Not Without You

by Clare James

  Not Without You

  Impossible Love Book #3

  By Clare James

  Not Without You Copyright © 2015 Clare James, C.J. Books

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Perfect Pear Creative Covers. Cover image used under license from shutterstock.com. Editing by Mickey Reed.

  About the Book

  Falling in love was the easy part …

  Noah and Tabby’s love story wasn’t typical … or particularly romantic. After all, he picked her up at a bar – or maybe she picked him up. Either way, he saw her naked before he even knew her name.

  Tabby came to him broken, but determined. And Noah knew how to fix her. It was a meeting of the bodies. A retraining of the mind. A connection that soon infected the heart.

  But after two years, Noah’s old tricks aren’t working, and Tabby is shutting down again. This time, he refuses to play games. He wants all of her, or nothing at all.

  Not Without You returns to the eclectic neighborhood where Noah and Tabby met, and where they are now discovering that life doesn’t get easier after you leave campus. What began as a sweet story of love and redemption, turns into something dark, intense … and, at times, disturbing. And if they’re not careful, it will destroy them both.

  *Not recommended for readers under 18

  Praise for the Impossible Love Series

  "A touching tale of love and human redemption. Readers of Tammara Webber and Colleen Hoover will enjoy this book." - A Love Affair with Books

  "I absolutely loved this book. The emotion that flows through the pages just takes your breath away." - Sassy Book Lovers

  "Wow! Compelling, thought provoking, sexy and passionate would just scratch the surface of the depth of emotion that Before You Go will evoke in you." -Romance Addiction

  "I really enjoyed this book. AND let me tell ya the sexual tension between the two characters was HOT and I wanted to scream, JUST DO IT ALREADY!!" -The Book Trollop

  "I love how sweet Noah is with a tiny mix of Alpha male in there. I read the book in one sitting. Definitely would recommend the book." -Loverly's Book Blog

  "Perfect, perfect, perfect! The chemistry and desire they have for each other ignites and is INSANE!" -Jelena's Book Blog

  "Sweet, hot and funny as hell. I literally devoured this book in one sitting." -The Book Café

  "Clare James is an awesome author and if you love New Adult you should definitely check her books out." -Janhvi, The Readdicts

  TABBY

  The honeymoon was over …

  Not literally, of course. We never made it that far. Noah and I had two blissful years. Make that one year, five months, and six days of bliss.

  In that time together, we’d done just about everything a (relatively) normal couple does.

  There was college graduation—where, incidentally, Dad bawled his eyes out and Mom critiqued my wardrobe choice. Christmas in Illinois—where I had to prevent Noah from hunting down Thomas Richardson. Hanukkah with the Adlers. Weddings of distant cousins. Funerals for a great uncle and a beloved professor at the university.

  There was the epic Jules and Foster break-up; an even more epic Noah and Foster make-up. Then came the new jobs and new apartments, and new challenges.

  Still, Noah and I were crazy in love. We spent many lazy days in bed, followed by wild nights. We even took a super sexy vacay to Cozumel—thank you, Jules for the black bikini loan that got me very, very lucky.

  Life in coupledom was more than I knew it could be.

  But shortly after that? Let’s just say that things started to get a little sticky.

  Here’s the thing. I thought my boyfriend had it all figured out. He was always so sure of himself, so confident. Sure, he struggled like the rest of us. Rent money, irrational bosses, a demanding girlfriend (heh), family drama, crazy friends. But he took it all in stride. Nothing surprised him. Little made him angry.

  He meditated and read the Bhagavad Gita. And not in that weird look-at-me-I’m-so-enlightened way. He didn’t wear Kabbalah bracelets, walk around in Birkenstocks, grow a beard, or complain about working for the man. He played guitar to relax, went to temple and/or church when the mood struck, worked hard, and buried himself in books. The rest of the time? He loved me.

  That was Noah.

  Me, on the other hand? Not quite so … together. I still fought with my mother, went to group therapy, got into trouble with Jules, had bad dreams, struggled at dance practice, and made the occasional off-the-mark comment during my graduate classes. I also never missed the opportunity to give my brother crap about his girlfriend, Jenna Peterson, a.k.a. Noah’s ex and my nemesis. And though she and I managed to remain civil when people were looking, I was confident we’d throw down one day soon.

  Still, Noah didn’t judge. Didn’t impose his goodness on me.

  Until April—when something we were completely unprepared for happened. It was a little embarrassing, a lot personal, and neither one of us wanted to give in. We were at an impasse.

  But I’ll let Noah tell that story …

  Chapter 1

  “The course of true love never did run smooth.”

  Shakespeare’s words jump from the page and smack me—a sucker punch to the face. I hate to bash the Bard, but “true love never did run smooth?” No fucking shit!

  I just wish someone would’ve told me. Not that it would’ve changed anything. Nothing could’ve kept me from Tabitha Kelly. Still, it would have been nice to be prepared.

