Love on the Edge of Time

by Julie A. Richman

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Newsletter Sign up

  Books by Julie A. Richman

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For the Reader

  Love on the

  Edge of Time

  Julie A. Richman

  © 2017 Julie A. Richman

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Love on the Edge of Time

  Cover Model: Bryce Draper

  Front Cover Photograph: Shaun S. Michelsen/Michelsen Studio

  Back Cover Photograph: Marina Svetlova (model not cited)

  Cover Design: Jena Brignola/Bibliophile Productions

  Formatting: Shanoff Designs

  Proofing: Elaine York/Allusion Graphics LLC.

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  For Mindy,

  Because the journey becomes epic when

  you’ve got the perfect person riding shotgun…

  Tramps like us…

  “What we learn through love is never forgotten.”

  ~ Chani Nicholas

  Chapter 1

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Bongo Cole was seething mad as he slammed his boss, who also happened to be his oldest friend and leader of their band, into the concrete block wall of the backstage tunnel. “I have a family and every time you fall off the wagon, Jesse, you hurt my family. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Hitting the wall like a ragdoll, Jesse Winslow, lead singer of the chart-topping band, Winslow, unsuccessfully attempted to pull away from his drummer’s grasp. Jesse’s limbs were having no part of interacting with the limited messages he could access from his substance-polluted brain.

  “C’mon, Casey,” he addressed Bongo by his given name. “They were crucifying us, man. What was I supposed to do? Just let them crucify us?” The handsome rocker slurred, defiantly defending his crowd-enraging behavior.

  “Fuck you, Jesse. Maybe if you weren’t too trashed to remember the freaking words and riffs, they wouldn’t crucify us. I am so through with you, dude.” Bongo turned from his friend, a look of utter disgust marring his long, thin face. Walking away at a brisk pace, he called over his shoulder, without stopping, “This time, I am done with you.”

  And that was how Winslow ended the highly anticipated Australian leg of their world tour.

  ••••••

  It was all over social media in a nanosecond. The press loved it. Bad boys of the stage were irresistible. Like Jim Morrison or Billie Jo Armstrong before him, the public could never get enough of the charismatic Jesse Winslow, who couldn’t keep his shit together. When he lost it, as he invariably often did, the Internet, TV paparazzi shows, radio, and news broadcasts were sparked to life by his over-the-top antics. This publicist’s nightmare was truly a gossip hound’s wet dream.

  But, more than anything else, like the other bad boys of rock, Jesse was the stuff fangirls and music sales were made of. And luckily for him, bad behavior and swoon-worthy were two of his strongest attributes. Hot. Sexy. Talented. And fucked up. Jesse Winslow was pure eye candy with intrigue and charm.

  What more could you ask for in a rock star?

  Embodying bad boy and then taking it to the next level, his backstage after-parties were legendary, although he probably possessed very few actual memories of them. Tennessee whiskey and blow, all while he was getting blown, was his nightly version of a relaxation technique. Rock star meditation, he’d been quoted as calling it.

  When performing, the man prowled the stage like a caged animal, releasing pheromones in palpable waves that made females in the audience drip with desire and male fans feel like they were big-cocked stars, fist-punching the air along with him. When he looked out into the audience, every woman, right up to the last row of the nosebleed seats, swore he was singing to her with his low, raspy growl. He was begging her, and only her, when he sang the words,

  Please come back.

  Baby, please come back,

  Please come back to me

  There wasn’t a woman in the arena who didn’t want to fix him, heal the hurt residing behind those words and his sexy, clear grey-blue eyes.

  When Jesse held it together, there was no doubt why this charismatic, talented man had throngs of loyal fans–men and woman alike. Men wanted to be him, they aspired to duplicate his effortless cool, his everyman working-class hero style and women wanted to be his lover and confidante, exploring the darkness in his soul and being the one to finally fix him.

  When Jesse lost it, allowing his first teen lover bourbon access through the door he’d slammed on her a million times before, there hardly seemed to be a soul who didn’t want every detail of his latest fall from grace. The public could not get enough of him. The worse the behavior, the more they loved him. And the media outlets loved him for it.

  He truly was a tabloid’s wet dream.

  ••••••

  Looking over her notes from the late-night emergency phone call, Claire Stoddard thought, Jesse, Jesse, Jesse, how do I get through to you?

  Out of rehab for the third time in less than four years, she wondered if her exceedingly sexy, rock star patient would make it to his thirtieth birthday. Hell bent on letting his demons have their way with him, Jesse Winslow was a tortured soul. Of that there was no doubt.

  But why?

  And that was the question that plagued psychiatrist, Dr. Claire Stoddard, as she sat with her psychiatric supervisor, Dr. Marshall Reid, early on a Monday morning.

  “How long have you been treating him now?” Marshall pushed up his glasses from the bridge of his nose.

