by Shayla Black
His fingers disappeared into his wallet again and emerged this time with…
A ring?
Brooke gasped, along with every other woman at the table. Her heart jumped, tripped, tumbled, then got up and did it all over again. “What… What…”
Wes, Troy, and Jax pushed to their feet simultaneously as if they were choreographed and leaned in.
“Is that a fucking ring?” This from Troy.
“Mom,” Justin complained. “I can’t hear.”
“That’s the point,” Tammy told him. “Now be quiet so I can.”
Brooke pried her gaze from the gorgeous sparkling band she couldn’t even see because of the tears blurring her vision. Man, this wasn’t falling into the right fairy-tale order of progression at all, yet that didn’t make her want any of it less—no matter what order it came in.
“You bought her a ring,” Wes accused, “and you didn’t tell us?”
“What the hell?” Jax wanted to know.
“Girls, girls,” Rubi told the three of them in her sweetest tone, “don’t get jealous. You’ll all get yours when the time is right.”
Wes spun around and picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. Then smacked her ass. Rubi squealed and laughed, and as the other twittered with teasing and excitement, Brooke leaned in, pressed her cheek to Keaton’s, and said, “We need to talk.”
Rubi pushed against Wes’s back, struggling to shoot a glare over her shoulder at Keaton. “You, mister, had better get that fine ass of yours out of that chair and drop to your knees. As in now.”
Wes spanked her again. “Who’s ass are you calling fine? Those words have my name stamped all over them, so don’t be applying them to another guy. Understand?”
Brooke laughed at their antics, but everything inside her vibrated and jumped and snapped. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, utterly overwhelmed, whispering, “Oh my God, Keaton…”
“My knees are busy at the moment,” he told Rubi without looking away from Brooke. “What’s going on, beautiful? Talk to me.”
“Do you feel those daggers piercing your skull?” Jax asked Keaton. “’Cause I’m pretty sure Rubi’s eyes are registered as lethal weapons with every branch of special forces in the military.”
“It’s true,” Lexi agreed. “You should really just do what she says. Besides, it’s a photo op, and you know we always need promo material for the website.”
“Hell no,” Jax disagreed. “Don’t you dare let our groupies know Keaton’s off the market. We’re droppin’ like flies.”
“And what, exactly,” Lexi wanted to know, “is the problem with letting ‘groupies’ know you’re off the market?”
“The more you’re around them,” Keaton said, referencing the other Renegades and their girls, “the easier they become to ignore. But the natives are getting restless, so you’re going to have to tell me pretty quick, because the girls can only play smoke and mirrors for so long before those guys cut themselves loose again.”
“Oh my God…” She curled his T-shirt into her fingers. “I don’t think doing that here is a good idea. I’m not sure how you’re going to react—”
“To you being pregnant?”
Brooke’s breath caught. Her eyes locked on his. No one else seemed to hear what he said. They continued to chatter and tease, but it faded as a bubble seemed to close around Brooke and Keaton. Then her heartbeat grew really loud in her ears. And every breath she took sounded like a rasp across sandpaper.
“You…? How did you…?” Her stomach flipped so hard, she winced and covered it with her hand.
“That’s one of the ways,” he said. “Your exhaustion was another one. All these tears spilling out of you—when you’re happy, when you’re sad, when you’re mad, when you’re confused. The way you forget your keys and your phone. The way you keep knocking over your drinks at restaurants.”
“That doesn’t… How the hell do you…?”
“My sister is pregnant,” he said. “I may not have mentioned it because I only found out about two months ago and I only remember it when I call home, which is usually when I’m on the road, because that’s when I have time, hanging out in the hotel room. And every time I call home, all I hear about is the misery she’s going through, which sparks tales of how hard my mother’s pregnancies were with us. That, along with the way you’ve been feeling for going on two months, adding in that broken-condom episode about three months ago… Yeah, I’ve been suspicious for about three or four weeks. I’ve been pretty damn sure for about two.”