  Fiddling with my copy of A Midsummer’s Night Dream, I take the last swig of my coffee. Not the best move considering my mood. I’m jumpy as hell already.

  The reminder goes off on my phone. It’s time to get moving. My girl has a show tonight—hence the date with Shakespeare. Once Tabby got the part, I dug the play out of one of my many book bins, which was no easy task considering our place (and, more importantly, my library of books) is in shambles. We moved into the townhouse over four months ago, but we’re still fighting over the office space. So the bulk of my books remains in the hall closet.

  I thought it’d be a good idea to have a refresher of the story so I’d know what’s going on, since there’ll be no dialogue in tonight’s performance. After reading the second act, I’m glad it’ll just be dancing, that everything will be conveyed with the body rather than words. Tab calls it modern lyrical. I call it a reprieve, and I’m damn thankful I won’t have sit through two hours of actors whining about the hardships of love.

  This is Tabby’s second production this year and it’s only April. Between the company, her studies, and me, she doesn’t have a lot of time. But dancing isn’t something she could give up again. She says that it keeps her balanced. Hell, I’d say that it brought her back to life.

  Still, I worry that she’s overdoing it and wish she would’ve taken a little time off before she started graduate school. But with a psych major, it’s hard to get any type of job without a master’s degree. I hope to get back to the university someday as well, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to work for the Minneapolis newspaper when the job came my way after graduation.

  It’s not glamourous by any means. I’m basically the newsroom’s bitch. I will do anything asked of me: listen to police sc
anners, chase ambulances, even dig through a sleazy senator’s garbage. And I’ll do it even though it usually means unpaid overtime. For me, it’s all about paying my dues.

  Actually, I like having the break—a place to be, things to do. Especially with the way things are going on the home front. I guess I could chalk up my problems with Tabby to our schedules … but that’d be a lie. Yet, despite everything that’s going on between us, there’s no way I’d miss her show tonight.

  When I can’t delay any longer, I head out of the coffee shop. I have twenty minutes to get into my seat before the lights begin to flicker. And I will not be the asshole who goes into a theater late. No matter how much I want to avoid the night.

  I roll the play up, stuff it into my back pocket, and head out down Washington Avenue to make my way to the theater, waves of excitement (and dread) rolling around in my gut because of what’s about to take place. Unfortunately, my dick feels no guilt, so it’s hardening behind my fly the closer I get to my destination.

  I’m the only one coming to the show tonight. Everyone in Tab’s fan club was in attendance last night. Her parents, Michael, Foster, and Jules all made it out. So I’m going to this performance solo. For more reasons than one.

  I fall into step with the crowd on the sidewalk. It’s Thursday evening, and the city is buzzing with college kids ready to get their drink on. And yes, I’ve graduated, so they are college kids to me. Most of the snow has melted away, and there’s not a hat or jacket to be found. Fifty degrees and you’d think it was eighty by the way people are dressed. Typical Minnesotans out and about after a longer hibernation. Even in my sullen mood, I can breathe a little easier out here.

  Familiar faces smile as I walk into the theater. Tabby’s been with the company for over a year now, and The Paramount is their typical venue, so I’ve gotten to know the staff and some of the loyal fans.

  Wilson, the stagehand, catches my eye near the theater entrance.

  “Did they make it?” I ask once he’s finished with his call on the walkie-talkie.

  “One dozen yellow tulips,” Wilson says. “She went nuts for them, like always.”

  “Thanks for getting them to her. I really appreciate it.”

  He gives me the thumbs up and then goes back to the walkie.

  I walk inside the theater, take my seat, and page through the playbill so I know exactly when to expect Tab. As I settle in, a prickle on my neck tells me that someone is staring at me, but I figure it’s just my guilty conscience.

  The feeling doesn’t subside, so I scan my row of seats. I can’t help but notice the culprit four spaces down. A huge guy some might call a meathead—not that I’d judge. He leans over and meets my eyes. Then he laughs and shakes his head as if he’s just heard the best joke. Or that he’s on the inside of one. It’s unnerving.

  Who does this jackass belong to?

  He clearly doesn’t fit in, but this area tends to be where the dancers’ fans sit. They usually get a nice block of tickets to pick up on discount. Maybe he’s one of the girls’ latest hookups. Whatever. I put him out of my mind. After all, I have more pressing things to worry about.

  The lights blink into darkness. The rustle of the crowd fades into the background as the music begins. Tabby is a fairy in the production. The lead fairy, I have to add. Proud boyfriend and all that.

  I would like her to be more than that—more than just a girlfriend—but my girl moves at her own pace. She’s not ready for more. If I’m being honest, I’m not either. So we’re …

  I guess you’d say we’re floundering through our relationship, struggling to make it work.

  The curtains open and Tab manifests on stage. There’s no other way to explain it. She simply appears, looking … otherworldly. Something stirs under my skin like it always does when I look at her. She’s wearing a skin-skimming dress with wings on the back. Her hair falls in waves over her shoulders, making her look younger and even more innocent than I know she really is. And when she begins to move to the music, I swear everyone in attendance holds their breath. She’s fluid and light as she floats across the stage. I get lost in her, never tiring of watching her body. The body that used to want my touch.

