Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 Caleigh Hernandez
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Except for the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles, and lyrics mentioned in the novel Love Needs Another Chance are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Love Needs Another Chance
Truth About Love Book 3
Copyright © 2016 Caleigh Hernandez
Prologue: Another Sad Love Song
March 2007 - Izzy
Eight weeks ago, a picture of my husband with another woman destroyed me.
Three weeks ago, Diego was on his way to a meeting with said woman: Sasha Stafford. Diego agreed to come home after the meeting. I got a text instead.
Trust. Me.
Two weeks ago, I finally saw him. I watched Diego leave our home with his bags packed.
This morning, on the cover of every rag and magazine in the London area is a picture of Sasha and Diego on the red carpet of one of the city’s largest annual charity events. Their pictures from the red carpet along with pictures of them schmoozing and dancing were everywhere, showing up on every television ‘In Celebrity News’ with a variation of the headline that delivered the nail in my heart:
London football royalty, Sasha Stafford and London United Superstar Midfielder, Diego Santo taking it off the pitch.
Eight weeks earlier...
Chapter One: Mr. Brightside (Part 1)
January 2007
With the ball rolling on how the fuck this happened, I kicked the guys out to go home to their family or wherever. It was time to throw myself a colossal pity party and I didn’t want an audience, moral support, or tough love. I just wanted my bottle and bad attitude.
I sound like a petulant child, but the bottle I need is filled with the nectar of the gods…tequila.
I grab a glass from the cabinet and plant myself at the table in front of my laptop. Pouring myself a glass, I flip through pictures of us. Izzy always liked to make sure I had recent photos of us on here. Sometimes, she’d even make little photo slide shows.
The first shot burns a trail down my throat and I don’t try to alleviate the fire with a cough. I revel in the pain; welcome the punishment for the numb it will bring.
Three days ago, that tabloid image was sent to Izzy and shattered my world.
The shards of my life now hang precariously in the air, suspended by the single belief that Izzy and I were meant to be. I found a sliver of comfort knowing our bond had been tested before...
Shit had it been tested!
I really fucked up then…
Chapter Two: Big Yellow Taxi
April 1999
Okay, Izzy. I silently yell at my ringing cell phone. I know. I fucked up. I missed your birthday. Told Baz he couldn’t go either. He’s avoiding me because that was a total dick move.
My phone keeps ringing because my mental conversation isn’t being received by the caller.
I get it. You’re going to keep calling.
The blonde beneath me wiggles her perky as hell tits in my face, distracting me from the screen. I press and hold the power button.
Shoulda turned this off a while ago.
I know I told Izzy I’d be there. But I couldn’t do it.
I chase the thought with another shot from the glass wedged between Blondie’s breasts and the lime between Dirty’s teeth, our tongues working together to squeeze the juice from the fruit.
My mind wanders back to Izzy. With her, I’m someone different.
“My turn,” says Dirty.
I see shit like sunrises and sunsets and think of her.
Dirty doesn’t wait for me to respond.
I smell coffee, I think of her. I don’t even like coffee.
Dirty and Blondie have me pinned on my back, my shoulders propped up against the wall.
But the smell of coffee, it makes me thirsty…for her. My balls tighten at the thought of tasting Izzy.
Dirty’s got dirty written all over her, hence the nickname. Names are out of place in tonight’s festivities. She slides down my chest, her tits igniting a burn in my balls.
With Izzy, I see tomorrows, ever afters, and forevers.
She stops with her tits hugging my cock, her mouth just above my belly button. “Hold still,” she tells me. “Jenna,” is all she says next, but Blondie must know what she means, because she’s aiming the opening of the bottle just above Dirty’s mouth.
What fucking nineteen year old wouldn’t get claustrophobic?
Dirty sinks lower, the friction pulls a groan out of me, her mouth at the base of my dick, she licks her lips and Blondie begins to pour.
I’m not me. I’m too young to think of forever.
Dirty lets out a satisfied moan as she works her tongue up my pelvis, the side of it gliding against my dick. “AHHHH!” my mind has a singular focus: Dirty’s tongue. She laps up the trail of Cuervo Gold all the way up, rubbing her tits and taking advantage of the wetness her tongue and the tequila left behind.
When she’s finished drinking up the pool of alcohol from my belly button, she wraps her alcohol dampened lips around my cock, taking all of me down her throat at a torturous pace. She gets to the bottom of my shaft and hums. Dirty’s tongue slides back and forth against the main vein and the blood drains from my head.
“I want a taste,” whines Blondie.