“Jesus.” She squeezed her eyes closed and rubbed her forehead. “I didn’t even figure it out until yesterday.”
“You’re juggling a shitload of stress, Brooke. Your mind is in a dozen other places, and you always put everyone else first. It doesn’t surprise me that your own needs weren’t on your radar.”
When she opened her eyes, the first sight that registered in her brain was his soft smile. “You’re…not, I don’t know, upset?”
“Hell no.” God, his eyes sparkled with excitement. “I can’t fuckin’ wait.”
Relief washed in. Only to be followed instantly by the realization that his proposal had been prompted by the pregnancy.
Fuck. This. Roller coaster.
“Well,” she exhaled and pulled her whiny, pansy ass back into line. “That’s good news.”
“So…” He lifted his brows. “You’re happy about it too?”
That wasn’t exactly the right word. Shocked, terrified, already in love with the idea of having his child…but happy? She released a breath, and a smile fluttered over her lips. “Yeah.” Then she added, “But, look, I don’t want to rush into anything. Our schedules are crazy, we haven’t been seeing each other when we live in the same town… Maybe we should just stay where we are for a while and see how things go.”
A tarnish dulled his smile, but he ran a hand over her hair. “I bought the ring four months ago, Brooke. Long before any thoughts of kids came to mind.” His fingers came around and slid over her jaw. “I knew those first few days after you’d left Austin, I wasn’t going to be able to live without you. Like I told you in the beginning, I’m not good at this, and I’m going to make mistakes, but one mistake I will never make again is letting you go. Because I love you more than anything.”
She dropped her forehead against his and started bawling.
And Keaton started laughing.
“Hold on,” Ellie said. “I’m not tipsy enough to be hearing things. And I’m pretty darn sure I heard someone say pregnant.”
“What?” A chorus of voices followed, both male and female.
Then hugs and high fives went around the group, while Brooke rested her head on Keaton’s shoulder and let him support her and take care of her. And the feeling of having him there, wanting to be there for her, for them, for the family they would soon become…completed her in a way she’d never even known she needed.
And finally, Keaton pressed a kiss to her temple. “Are you ready to go home now, princess?”
“Princess?” She laughed the word. “No one’s ever called me princess.”
“Well, get used to it,” he said, his cocky attitude swaggering through his voice. “Because you’re going to get treated like effing royalty now, baby.”
She was smiling when he set her on her feet, then dropped to one knee.
“Rubi has a point,” he said. “We’re only doing this once, so we should do it right.” With his eyes on hers, he said, “Are you ready to do this with me? This crazy life? Together? Forever?”
She choked out a laugh. “As long as we’re together forever—absolutely.”
“Then let’s get some princess-level bling on this pretty finger.”
He slipped the sparkling band with a center diamond she’d have to appreciate in detail another time—maybe in another month or two when the hormones leveled out and she could stop crying at every little thing—onto her left ring finger so gently, she almost didn’t feel it. But she felt
a shift inside her. A grounding force. A deep and honest love.
And when he tilted his head back and looked up at her with the same love filling every inch of his expression, Brooke wished she could capture the moment in time.
He sighed, an utterly content sound that resonated inside Brooke. “I love you—”
She cupped his face and bent, pressing her mouth to his. When she pulled back, the cheers of their friends and family filtered in, and Brooke matched and finished Keaton’s sentiment with, “—so very much.”
About Skye Jordan
Skye’s New York Times bestselling novels are all about enjoying that little wild streak we all have, but probably don’t let out often enough. About those fantasies we usually don’t get the opportunity to indulge. About stretching limits, checking out the dark side, playing naughty and maybe even acting a little wicked. They’re about escape and fun and pleasure and romance. And, yes, even love, because Skye is ultimately a happily ever after kinda gal.
