by Renea Porter
Undefinable
By Renea Porter
Copyright © 2014 Renea Porter
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design by Kari ©Cover to Cover Designs.
Cover model: Rainey
Editing by Genevieve @ Big Bang Book Services
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your preferred vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Special Thanks & Dedication
Readers, thank you so much for choosing me. I really hope you enjoy this book.
Thank you to my husband for putting up with me in the process of writing this book. Thanks for listening to me rant about the characters and being my sound board.
This is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother Vicki. She taught me so much through my teenage years. We shared countless laughs and tears. Who helped shaped me into the woman I am today. Her love knew no bounds. Love you to the moon and back.
And to my Husband, whose love and devotion has never wavered. He is my number one fan! Love you, always and forever.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Sneak peek of The CEO
Chapter One
Cheyanne
Today is my eighteenth birthday. It’s one of those ages that are kind of a big deal. But it’s not like I’m celebrating or anything, because I don’t have friends and no family. I’m homeless. The only person that gave a shit recently died. Her name was Elsa and she took me under her wing when I first came on the streets. She’d been on the streets for far too long. She was old and barely got around during her last days. Whenever below she could she would share any food she had with me. She wasn’t big on drinking like most people think about homeless people.
I am sitting along a bridge as I throw a flower into the water, in her memory. I’d never forget her. She cared about me and never expected anything in return. She was the only one that gave a shit about me and took the time to know me.
Now, I am walking mindlessly in no particular direction with a back pack strapped over one shoulder. It is all about surviving. And I know about surviving from my many years as a foster child. I had lived in so many foster homes that I lost count. The foster parents couldn’t “handle” me. I got in too many fights in school and that was if I even went. The girls hated me. If they even looked cross eyed at me or said something snide I would kick their ass. Some came back for seconds thinking the first time around was a fluke.
The last family I lived with was horrified by my behavior so I left before they got a chance to throw me back in the system, no longer becoming anyone’s “problem”.
The sun is rising and my blonde hair is sticking to my face. I stop along the sidewalk to throw it up into a ponytail. I need to find a cool spot for the day. The mall is too far of a walk and I don’t have bus fare so I keep walking until I hear some commotion coming out of one of the buildings. It sounds like complete chaos and the voices echo to the outside. The door is open, which means no air conditioning. Still, something pulls at me to walk inside. I am astounded by what I find inside. There are two women in the cage fighting MMA style. That’s when I realize this is a women’s MMA gym. A smile spreads across my face as I watch, in awe. I can’t figure out how I never happened upon this place before.
“Are you gonna stand there and gawk or put some gloves on?” an older man barks as he walks into the office, off to the side of where I am standing.
A young man, I’d say early twenties, comes up to me, handing me a pair of gloves. “Try them on,” he says, handing me a pair of fingerless black gloves.
I pull each one on. “They fit.”
“My name is Cash and that old man in there is my father, Jack, the owner of the gym,” he nods his head. “I’m one of the trainers here as well,” he holds out his hand.
I shake his hand and smile. “Name’s Cheyanne; how much does this cost a month?”
“You don’t have to worry about that now. Let’s get you training first, if you are still interested,” he questions.
Oh I am definitely interested, but I especially like the part where I don’t have to worry about paying now. I’m sure there is a catch in there somewhere, but I’d worry about that later.
I nod, “I’m definitely interested.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen today, actually,” I respond while following him to one of the punching bags.
“What are you doing in this shit hole on your birthday? Punch and alternate your hands.”
“I have nowhere else to go,” I huff before hitting the bag.
It sucks telling someone you have no place to go. I wasn’t ready to get into the nitty gritty details yet.
“Stop for a moment. We need to get you in a proper stance,” he says, coming to stand behind me. I pray I don’t smell bad. Being homeless sucks.
Cash is as good looking as they come. He is gorgeous and I wonder how I got so lucky to have him as my trainer. He is definitely fit. I can see his perfectly sculpted abs under his torso hugging tee shirt. His dark hair is wavy and unruly, and he has gorgeous green eyes. A man that good looking should be illegal, or at least come with a warning sign.
“Take this leg and bring it back a few steps,” he taps my outer thigh and I feel a pulsating sensation from his touch. “Bring this one forward,” he says, tapping my other outer thigh. I am hoping he’d soon be tapping more than that. I may be homeless, but I’m also horny.
I shake my head at such an obscene thought. Then he comes in front of me and I get to peer into his green eyes. Those eyes have a story. I’m sure of it. He pulls my arm up and positions it, doing the same with the other. I am now in a fighting stance and I feel like one of those mannequins you see in the boutique shop windows.
