“You’re going to bother your boss in the middle of her St. Thomas vacation with her family because you don’t want to share her five-thousand-square-foot, six bed, seven bath beach house with one of your colleagues.”
He sounds like such a Realtor.
“I don’t consider you a colleague.” I drop my phone. He has a point. Bothering Addison on vacation after she so generously offered her house to me would be rude, and sacrificing tact all to prove a point isn’t my style.
“That’s right. I forgot. We’re rivals.”
His head shakes as he turns to flip the generous portions of fish grilling in a basket over mild flames. His biceps tense and relax in response. Judging by the deep tan coating his smooth skin, I’m willing to wager he’s been here most of the week.
Once upon a time we were partners. A dangerous duo. Unstoppable. Young and driven with just the right amount of naivety to believe we could take over the world.
And then a drunken night at a broker’s conference in Tallahassee changed everything. But it wasn’t time spent between the sheets that did us in: it was what transpired the morning after.
“You make it sound dramatic.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“Adversaries. Competitors,” he says, back to me. “That better for you?”
Every real estate broker in the greater Manhattan area is my competitor. My rivalry with Xavier Fox just happens to run deeper.
It’s a bitter kind of rivalry; defined by disappointment, false hopes, and fallacies.
Xavier plates his fish, clicks off the grill, and closes the lid, all while humming a carefree little tune from his perfectly full lips. It’s not like him to be so blithe, and I swear he’s doing it to taunt me.
“If you don’t mind.” He says after turning around. His hands are full with tongs and his plate, and he nods toward the door.
I grip the handle of the slider and yank it open for His Royal Highness. He brushes past my shoulder in a cloud of sea spray and coconut sunblock and freshly caught seafood.
He smells like vacation.
My vacation.
The one I fantasized about the entire three-hour ride here. The one I meticulously packed for all of last night. The first one I’ve had in over two years.
A long weekend of eating good food, shopping for quirky antiques, and touring weather-beaten, shingled windmills and lighthouses between working on my tan was all I wanted.
Not sharing a gorgeous beach house with Xavier Fox, arrogant asshole extraordinaire.
I stay planted on the weathered wood deck, breathing in the smog-free air that mixes with remnants of grill smoke. My stomach growls, audible only to me thanks to the nearby crashing waves.
“How long are you staying?” I step inside.
He’s already seated at the reclaimed oak dining table, chewing a tender piece of grilled whitefish.
He swallows. “Until Monday.”
Me too.
My shoulders slump. This isn’t vacation. I didn’t rearrange my appointment and obligations and solicit Skylar to cover my showings just to spend a weekend buried in uncomfortable tension next to the one man who makes my blood boil and my core heat at the same time.
I slink past him, hoisting my bag up and over my shoulder.
“Where are you going?” He rests his fork.
“To find a ride back to the city.”
Easier said than done. I don’t know where the Jitney is or if it’s already left Montauk, but I’ll figure it out.
“You just got here.” He shakes his head. “You hate me that much, do you?”
“I don’t hate anyone, Xavier. Don’t flatter yourself.” I’ve learned to forgive him over the years, but I’ve never forgotten. “I’ve better things to do with my time than sit around hating you.”
Yeah, like knocking you out of the top 1% of listing agents in the city.
He stole that title from me along with ten of my highest profile clients over the past couple years.
“Stay here.” He leans back in his chair, dabbing his full lips with a cloth napkin. A hint of a five o’clock shadow shades his hollowed cheekbones. “This house is big enough for the two of us. You stay out of my way. I’ll stay out of yours.”
This house is not big enough for the both of us. The entire borough of Manhattan isn’t big enough for the both of us.
Publishing November 9, 2015 in the POSSESS Alpha Romance Anthology!
ARROGANT BASTARD
DESCRIPTION
The last time my father beat me to a bloody pulp was the night he walked in on me banging his woman in his bed.
To be fair, she seduced me. And to be honest, I liked it. But to CPS, I was a victim.