Skye is a California native recently transplanted to the East Coast and living in Alexandria, Virginia, just outside Washington DC with her husband of 25 years. She has two grown daughters in college in Colorado and Oregon. In her free time she’s always taking classes and attending seminars. She currently loves rowing on the Potomac, exploring new places via writing retreats with friends, and classes in watercolor, baking and cooking.
Make sure you sign up for her newsletter to get the first news of her upcoming releases, giveaways, freebies and more! http://bit.ly/2bGqJhG
Also by Skye Jordan
RECKLESS, Renegades Book 1
REBEL, Renegades Book 2
RICOCHET, Renegades Book 3
RUMOR, Renegades Book 4
RELENTLESS, Renegades Book 5
RENDEZVOUS, Renegades Book 6
FORBIDDEN FLING, Wildwood Book 1
WILD KISSED, Wildwood Book 2
QUICK TRIP, Rough Riders Hockey Book 1
HOT PUCK, Rough Riders Hockey Book 2
DIRTY SCORE, Rough Riders Hockey Book 3
WILD ZONE, Rough Riders Hockey Book 4
INTIMATE ENEMIES, Covert Affairs Book 1
FIRST TEMPTATION, Covert Affairs Book 2
SINFUL DECEPTION, Covert Affairs Book 3
Get a FREE copy of THE RISK, Xtreme Heroes Book 1, by signing up for Skye’s newsletter here: http://bit.ly/2bGqJhG
Secret Sins
by
CD Reiss
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Lawyers are strange birds. The strangest of them is Jean Siska, who put Drew at the proper end of the table for his station, corrected my lingo, and made sure Margie was studying the right cases for the right exam, at the right time.
Erik, as always, found more typos than the most diligent proofreader and then formatted this book like a boss.
I was pretty terrified to have this beta’d, since the secret, while pretty shocking to most readers, would knock fans of The Submission Series right over. I didn’t want it to get out. So thank you to the Camorra for their tight lips.
At one point, I doubted myself. The carefully constructed out-of-orderness of this story seemed like a conceit rather than a necessity. Laurelin Paige and Jenn Watson read a sequential version, assessed it as a bore, and set my doubts straight. Thank you.
Thank you Lauren, Laura, and Kristy for looking at the cover 100 times, and the girls in FYW for the same. Indie publishing really isn’t all that indie, and that’s a good thing.
My Goodreads group, CD Canaries, has a theory thread with spoilers and story possibilities for all things Drazen, especially Daddy/Declan Drazen. I hear it’s razor sharp.
All the authors who blurbed, thank you.
The author community is shaken up regularly, and I’m thankful to the women and gentlemen who keep it about what’s on the page.
Chapter 1
1982
“How old are you anyway?”
The guy asking had long strawberry-red hair and wore only shorts and a single sock. He’d tattooed a treble clef on his Adam’s apple that started a symphony of notes all over his chest and abs. His name was Strat, and whenever his shirtless torso showed up in Rock Beat, Lynn went crazy trying to play the song he’d had drawn on his body. It sounded like crap.
“Eighteen, asshole,” I snarled, letting loose a yard-long cone of cigarette smoke. I stamped out what was left of my cigarette. “You going to call or what?”
He and Indy snickered. I saw them look at each other over their cards. They thought they had my bra off next. They were wrong. Only two hands beat a full house, and if one of them had a straight flush or four of a kind, I was tits to the rail.
“I’ll raise you.” Strat tossed a ten in the center of the table.
We’d been going for four hours already. Indy had met me on the beach and, after a short chat, invited me to play poker. Yoni and Lynn were already in the hotel room for the possibility of a threesome, which was how I’d ended up on the beach alone. But poker? I could do poker.
My friends hadn’t lasted long. Yoni and Lynn had passed out when they ran out of cash. Keeping up with a couple of cash-rich rockers who didn’t know what to do with their first chunk of advance money was hard.
Indy/Indiana McCaffrey played guitar for Bullets and Blood. I’d met him on the beach first. I’d stayed cool even though he was completely gorgeous and charming, but when Strat came into the hotel suite, I almost had a coronary. I was a huge fan. I’d played their debut album, Kentucky Killer, for two weeks straight until Dad took my cassette. Took the Walkman too. I bought another of each but hid them.
