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UNAFRAID
By
Melody Grace
© 2013 Melody Grace All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations for reviews. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet, without the publisher’s permission and is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment.
Interior design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
Cover photograph copyright Jessie Weinberg.
BOOK DESCRIPTION
“The first time I saw her, I knew this girl was wilder than any stallion Iâd ever trained. She was headstrong, wounded, passionate and free. And I had to have her⦔
Brittany Ray doesnât care about her bad reputation. Growing up in a sleepy beach town with a junkie mom and a runaway dad, Britâs learned the hard way that the people you love will only let you down. Itâs no use hoping for love or happiness. Some dreams arenât meant for girls like her.
Hunter Covington is one of those dreams.
Gorgeous, charming Hunter is damn near perfectâand itâs killing him. Son of Charleston royalty, heâs been trapped in a gilded cage since the day he was born. Now heâs breaking free. Heâs quit law school to restore his grandpaâs old horse ranch, trying to soothe the demons in his soul. But Beachwood Bay is full of old ghosts, like the mysterious girl who spent an unforgettable night with himâand then slipped away before dawn. Brit.
Everything about her screams danger, but Hunter doesnât care: heâs never felt a connection so deep. And try as she may, Brit canât resist the desire consuming her âor the safety she finds in Hunterâs arms.
A reckless passion. An undeniable bond. Scarred by their pasts, Brit and Hunter fight to heal old wounds. But will dark secrets tear apart their new beginning? And when love is the biggest risk of all, can they find the courage to face the future unafraid?
PROLOGUE
HUNTER
MY GRANDPA TRAINED horses his whole life. He had a gift; people say he was the best theyâd ever seen.
We used to visit his ranch out in Beachwood Bay every summer. Iâd watch in awe as the horses would be led in to that old dirt paddock, their eyes wild, nostrils flaring. They fought the lead, shied away from every touch, damn near killed a couple of ranch hands trying to get away. But Grandpa never quit. It would take him all summer long, working his magic, pacing slowly in that ring, learning what it was that made the horses tick, until by the end of it, even the craziest ones were eating peppermints from the palm of his hand.
The first time I laid eyes on Brittany Ray, I knew this girl was wilder than any stallion Iâd ever seen. She was headstrong, wounded, passionate, and free. And I had to have her.
âSome horses will never be tamed,â Grandpa used to tell me. âThe only way you get through is to earn their respect. Youâve got to learn what theyâre so scared about, because the wildest ones⦠Well, those are the ones that are the most scared of all.â
I didnât listen to him, not at first. I was eighteen, I thought I had the world all figured out, and hell, I was so desperate for her, I took any chance I could get. One night together, one brief taste of her beauty. But when morning came, she was gone.
Thatâs when I realized, one night with her would never be enough.
The world kept spinning after that summer, taking me far from Beachwood, and changing my life in ways too tragic to comprehend. Grandpaâs gone now too, the old ranch is crumbling to disrepair, and some nights, it feels like my time with Brit was just a fever dream. But thatâs the thing about dreams: they can keep you going, even through the bleakest nights and the darkest of days. Give you something to believe in, when everything else in your world is guilt and sadness and pain.
She saved me, that girl. She saved me, and she never even knew it.
I always swore to myself, Iâd make her more than just a dream. Iâd go back to that town, Iâd take the time to earn her trust, the way my grandpa taught me, until I know every secret lurking in those beautiful dark eyes, every hope she holds, deep in her soul.
Until she trusts me enough to stay.
My truck cruises round the bend in the road, and I see the sign loom closer, out on the edge of the windy highway as I cross the county line.
Welcome to Beachwood Bay.
I smile, feeling like myself again for the first time in damn too long. Yeah, Iâm going to do it right this time.
Iâm going to make her mine.
CHAPTER ONE
BRIT
ITâS FRIDAY NIGHT in Beachwood Bay, which means thereâs only one place to go: Jimmyâs. By eight, the bar is already packed, full of tourists and locals all wanting a cheap beer and some loud music to get their weekend started right.
âWhen are you going to change the name?â I ask Garrett, slamming down another order. Heâs behind the bar, pouring beers as fast as he can to keep up. âIâve had three tourists ask to meet Jimmy, and itâs too much hassle to explain the whole thing.â
âHey, you donât mess with history.â Garrett just gives that lazy shrug. Heâs dressed in his usual uniform of a plaid shirt, jeans, and two-day stubble; heâs the boss now, so he gets to wear what he wants, while Iâm stuck in my black Jimmyâs tank and cutoffs.
I roll my eyes. âMaybe history can move a little quicker,â I suggest, flicking back a sweaty strand of hair, dyed a dark brown this month. âIâm still waiting on those cocktails for the sorority girls in the corner.â
Garrett glances over to the group of girls in skintight cutoffs giggling in the booth. âNah, you go ahead, Iâve got them.â
âWhat about Melissa?â I remind him, loading up my tray with waters and cutlery. I look up in time to catch a sheepish look flit across his face.