They shipped me to Utah where my estranged mother lived with her husband and two sister-wives. And that’s when I met her. My innocent, wholesome, perfect step-sister. Well, one of many. But Waverly stood out because just like me, we’d been fighting a losing battle our entire lives.
Falling for her was a mistake, but shit, it’s not like I ever made good decisions.
Fuck being “family.” I must have Waverly Miller, and I won’t stop until she’s mine.
LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR
Dear Readers,
Although this book deals with modern polygamy (think Big Love or Sister Wives) and mentions certain polygamous subsets of the Mormon religion, it is intended to be read purely for entertainment. None of the opinions or details mentioned in this book, in regards to any mentioned religious groups, are meant to be offensive, attacking, or controversial. This is, after all, a work of fiction.
So sit back, relax, and step foot inside the modern polygamous world I’ve created. ;-)
xoxo,
Winter
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE - JENSEN
ONE - JENSEN
TWO - WAVERLY
THREE - JENSEN
FOUR - WAVERLY
FIVE - JENSEN
SIX - WAVERLY
SEVEN - JENSEN
EIGHT - WAVERLY
NINE - JENSEN
TEN - WAVERLY
ELEVEN - JENSEN
TWELVE - WAVERLY
THIRTEEN - JENSEN
FOURTEEN - WAVERLY
FIFTEEN - JENSEN
SIXTEEN - WAVERLY
SEVENTEEN - JENSON
EIGHTEEN - WAVERLY
NINETEEN - JENSEN
TWENTY - WAVERLY
TWENTY-ONE - JENSEN
TWENTY-TWO - WAVERLY
TWENTY-THREE - JENSEN
TWENTY-FOUR - JENSEN
TWENTY-FIVE - WAVERLY
TWENTY-SIX - JENSEN
TWENTY-SEVEN - WAVERLY
TWENTY-EIGHT - JENSEN
TWENTY-NINE - WAVERLY
THIRTY - JENSEN
THIRTY-ONE - WAVERLY
THIRTY-TWO - JENSEN
EPILOGUE - WAVERLY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
COMING SOON
PROLOGUE
JENSEN
Two days ago
“Jensen.” His voice embodied the throaty, animalistic warning of a lion about to annihilate his prey.
Juliette, my father’s woman, scrambled beneath me, pushing me off her as a look of fear in her eyes clashed with the orgasmic flush that colored her cheeks. We’d imagined this scenario a hundred times before, but talking about it was different than playing it out in real life. It was a lot funnier in our minds, probably because he was such an asshole. Maybe I deserved some of it, but she sure as fuck didn’t.
And if fucking me made her feel better about her pathetic little puppy-on-a-leash life, than who was I to judge? She was hot as sin and scarcely old enough to be my mother. I had no problem plunging myself inside her on a weekly basis.
Juliette had been moaning my name for the last thirty minutes, but now all she could scream was, “No, no, no, no!”
I didn’t realize I was within an inch of my life until my father’s fingers curled around my neck. I couldn’t b
reathe. He slammed my back against the wall. I was naked. I didn’t remember being pulled off the bed, but all of a sudden I was on the other side of the room, face-to-face with the man who’d brought me into this world. He was two seconds from ripping my balls off and shoving them down my throat.
How long had he been watching us?
“You arrogant little bastard!” he seethed, his nostrils flaring as venomous spit accompanied his words.
I couldn’t breathe, but damn if my lips didn’t twist into a smile. He called me “little.” I towered over that son of a bitch, and he knew it. Plus, according to Juliette, height wasn’t the only way in which I outsized my father.
He clenched his hand harder around my throat, pressing against my windpipe as I gasped for air. Within seconds the room began to darken, and Juliette’s hysterical shrieks echoed off the walls.
“Josiah, stop! You’re going to kill him!”
CHAPTER 1
JENSEN
The social worker’s state-owned Suburban pulls to a gentle stop, waking me from my Codeine-induced, six-hour nap. I wipe the drool from my mouth and glance out the window. My eyes are still black and blue and they hurt when I squint, but I’ve learned over the years to ignore the pain; eventually, it goes away.