“Call,” I said, tossing in my ten.
Indy threw down his cards. “Y’all are too rich for me.”
Indy had sun-kissed brown hair and a ginger beard. He was down to his skivs and a bandana around his neck, toned and tan from head to toe. I’d taken all of his money, and Strat and I had been pretty equally matched. Now I was going to break him.
“Too rich and too young,” Strat said, popping a peanut.
Lynn coughed on the couch. Stretched.
God, please don’t let her puke.
“I told you. I’m eighteen.”
I don’t know if I mentioned this. I wasn’t eighteen. I won’t say if I was younger or older. You can go figure it out.
Strat laughed. “Flygirl…”
Flygirl was a pretty common way to address a girl in the eighties, crossing race and geography, but I still felt as if it made me attractive to him. Strat chewed his peanut as if it had the mass of a pack of gum, chin up, looking at me in my bra. I felt naked.
I was naked, but I hadn’t felt like it until his eyes swung around the curves of my body. I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but he finished before I could get a mental jacket on.
“You got a mouth like an old lady,” Strat said.
His stare froze me in place. The backs of my thighs got sticky on the pleather.
“Never heard a girl talk like you.”
Green was the rarest eye color, and his looked like precious Chinese jade.
He was so hot.
A hot rock star.
I put my cards down, snapping each one in the fan as I laid them out. “Aces full of sevens. You got anything in your hand besides your dick?”
Indy whooped. “She’s got you, Stratty-boy. The pot and… what do you have left? Pants and a sock, bro. Go for the sock.”
Indy was an amateur. He was beautiful and brilliant, but he didn’t act twenty. He acted like the guys my own age.
Eighteen.
Or whatever.
Strat hadn’t taken his eyes off me. Hadn’t even glanced at my full house. Didn’t even look down when he laid his cards on the table. I couldn’t move for too many seconds. His look wasn’t a look. It was a black hole. All gravity.
I tore myself from his gaze and looked at his cards.
Four deuces.
Fuck.
Losing to deuces was insulting.
Strat leaned b
ack, the coils of his song all over his ripped body. The pot was his, but he didn’t reach for it. He just worked me over with his eyes, arm over the back of his chair, knees apart, daring me to search for the bulge in his shorts. I breathed deeply but couldn’t get enough air. My lungs had shrunk.
Indy looked at me under the table. “No socks, man. Shit. You’re down to not too much.”
I was in over my head. Way fucking over. Yet I liked it. More than liked it, I was comfortable when I was out of my depth. All the moving pieces, the inconsistency of the cards, the mess I was making excited and soothed me, a contradiction that translated into belonging.
I could fix it. I fixed it every time. My grades were amazing. I was the liaison for the Suffragette Society. I ran the school stage crew like a military operation. It was too easy. If you wanted an omelet, you had to break some eggs.
I’m not saying I chased musicians around after the sun went down because I sat on the edge of my bed and decided to make a mess of my life in order to fix it back up. Insight like that is no more than Monday morning quarterbacking.
I stood and put my hands behind my back, reaching between shoulder blades.
Strat licked his lips, taking his eyes from my crotch and leveling them on mine. I looked right at the motherfucker and pinched my bra hook. He was going to see my tits. The nipples were already hard from his attention. I had pretty good odds on a little damp spot where my panties had been on the pleather.
“Why don’t you stop for a minute there?” he said.
I stopped. I didn’t have to. Rules were rules. The bra came off. But he was effectively changing them.
Also, I didn’t want to take my bra off.
Strat leaned forward a little. A blade of copper hair slid off his shoulder and swung in front of his cheek.
“What?” I asked. “Scared of a little tit?”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Cinnamon.” I flicked my head a little, and my own red hair got out of my eyes. “But you can call me Cin.”