The electricity is electrifying between us. I can see he feels it, too, as those eyes give him away. This is wrong on so many levels.
He clears his throat. “Now punch the bag,” he demands as he moves to hold it in place.
I pound the bag, and he smiles. “Much better.”
We go a few rounds before switching to another routine. He holds up these padded things and instructs me on my jab and hook. He barks whether I need to throw a jab or hook. I am beginning to get sweaty, I wipe my forehead with my arm a
nd notice one of the girls staring at me, checking out their competition.
She keeps staring and it is making me uncomfortable so I do what I do best. “What are you staring at, freak? See something you like?” I bark at her.
She smirks and walks away to the locker room.
“Hey, none of that here. Keep your eyes focused on me only,” Cash instructs as I continue to throw jabs and hooks. I can’t help but notice his eyes are looking at me with such intensity that the fire alarms should have gone off. It is almost intimidating.
“Now, how about some kicks to the bag before we call it quits?” he says as we move toward that area.
He steadies the bag and holds it in place while I throw one kick after another. After fifteen minutes, my legs feel like jello.
“Can we be done? I’m beat,” I say, huffing. I wipe the sweat from my forehead again.
“Sure. How do you like it?”
“I love it. How do you think I’m doing?” I ask curiously.
“You’re doing great for a first timer. You catch on pretty quick, too, which is good.” He smiles. “Feel free to grab a shower and I’ll meet you back out here.”
Do I really smell that bad, or is he just being nice? Whatever. Barely able to lift my backpack, I struggle to latch it over my shoulder and walk to the locker room. My body is battered and it feels like jelly everywhere. When I make it into the locker room it is almost empty. I pick an empty locker to throw my bag in while I take a shower.
“New around here?” a petite girl asks.
“Yep, to the gym.” I keep my answer stoic because I am not sure if she is asking as a friend or foe.
“My name is Vanita,” she says, holding her hand out.
I shake her hand. “Cheyanne. Nice to meet you.”
“You, too. Maybe we can hang out sometime after training.”
I smile. “That’d be great.”
Vanita is friendly. At least not all the girls are out for my blood, and treating me like fresh meat.
“I know we just met, but do you think maybe I can use some of your shampoo?”
“Sure thing.” She tosses the bottle at me and I catch it. “Keep it; I’ll get another,” she slams her locker shut and nods at me.
“Thanks.”
I grab a towel and head to the shower with my new mini bottle of shampoo. Stepping out of my clothes, I walk into the shower stall, happy to have a fresh shower and good smelling shampoo.
Sometimes I have to scrounge for change just to get a shower at a local truck stop, and it is worth skipping a meal for.
Now, my body is battered from training. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone too hard at it and just eased into it. The only downside to all that training is that I am starving for food. For now, I am focused on how good the shampoo smells, like lavender and vanilla. I work a good lather in my long hair and let it sit while I unwrap the provided soap and lather my body. It doesn’t have a smell to it, but I am thankful all the same. Tilting my head back, I rinse the shampoo out and rinse my body off. I smell good. Wrapping the towel around me, I make my way back to the locker. I riffle through my bag and try to find a decent non-smelly outfit. I settle for a pair of skinny jeans and a gray and white striped tank. I don’t bother with a bra. I have small boobs, anyway, and can get away with it.
I brush my hair and smell it. So good. I find my red lipstick that Elsa had bought me days earlier and smear it across my lips. She said it looked great on me as it contrasted with my light blonde hair. It’s the one thing I have that makes me feel feminine and pretty. I check myself over in the mirror once more before meeting Cash.
I throw my bag over one shoulder and I am feeling a little less sore. But my stomach still demands food and I am not sure how I am getting my next meal. I wander back out to the gym, meeting Cash.
“All set?”
“I am,” I reply.
“Okay well maybe tomorrow you can do some cardio, like running. There’s a school about a mile or two up the road that we use sometimes for running when the kids are not in school. And I’ll see you back here tomorrow,” he says.
“Sounds good. I’ll see ya then,” I wave and head out the back door.
“See ya.” He smiles and waves back. His smile is simply delicious; I wonder what it tastes like.
I walk back out into the hot sun as it is starting to set and sit on a chair, putting my bag in the chair next to mine. I am not sure where to go so I just sit until I think of something. The food fumes from the Waffle House down the street were wafting straight to my nostrils. The only thing I can do is wait until they close, and maybe I can score some food. Dumpster diving is a disgusting thought, though. But at this point it is my only option.
A few hours pass as I watch the patrons go in and out of Waffle House, wishing I could have some fresh food. But then I am greeted by Cash and all his gorgeousness.