“We’re here, Jensen.” Her voice is annoyingly soft and sweet like cotton candy. Judging by all the photos on her work desk, she is one of those Mother Teresa types, only she’s married and she and her husband have adopted a whole orphanage-worth of system children. Brad and Angelina would be proud. Guess they didn’t have room for me. “Is that your mother?”
Standing on the front steps of a picturesque yellow colonial is a woman who resembles my mother. She’s wearing jeans and a blue sweater, and her hair is long and pulled back. It’s still the same shade of shit-brown I vaguely remember.
“Come on,” the social worker coaxes me with her voice, like it’s some kind of magical lullaby. It probably works on little kids, but not grown-ass eighteen-year-olds. “She’s excited to see you.”
Bull-fucking-shit.
I sit up, raking my hand through my dark hair and combing it into place. I don’t know much about my mother besides the fact that she left my father when I was seven, and she never came back for me. Dad told me all sorts of salacious stories, none of which I fully believed. None of what he said mattered, anyway. Her actions spoke for her.
The social worker—who I think is named Mercy, or some shit like that—climbs out of the Suburban and waddles to my side, pulling open the door until I melt out like liquefied boredom.
I glance up at my mom again. Her hands are clasped at her waist, and her mouth keeps dancing into a reserved smile, which fades and reappears like it’s on some kind of loop. She’s nervous. I just want to get this whole awkward reintroduction thing over with, be shown to my new room, and walk a straight line for the next few months.
Then my life can finally fucking start.
I just need to graduate from high school in a few weeks and crash here for the summer, and then there’s an apprenticeship waiting for me in Los Angeles with one of the best tattoo artists in the world. He called me himself the day he received my unsolicited drawings and told me there’s a spot for me in his shop this August.
I amble up the sidewalk, the earth a little unsteady from my Codeine-stupor, and approach my mother for the first time in eleven years.
“Hi, Kath,” Mercy says to her. They shake hands like they’re conducting a business deal and my mother gingerly approaches me. At least she’s willing to meet me in the middle, because this is awkward as hell.
“Jensen.” She stares at me like she’s looking at a goddamned ghost. Her trembling hand rises to my cheek and grazes the spot where my father’s gaudy wedding ring cut into my flesh during the last beating. Kath pulls her hand back quickly and covers her mouth. Her eyes well.
She cares.
I think.
“Oh, my goodness. That man is a monster.”
“Shall we head inside?” Mercy eyes the front door and Kath scans around like someone’s watching. “It’s standard procedure. I just need to ask a few questions, make sure Jensen has his own room, gets acclimated, and then we’ll sign a few things and I’ll be out of your hair for the foreseeable future.”
Kath releases a breath and nods. I’m willing to bet living with my father from age eighteen to twenty-five made her submissive and agreeable.
We head inside where two tow-headed kids are zoned out to public television cartoons. They sit cross-legged in front of a small flat screen in the living room. The walls are decorated with crocheted art knitted into sayings like “Bless This House” and “Home Sweet Home.” Not a speck of dust resides on the floors, and judging by the lack of clutter, there’s an OCD-grade cleanliness thing going on—it’s almost the exact same way Juliette kept our house in Arizona.
Must be another one of my father’s persuasions.
“Welcome to our—my—home.” Kath’s words are robotic and carefully chosen, tinted with a slight tremor.
What the fuck is she so scared of?
It’s dusk now, and the curtain-covered windows let in little light. Maybe in the shadows I remind her of my father. I can only imagine the horrible shit she had to endure. I could cut her some slack.
But then I remember she left me there to be raised by that monster and never looked back.
She saved herself from a lifetime of hell and no one else. She deserves no slack.
The three of us head toward the family room. Kath grabs a remote and turns down the volume on the cartoons. The white-haired Children of the Corn turn around with wide, brown eyes and slink up to the sofa next to her. Their stares freak me out. They look damn near identical, but one’s clearly a girl and the other a boy.