  “Just over a year,” Claire’s eyebrows were drawn together forming a pair of twin arches, that screamed frustration from their rounded tops.

  “Have you done regression hypnosis with him? Explored childhood trauma he might be repressing?” Marshall continued to make notes without looking up at Claire.

  “We’ve talked about it, but he didn’t want to begin the process prior to his last tour. He’s just about to return from a tour in Asia and Australia with his band. I think he’ll be home, or at least in the states, for the better part of a year, so I’m hoping it’s a topic we can broach again.”

  “Potentially that gives you time to work with him in a concentrated and in-depth capacity. Hopefully, that will provide the opportunity to see if you can get to the root of some of his self-destructive iss
ues.”

  Continuing to look through her notes, “I’m almost fearful of the demons I’m going to find,” she sighed, shaking her head. “He’s definitely a tortured soul. Are you familiar with his music? His lyrics are a dark poetry and the melodies are positively haunting.”

  “My son’s a fan,” Marshall confessed. Giving Claire a pointed look, “Let’s talk about you, Claire. Your interest in this patient has been almost obsessive. You’ve had other high-profile patients before, and I have never noted anything but a detached professionalism from you. So, that makes me question if there is some countertransference going on between you and Jesse Winslow.”

  “That’s absurd,” she shot back, her spine straightening as her shoulders squared for battle. Countertransference. Seriously, did he think she was falling in love with her own patient?

  “Is it?” Marshall’s tone remained even, his face betraying nothing, as he pinned her with his unwavering stare.

  And for the first time, Dr. Claire Stoddard came face to face with the shocking realization that like most women on the planet, she was not immune to the mystery and charms of bad-boy rocker, Jesse Winslow. And she was in a position to actually fix him, something most women only dreamed of.

  Except for her, as his therapist, these feelings were forbidden. And she knew better.

  Claire Stoddard was the only woman not allowed to have a crush on the blue-eyed soul master and yet, she had to admit that Marshall was right. She was more than a little obsessed with her patient. There was just something about him.

  Could she be falling in love with Jesse Winslow?

  Chapter 2

  Kylie Martin shifted from side to side in the big overstuffed chair, a chair that felt oddly out of place in a shrink’s waiting room. Sucking mindlessly on the straw of her Starbucks Salted Caramel Mocha Frappuccino, she shifted left, then right, then left again. To the casual observer, it would appear she just couldn’t get comfortable as she flicked through the pages of the waiting room’s copy of People magazine.

  But there was nothing casual in Kylie’s movement. It was deliberate. Very deliberate. Peering over her magazine, she checked out the very proper receptionist, a total mini-me clone of her employer, and was thrilled to see that the girl was thoroughly wrapped up in her work and paying no attention to Kylie.

  “Fucking Brazilian,” Kylie muttered under her breath as she continued to squirm. And then, there it was, the right spot. She’d found it and began to rub against it in an almost imperceptible movement. Scratch that itch.

  Ahhh, relief.

  There was nothing worse than the itching and pain from a Brazilian wax that was just beginning to grow in. Another torturous thing women had to endure.

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  Snickering, Kylie knew if she kept up the motion the Brazilian wouldn’t be the only itch she’d be scratching. How funny is that! she thought and for a second wondered if she could pull off a silent orgasm just feet away from Miss Prim and Proper right there in her shrink’s waiting room. Just the act of doing the nasty in a place she wasn’t supposed to be doing it, sent a shiver-inducing jolt to the apex of her thighs.

  Serves Claire right for making me wait. If I come now, I’m just going to want to sleep during our session. If we do a regression today, good luck in keeping me awake.

  Closing her eyes, Kylie placed the magazine on the table next to her and sucked on the Frappuccino, continuing the almost undetectable motion with a smug smirk on her pretty face. Feeling the pressure build, she wanted to unbutton her already too tight jeans, unzip the fly and stick her right hand down her pants. She always did herself with her right hand, she mused, with a barely audible chuckle. Mmm, felt so good and she couldn’t believe how quickly she was getting closer, even without using her hands. She had no idea that the excitement of doing a selfie-nasty with someone just feet away, who didn’t have a clue or did she? Maybe I’m a closet exhibitionist? Or some other kind of weirdo perv. Note to self: Discuss with Claire. Not!

  So close. She pressed against the seam in her jeans. So fucking close.

  The surprising click of the entrance door opening behind her instantaneously plucked Kylie from the amorphous electric edge of orgasm and deposited her with a thud under the harsh lights of the waiting room. Left to quickly scramble to regain a straight-backed, seated position, she attempted to act like nothing was going on.

  It was the door from the outer hallway. No one ever came when another patient was there. Ever. Claire spaced out her patients to ensure privacy. What the fuck? The UPS man?

  Opening her eyes, he was as shocked to see her as she was to see him.