  I’m desperate to be close to her again. I want things to be the way they used to be. But we’ve lost that. And now, I have no way of reaching her. Well, no way that I’m comfortable with.

  As the show continues, the fairies cause trouble, the lovers change partners, and the dream becomes reality. I watch as Tabby tells the story with movement, and begin to feel that closeness to her again. It reminds me of the first time I saw her perform. The way she lit up from the inside made it hard for me to breathe. I was captivated, whipped, and hungry for her. Always. Things were so new back then—anything was possible. She put her trust in me and I was determined that she’d never regret it.

  I thought I’d done my part.

  Too soon, the dance company is taking their bow. Tabby stands stage left, looking so damn alive. She’s such a spirited little thing. Even from my seat, I can see the flush of her skin, her rapid breathing, the shift of weight from foot to foot. The energy inside is spilling out and over her. My hands itch to touch her, hold her.

  I hate what’s going to come next. What I have to do.

  No, that’s not true. It’s not what I have to do. It’s what I’m choosing to do. Even though I know that it’s wrong.

  I wait in my seat as the crowd filters out around me. The meathead walks past my seat even though it’s completely clear of people in the other direction. He’s deliberately making his way over to me. Instinctually, my body stiffens as if a threat is near.

  “Enjoy your night,” he says with a smirk, again like he’s in on some private joke.

  “Okay,” I mumble, shaking it off.

  The sound in the theater quiets, and it’s not long before the room is void of any sound. The stage lights go down and anticipation fills my head.

  It’s time.

  I send Tabby a quick text and leave my seat, sneaking out through the side door and into the hallway that leads to one of the dance rooms. My footsteps echo in the still space, which does nothing for my nerves. If I were writing about this setting, I’d say that it was the perfect place for a crime. Cold and dim. Quiet and almost eerie. My feet accelerate, and my heart follows suit—a murder of crows flutters in my chest, trying to escape.

  A breath. That’s all I need. A deep, fortifying breath.

  It’s too late to turn around anyway. I may be a nice guy, but I’m no pussy and I won’t shy away from this.

  Head on, Adler. Head on.

  That’s how I approach everything.

  The door is cracked open when I get there, the faintest light leaking through. Once I push it open, she’s in full view. She’s waiting for me in the empty room, her right leg stretch out along the ballet barre as I knew it would be.

  “Wasn’t sure you’d show,” she said, swinging her head toward me. Her eyes are so wicked, so full of promises. Promises I know she’ll keep.

  I shouldn’t do this.

  Walk away, I tell my legs. Just walk away.

  But I can’t. I don’t want to, and I hate myself for it.

  Two small steps are all it takes to slip inside the room.

  A warm laugh falls from her lips. She knows I’m nervous. I think she likes it that way. It pisses me off that she has this hold over me, but it also makes me fucking hot as hell.

  So I do the only thing I can.

  I shut the door behind me.

  Chapter 2

  “You shouldn’t be in here, you know,” she says as she flips her leg off the barre and spins around to meet me. Her full lips are turned up and playful; I have a pounding need to take a bite.

  “Well, I shouldn’t be doing a lot of things,” I tell her, which is the absolute truth.

  The first time we met like this was several months ago now. I was shocked as hell when she summoned me to this very room and too damn curious not to show. She was s
o fucking beautiful that it took my breath away. Her need for me was so great that I wanted to give myself to her. But in the end, I couldn’t. And that only made things worse. We’ve both been craving each other, craving this, ever since.

  The question is: Will I actually go through with it this time?

  I try to turn my mind off and let my body do the thinking. That’s what she wants anyway. And if I’m honest, that’s what I want too. This is where I want to be. It’s what I want to do.

  “No kidding.” Her soft voice snaps me back into the present. “What did we get ourselves into?”

  “Trouble,” I say, my voice low and rough.

  “Mmm, trouble.” Her eyes burn into mine and her words shoot straight to my groin.

  Shit.

  I freeze, trying to summon my willpower. Doesn’t work. My jaw twitches. There’s no going back now. Not with the way she’s looking at me. And surely not with the way my dick is responding. In three long strides, I close the distance between us.

  She unties the soft-pink wrap covering her chest and watches as it falls to the floor. Left in only a thin, black leotard, her tight buds rise under the fabric.

  She slides the leotard straps down over her shoulders before pulling it down to her waist to reveal the most gorgeous breasts: full and heavy, begging for my touch. She’s a gift, for me and me alone.

  I drink her in. It’s all I can do not to rip the clothes from her body and throw her over the barre. The thought disgusts me, but that’s what we’re here for—to give in. To stop thinking and let that raw need take over, and take us under.

  My fingers instantly move to her impossibly soft skin. Touching her is the most insane release to the build-up that’s been going on for days. The tips of my fingers ghost over her tawny nipples, lightly pinching and pulling them.