âYeah, Melissa said she wouldnât be in tonight. Or, any other night.â Garrett mumbles.
âNo!â I cry, swatting him with my dishtowel. âYou canât keep doing this.â
âDoing what?â
âScrewing all the waitresses.â
âNot all.â He points out, with a grin.
âEww. Thatâs disgusting.â I glare. Garrett is like a big brother to me, and with my real brother, Emerson, off in the city, heâs the only family here Iâve got. âIâm serious,â I warn him, âthey keep quitting when you break their hearts, and then thereâs no one left to help me serve!â
I head out across the bar, cursing the fact that Garrett canât keep it zipped. At this rate, weâll be blacklisted by every waitress in the state before fall.
Not that I should care.
The truth is, Iâve been telling myself that helping out at the bar is just a favor. A short-term, stopgap kind of thing until I figure out what Iâm going to do with my life. But itâs been a year since I graduated high school, and Iâm still here: serving burgers to the folks who wouldnât look twice at me in the street, like somehow being a waitress is part of the plan, and not just treading water as time slips on by.
âI forgot,â Garrett tells me, when I head on back to the bar after taking another round of orders. âMail came for you, I left it in the office.â
âThanks.â I go check it out when thereâs a lull in the crowd. The envelope is propped on the messy desk with my name printed in neat black type.
Charleston postmark.
I stop, my heart suddenly clenchin
g in my chest. The letter is slim, weighing next to nothing, and before I can get caught up in wondering whether thatâs good news or bad, I rip it open and pull out the single sheet of paper.
Dear Miss Ray,
Thank you for your interest in our company. We regret to inform youâ¦
The words blur with a sudden sting of tears. I angrily swipe them away, crumpling the letter into a ball and hurling it to the ground before I can read another word.
I donât need to. Theyâre all the same.
Iâve been secretly applying for internships for months now, sending out my portfolio to every designer and clothing line I can find. Iâm not crazy, I know the best I can hope for is a basic assistant gigââfetching coffees and running fabric samplesââbut thatâs just fine with me. Anything to get my foot in the door, and start working my way up to one day designing my own line. But every single application comes back with the same, impersonal letter. Sure, theyâre polite, but after reading the first dozen, I got the message written between the lines: youâre not good enough. You donât have the skills, or the qualifications, or the fancy fashion school credentials to even get a foot in the door.
We donât want you.
âBad news?â Garrettâs voice makes me jump. I turn to find him in the doorway, watching me with a concerned look on his face.
I swallow back the sting of disappointment. âItâs nothing,â I tell him.
âYou sure?â Garrettâs eyes are soft, âBecauseââ
âI said, Iâm fine!â I snap. âAt least, I would be if you could stop being such a broken manwhore and keep a damn waitress in this place!â
I storm past him, but not so fast that I donât see the flicker of hurt on his face. Itâs too late to take it back, so I just add the guilt to the whole mess of emotions Iâm carrying, heavy and sharp like a steel knife blade in my gut.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I pull it out, glad for the distraction.
hey sexy. c u later?
Itâs from Trey, a guy Iâve been hooking up with these past couple of weeks. We met in a bar a couple of towns over. One drink led to another until we closed out the night in the backseat of his beat-up old Chevy. Itâs turned into a regular late night thing, my one good distraction to take my mind off another long night of nothing here at the bar.
And tonight, I sure as hell need distracting.
sure. I text back, and a moment later, his reply flashes up.
already hard 4 u.
Real romantic.
I tuck my phone away with a small grin. Trey and his dirty talk have done the trick; now my latest rejection letter is just another in the stack, one more thing to forget about and move on from.
I take a deep breath, and remind myself: Iâm the one in control. All those fancy fashion lines may not want me, but I can get Trey panting with nothing but a wink and a flash of red lace from under my tank top. Out there in the world, I may be nothing, but put me in a room full of guys with one thing on their minds, and theyâll want me.
Theyâre always going to want me for that.
I sweep aside my disappointment and head back out to the bar, adding a swing to my hips and some strut to my stride in my chunky lace-up boots. Garrett gives me another look of concern so I just flash him a fake smile and keep moving, loading up my tray with waters and going to bus some empty tables in back.
Youâve got this, Brit. Youâll be just fine.
I see a new group enter the bar: an older couple, and their daughter, a pretty blonde about my age. I grab a stack of menus, about to go over to welcome them, when the door swings open again.
Trey.
Despite myself, I smile. I guess he couldnât wait until I finished my shift. Heâs dressed up, I notice: a button-down shirt, good jeans, cleanly shaven. The last few times we met, it was a late-night thing: sweaty and disheveled after a long day at work. We both know Iâm a sure thing either way, but itâs nice he made the effort for me. Guys never do.
âHey you,â I call out, but he doesnât hear me. He doesnât even look in my direction. Instead, he walks straight over to the far table, and the family who just walked in. He slides in next to the blonde girl and drapes an arm around her shoulder.