“What are you still doing here?”
“I told you earlier. I have no place to go. I’m homeless.”
I feel ashamed admitting that.
“I didn’t realize you meant literally. Here,” he says. I watch as he digs in his pocket. He hands me cash. “Go get a meal over there and I’ll meet you after I close up,” he demanded.
I am speechless by such generosity by someone who doesn’t know a damn thing about me. He shoves the money in my hand so I can’t refuse. Instead, I obey his order as I stand up from the chair.
“Okay,” I reply. At least I don’t have to dumpster dive. Stuffing the money in my pocket, I shamefully walk over to the eatery and sit down, wondering if I should wait to order.
“Hey pretty girl. What can I get you?” the waitress asks.
“I’ll have a coke and the All Star Special,” I point out on the menu.
“Are you sure? That’s a lot of a food for a girl as small as yourself,” she says, looking over the top of her glasses.
“I’m sure. Someone is joining me in a few minutes.”
She turns on her heel and puts my order in. I think the special includes everything listed on the menu but I’m not sure when I’ll get my next meal and I’ll need the carbs and protein if I am to keep training. I’m sure whatever I don’t eat, Cash can help me out.
Chapter Two
CASH
Why does she have to be so damn perfect? And fuck, that lipstick, that perfect red lipstick is going to be my undoing. As I walk toward Waffle House, I hang back a few steps and just watch her in the window. She looks sad, like the sadness in her soul is too far gone. The streets of Boston had not been kind to her.
I knew she was trouble from the moment she walked in the gym. Today, she needed that gym, that workout and someone to care. I see it now. Plus, it’s her birthday and she deserves something special on her birthday.
Snapping out of my trance, I step inside to join her. “Hey.” I tap her lightly on the shoulder, and then slide in the seat across from her. God, it is so wrong for me the think of her exquisite beauty. She is the definition of beauty and she probably doesn’t even know it.
“Hi. I hope you don’t mind, I went ahead and ordered,” she says, shamefully looking at the buffet spread across the table. “I figure you can help me eat some of this,” she smiled, then pulls her hair to one side of her shoulder.
I take a slice of bacon and plop it into my mouth. The waitress comes and takes my drink order. “What can I get for you, Sugar?”
“A coke and I’ll be helping her eat some of this,” I say, smiling and pointing to the food.
“I knew she wouldn’t be able to eat all that. She’s so tiny,” the waitress states.
Cheyanne rolls her eyes as the waitress turns. I chuckle. “I will not be ashamed of ordering this. And this waffle is mine.”
“Where are you sleeping at night?” Normally that would probably come off the wrong way but I was hoping Cheyanne wouldn’t take it how it sounded.
She raises one eyebrow before answering. “Nowhere in particular. Sometimes I sleep at the shelter, if I’m there ear
ly enough, or just on the street. It’s no big deal.” She shrugs. “I’m used to it; been doing it for a year now.”
She’d been homeless for a year. Fuck! That sucks.
“And don’t you go feeling sorry for me either. I can take care of myself.”
I grab a slice of buttered toast and take a bite until she puts the fork down which she had pointed at me.
“I know you can take care of yourself. I knew that the moment you walked into the gym. But for now, you can stay at my place.”
She chokes on her food. “Excuse me?” She takes a drink of her coke.
“I’m not taking no for an answer. So don’t even argue.”
“Fine,” she says.
Damn that was easy enough. “Are you gonna help me eat all this?” she questions with a little attitude.
I chuckle, dipping my fork into some of the hash browns.
***
“Here we are,” I say, flipping on the light switch to my apartment. “I’ll sleep on the couch, you can take the bed,” I motion.
“Absolutely not. I’ll take the couch and that’s that.”
“Fine, but give me your damn bag. I have a washer and dryer I can put to use. Give it up.”
Slipping my finger under the strap over her shoulder, she shakes it off and hands it over.
“I need to get in there to get something to sleep in,” she says, looking the sofa over.
“I’ll give you a shirt,” I reply.
“I’ll just go get some things for you and the couch. Make yourself comfortable.”
Walking into the linen closet, I grab a pastel colored sheet and a light blanket. I go into my room and change into pajama pants and a tee shirt. I grab her one of my shirts on the way out.
“Here ya go.” I hand her the shirt. “The bathroom is just straight through the hall.”
“Thanks.” She takes the shirt and heads where I told her to go.
I spread the sheet across the sofa, hating that she insists on sleeping on it. Though it is comfortable, I’ve been known to sleep there a few times. She comes back out to the couch. Oh god, she looks irresistible with her red lipstick and in one of my shirts. I need to stop thinking these thoughts.