  Flustered, he turned to the receptionist. “M-my appointment,” he stammered in a gravelly voice that Kylie would’ve recognized even if she’d been blindfolded.

  Miss Prim and Proper was as flummoxed as he was, “Your appointment is on Wednesday.”

  “Well, isn’t today…” his voice trailed off, the confusion evident in the tilt of his head and the furrow that appeared between his brows as he quickly raised his mirrored aviator shades. He looked rough, as if he hadn’t slept in days, dark circles betraying his truth, yet at the same time, this was the most clean-cut Kylie had ever seen him look. Under his low-slung baseball cap, his hair was cut neatly at the sideburns, around his ears and neckline, transforming the appearance he was known for with his trademark rocker locks, to more of a model with his sculpted features finally being given their due. Almost immediately, he dropped the glasses back into place.

  “Today’s Tuesday,” she corrected his non-verbalized thought.

  “Oh,” he appeared genuinely confused. Turning toward Kylie, “Sorry, I recently got back from Australia and have kinda lost track of days since then. I-I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  Responding to her smile with one of his own, she felt as if they were the only two people on the planet sharing a great secret.

  And in a way, they were.

  Kylie now knew that Jesse Winslow, one of the sexiest bad-boy rockers on the planet, was a patient of the preeminent psychiatrist, Dr. Claire Stoddard. And Jesse Winslow knew that a very pretty, full-figured girl with the most gorgeous natural auburn hair he’d ever seen, who liked to drink frozen drinks in the dead of winter, saw Claire, too.

  With a smirk and a slight smile, “Sorry.” He shrugged his shoulders. The distressed leather of his jacket making a slight creaking sound.

  Kylie smiled wider. The tip of the straw still in her teeth. With a slight nod of her head she acknowledged his apology for the intrusion.

  And then he was gone.

  Kylie could feel the energy charge in the air dissipate. Had it been because Jesse had been in the room, or her unfulfilled orgasm, or was it her reaction to Jesse. She wasn’t quite sure, but Kylie had felt it leave in a whoosh.

  It wasn’t two minutes later that Dr. Claire Stoddard opened the door to her office. The Inner Sanctum, Kylie had dubbed it.

  “Kylie, I’ll see you now.” Her demeanor was detached and formal, her clothes polished and professional, if not a little bland. The Ivy League-trained doctor had perfected perfection. Never seen with a hair out of place or a wrinkle in the impeccable fabric of one of her earth-tone suits, Claire Stoddard personified aloof, or at least that was what Kylie thought.

  Brushing past her, Kylie stopped. “So, Jesse Winslow is a patient of yours, huh? I’d love to get inside both his head and those painted on ripped jeans. That man has a seriously beautiful ass.” With that, Kylie plopped herself down on the big leather couch, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

  Turd aimed at the punchbowl.

  She shoots.

  She scores!

  Knowing exactly how much she’d just freaked out her psychiatrist, Kylie let the bombshell sink in for a moment. When Claire had nervously readjusted her glasses twice, Kylie finally offered up an explanation, “I guess he thought it was Wednesday, because he showed up here.” Again, she let it sink in, “You’re lucky I’m not a stalker, Claire, because I coul
d totally be waiting for him on Wednesdays.” She stopped and thought for a moment, “How rude of me, I just should have invited him to stay for a group session.” Kylie took great pleasure in antagonizing her shrink. She didn’t quite know why, but she got such satisfaction from fucking with her. Which generally was not her style of dealing with people, but with Claire, she had these unresolved antagonistic feelings. Which, even she had to admit, was odd.

  Dr. Stoddard was not amused by her patient. “I’m sorry you were disturbed and your anonymity was compromised. Would you like to be rescheduled for an alternate time?”

  “No, not necessary. He doesn’t know who the heck I am.” Just another random chick, Kylie thought. He’s certainly not going to be stalking fat chicks who see shrinks. And there’s no way he has any recollection of the one-time our paths actually did cross.

  Getting right to business, Claire reviewed her notes.

  “You had committed in the last session to engage the service of a trainer.” She looked up from her notepad, waiting for Kylie’s response.

  “Didn’t happen.” Kylie clicked the straw in her teeth and secretly took delight from Claire’s slight flinches.

  “And why is that?”

  Kylie shrugged, “I just didn’t get around to it.”

  “What do you think is holding you back?”

  Another shrug, “I dunno.”

  Claire remained silent.

  “Maybe I don’t want to be thin again.”

  Claire waited.

  “Maybe I’m happy being fat.”

  “Are you?” The psychiatrist tipped her head.

  “Yes. In some ways, yes, I am.” Kylie sat forward on the couch. “Do you know how hard it is to compete solely on your looks? To constantly be judged on your looks.”

  “Everyone is judged on their looks, Kylie. We make snap judgments all the time on everyone we encounter based on visual impressions.”