“Gretchen, Gideon,” Kath says, slipping her arms behind their backs, “this is your big brother, Jensen. Can you say hello to him before you go wash up for bed?”
The kids say nothing. They’re small. Maybe five or six. Kath titters, twisting the gold cross around her neck. I don’t give a fuck. They don’t have to say hi. The girl can’t stop staring at my swollen eyes. I imagine I look scary as hell.
“It’s all right.” I’d wink, but I can’t.
Mercy and Kath make some kind of small talk. I tune them out, scanning my perimeter. This is my new home. There are doilies on the backs of the armchairs and a big, oak table in the dining room. I count twelve chairs. Why the fuck would she need twelve chairs?
“Shall we go see Jensen’s room?” Mercy stands up, clutching her clipboard and clicking her pen.
“Well,” Kath says. Her gaze shifts from mine to Mercy’s and back. “This was all short notice… a-and while it’s certainly a wonderful blessing… we… I’m not quite prepared…”
Mercy nods. “Understandable. Does he have a bed? A place to sleep?”
Kath leads us down a hall and up a set of stairs to the second level. “There’s an extra bed in Gideon’s room he can use for now… until we figure things out.”
I don’t want to bunk with a six-year-old, but Mercy doesn’t pry, and it’s not like I have a choice.
I check my reflection in a nearby mirror, cringing, and grip the railing as we file upstairs. A moment later, we’re standing in the middle of a kindergartener’s room, complete with dinosaur wallpaper and glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Two twin beds rest opposite one another: one outfitted with dinosaur bedding and the other with a white comforter and a single, flat pillow. I assume that one’s for me.
“I always wanted a room like this,” I say, monotone. It’s a dig at Kath, reminding her of the childhood I never had, but I don’t think she picks up on it. She’s flighty and oblivious, like a hummingbird. I wonder if my father made her that way.
Mercy laughs. “This will do fine for now. This okay with you, Jensen?”
I offer a tightlipped nod, favoring the side of me that doesn’t currently have a row of bruised ribs.
The second we le
ave Dinosaurland, Kath points me toward a hall bathroom and shows me how the light switch is on the outside of the door, and then she mentions the linen closet is at the end of the hall. When we’re all downstairs again, Kath and Mercy linger at the door, talking like old friends. I’ve known Mercy a whopping twenty-four hours, but I’ve seen how she’s good with people like that. She has a way of making anyone comfortable, and I suppose that’s why she does what she does.
Mercy, with her cotton-candy voice, chubby mom hands, and warm smile, reminds me not everyone is filled with darkness.
“I better get going,” she says before sighing, as if she regrets having to leave. The smallest sliver of me doesn’t want her to go because now shit’s about to get real.
Real awkward.
“Feelings make you weak, boy.” My father’s words echo in my head. He raised me on toughened quotes mixed with scripture, which he conveniently twisted and turned to suit his lectures.
Kath shows Mercy out and shuts the door. She turns and our eyes meet. The two kids have disappeared upstairs. It’s just us. No social worker. No bullshit niceties required. I expect her to let her guard down and morph into someone else entirely, but she doesn’t. She stands there, shifting from one foot to the other, her fingers intertwined like she’s knitting a goddamned sweater with her hands.
“I remind you of him, don’t I?” I place a hand on my hip and cock my head, studying a face that hardly resembles mine. Her features are soft and bland, not hard and angled like Josiah’s and mine. Josiah’s hair is as dark as his heart, and I take after him in that regard as well. We’re built of muscle and brute, though I’m bigger than him. We wear our strength like a second skin.
She brushes past me, heading toward the kitchen where she fills a teakettle with water and nestles it on the stove.
“Tea?” she asks. She must want to talk. I’m not in the mood to hear her bullshit excuses as to why she abandoned me and walked away from her own flesh and blood. I’m not interested in hearing how sorry she is.
ARROGANT PLAYBOY Page 21