I freeze.
The girl smiles up at Trey, and he leans to drop a kiss on her lips. She reaches up to touch his cheek, and thatâs when I see it: the ring on her engagement finger, bright and sparkling, and full of betrayal.
My blood runs cold.
Trey still hasnât seen me. Heâs smiling, easy, joking with the girlâs parents. Theyâre all having a ball of a time, as if ten hours ago he wasnât grunting in my ear, cursing under his breath as he groped at every inch of flesh on my body.
Funny, he forgot to mention his fiancée.
Rage comes, hot in my veins. I shouldnât be surprised anymore, how this goes. How it always goes. But after that letter from the design company, this is like a ton of salt dumped on the wound. All my rejection comes boiling up again, sharp and bitter with regret.
I guess Iâm only good enough to fuck.
I stalk over there before I have a chance to reconsider. âHi yâall, welcome to Jimmyâs.â I say flatly. I look to Trey for some kind of reaction: shock maybe, or fear. But instead, he has the nerve to smile at me and wink, like weâre in this together.
âWeâve got some specials here tonight,â I continue, my voice sharp and metallic.
âSure,â Trey grins, lounging back in the booth. âLetâs hear âem.â
I narrow my eyes. Without the tequila blurring my vision â and good judgment â I can see heâs just a beefed up jock with a bad goatee. Jesus, why did I even waste my time on him?
Because there was nothing better to do. The voice in my head answers for me. Because he helped you forget, just for a little while, what a dead-end your life has become.
I push the voice back, and glare at Trey, like I could strip the skin off his bones with just one look.
âWell, first up weâve got the cheating asshole,â I announce. âIt comes with a side of whiskey dick.â
That wipes the smile off his face. Trey scowls at me while the rest of the table blinks in confusion. âBritââ he warns in a menacing voice, but Iâm not done yet.
âOr how about some lying piece of scum?â I continue, âYou wonât have to wait long for that. Trust me, it comes real quick.â
âThatâs enough!â Trey leaps to his feet, but I step back, quicker.
âDamn right it is.â I spit. âAlready hard for you?â I quote his text, fury pumping in my bloodstream. âFunny how you didnât mention your fiancée.â
I grab a plate of nachos from the next table and upend it all over his head. The mess of cheese and guacamole and beans smears down his face and drips, slowly to the floor.
Thereâs silence. The rest of the table gasps at me in shock.
âWhat the fuck?!â Trey finally finds his voice, wiping at the mess on his shirt. âYou crazy bitch!â
âWhatâs she talking about?â The blonde blinks, all innocent confusion.
âItâs nothing, babe,â Trey says quickly. I snort.
âHeâs been fucking me for weeks.â I tell her harshly. âAnd god knows who else. Better get tested, sweetheart. I sure as hell will. Yâall have a nice night.â I add to the girlâs parents, sitting there, shell-shocked.
I stride away, victory surging in my veins. Thatâll teach him not to use me like some piece of ass, then go running back to Little Miss Perfect the minute daylight comes. I can hear him now behind me, begging and groveling to them all. âDonât listen to her, baby,â I hear him plead. âYou know what everyone says
about her. Sheâs just a crazy slut. Sheâs nothing.â
My steps falter. Now that my rage is fading, I realize the whole bar is staring at me. I can see their faces, wide-eyed and scandalized. Then the whispers start, gossiping tones drifting out to me as I hurry across the bar.
âYou know those Ray kids⦠She gets around, for sure⦠Just like their mamaâ¦â
I keep walking, my anger fading to humiliation as reality sinks in. As far as everyone here is concerned, Trey isnât the one who made a fool of himself just now. No, that was me, lashing out, flying off the handle, causing some huge scene. And for what?
âWhat the hell, Brit?â Garrett steps out of the back room in time to catch the carnage behind me.
âIâm on my break,â I snap, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the bar as I steam down the back hall.
âBrit, wait a second!â
Garrettâs voice and the noise of the bar recede behind me as I hurry up the back stairs. I bypass his apartment on the first floor, and keep climbing, even when the staircase narrows into a winding spiral. Finally, I heave open the rusted fire escape and push outside into the crisp night air.
The rooftop is empty, home to a couple of old lawn chairs and an ancient grill. I walk slowly to the edge and lean out over the railing.
Why do you always do this?
The scene replays in my mind, but I donât see Treyâs smug face staring back at me. No, I see the blonde girl instead. Sweet, and pretty, and so damn naïve. Sitting there with her perfect family, it never crossed her mind for a second that Trey could betray her.
I canât tell if sheâs lucky or just another fool.
He didnât take me to dinner. They never do. Iâm not that girl, you see: the one who gets dates and flowers and sweet whispered goodnights. Iâm the one they screw up against the back wall of a club in a neon-lit alley; who they text at 2:00 a.m. when theyâre bored and need something to pass the time.
