like a bright, shining star. The pretty makeup artist who worked for the photographer we hired to shoot the cover for our latest album.
She had the looks of a model. The personality of the girl next door. The ones who act all innocent and sweet until their polished, trimmed-down-to-nothing nails snake out, and deadly pointy hooks take their place.
Three fucking years I put up with her shit. Spending my money, lying to all her friends about how wonderful it was to snag a man like me. A man she claimed she had never heard of until the night we met. A man who helped get her foot in the door for an audition. And once she was told over and over again she wasn’t what they were looking for, that’s when my life became a living hell.
It was all my fault. No one wanted to hire her because rumors had floated around she was either pregnant or lost the baby from partying too much with her husband. The best one of all was, how could Roman and his wife think about having a baby when all they did was travel around the world? Well, a couple would have to fuck first, for one, and fucking after her true colors came out was the last thing I wanted to do. I could go on and on about the lies they strummed up while she sat back and ate them up like it was candy. Wouldn’t surprise me if she added to their bullshit herself.
The funny thing is, she eventually fell out of love with me and in love with having her name plastered everywhere.
She fed right into the celebrity web, and after a while, I started touring without her. She made the world believe the stories they were printing, and I was too fucking tired to give a shit. Up until the day I caught the man she was fucking sitting in my kitchen, at my bar, drinking my beer. In my fucking apartment in New York City.
At first, I was pissed seeing another man in a place I worked my ass off to buy. It took me less than fifteen minutes to grab the shit I wanted and get the hell out of there with a big “Thanks” and “Good luck” to the both of them. I filed for divorce two days later.
I was prepared to get her gone. But Gwen is a smart, cunning little bitch. Hired herself one hell of a lawyer who whipped my ass all over the place in court.
Come to find out the prenup papers I signed, the ones that were her idea we had drawn up, were never filed.
I owe it all to my group of my now fired attorneys for not doing their job and following the whole thing through. They allowed a woman I’ve been separated from to rob me fucking blind. Take half of my assets while she sits back plotting against her next victim in her shallow-hearted little mind. Cunt.
Not having an attorney is the reason why I’m still sitting here. I refuse to have the court grant me one. Didn’t need one to show up to sign the papers yesterday, and now I wish to fuck we started interviewing lawyers weeks ago, because my stubborn ass wants out of here so I can find out what the hell is going on out there.
As far as Gwen goes, she can have it all. Knew over a month ago when the judge told me I could fight not having a legally binding prenup I was firing my attorneys for making a big mistake. Sure as shit wasn’t stalling my divorce. I told him no thank you. I was done. I wanted out. What I should have done was start the process of finding one then. The problem is, trust is a hard thing for me these days.
I’ve never trusted the paparazzi. Never will. However, I trusted my lawyers, and where did that get me? In fucking jail with dried blood on my knuckles nursing a headache from hell.