Dirty slides off and Blondie mounts up. She repeats the same steps Dirty took, but where Dirty only slid her tongue back and forth, Blondie manages to have my cock throat deep and swirls her tongue up and around the shaft.
“Izzy,” I moan.
“Izzy?” Dirty and Blondie say in unison.
“Who the fuck is Izzy?” demands Dirty.
Fuck.
That wasn’t just in my head. “Easy. I said, ‘easy.’” I flash them my signature smile. “Blondie here is trying to finish me off before I’ve licked the poison from your snow white skin.”
Dirty eats it up. “Santo Feo,” purrs Blondie, “I’ll be your poison anytime.”
Fucking Santo Feo. Who’s the man? I’m the man. Back to Dirty and Blondie. No more Izzy.
I trade places with Blondie her turn to be pinned to the wall and bed. I instruct Dirty to aim the spout of t
he bottle of tequila. “Right here,” I point to the valley between the swell of Blondie’s breasts.
I position myself at the little dangly thing hanging from Blondie’s belly button. I tease the piece of jewelry with my tongue while I wait for the liquid mind-eraser.
“Pour already, Teresa.” I chuckle at Blondie’s impatience.
“Chill out,” Dirty answers back as she pours first down the valley and next over Blondie’s right nipple. As Dirty sucks on the pebbled nub, I work to lap up the bitter tequila pooling around Blondie’s body jewelry.
“You like that, Jenna?” Dirty asks.
“Oh, yea—”
The door swings open—”WHAT THE FU—”
Holy fucking shit!
Shit!
Shit!
Shit!
There’s Izzy—Shit!—standing just past the frame of my dorm room door. While she just stands there with a look of disbelief on her face, I spring into action, leaping from the bed and pulling on my jersey shorts in just a few seconds. She still stands there stock still. Her eyes say it all. I step in front of her, ushering her out of the room, and pull the door shut behind me.
Izzy snaps out of it. “Hey, Diego,” Izzy’s voice is barely a whisper heard over the deafening silence of the dorm halls. “Go fuck yourself.” She spins on her heals and walks off. It’s my turn to be stuck.
“Izzy, bella,” I reach for her hand, but there’s nothing but air. What the fuck?
“Don’t bother, Santo Feo,” my field nickname is venom on her tongue. “Clearly we have different ideas of ‘working it out’ and unless you want this floor and the ones above and below to hear our business, you’ll let me leave,” she threatens. Part of the terms of my scholarship is to remain out of trouble and stay under the radar. The door creaks open behind me. I don’t have to look to know that Dirty and Blondie are standing with my bedding wrapped around them.
The further away she gets the harder it is for me to breathe. When she’s down the hall, I slip back into my room, pushing through Blondie and Dirty. “Who was—” Blondie starts to ask.
“That’s Izzy?” Dirty hisses. “How are you going to call out another bitch’s name when you’re with us?”
I bite back my urge to be unnecessarily vicious because she called my Izzy a bitch. “Party’s over, ladies,” I declare through gritted teeth.
It’s not their fault that as the best thing slipped through my fingers I finally realized she was the best thing. I’ve shoved my feet into my shoes and grabbed the t-shirt draped across my soccer bag. A split second later, I’m bounding down the length of the hall and down the stairs. I blast through the lobby doors of the dorm and into the chilly late night air. I don’t bother to stop to put on my shirt; it’s up and over my head as I proceed to where Izzy would normally park.
Fuck! This can’t be it!
I can see her now. I kick up the gravel as I switch from sidewalk to asphalt. I see her silhouette stiffen in the hue of the dim parking lot lights when she hears me. Once I’m closer, I call out to her. “Izzy.”
She keeps her back to me. After she reaches her car, she presses her back to the side and looks anywhere but my direction. Her head shifts. I look to see what’s caught her attention and I realize she’s not driving; she’s waiting for the cab that’s headed our way.
Well, she was waiting. She’s on the move towards the taxi. “Izzy,” I plead again, but it falls into the silent night surrounding me as she closes the cab door.
Fuck.
As the cab passes me, I catch her face. I know that look. I’ve seen it many times when Sebastian and I were in high school and he was about to pummel someone. There’s a name for that look.
Reckless.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Thank fuck for speed dial because I’m ready to smash something and this phone is looking like a viable option. “Baz,” I bark when he answers.
“What the hel—”
“I fucked up, Baz.”
Whatever it was he was doing, he’s not doing it anymore. “What do you need me to do?” The brother I’ve never had and the best friend you’d kill for, I tell him I’m in trouble and he drops everything.
“It’s Izzy.”
“Oh, shit! Her birthday party!?” I can hear the question and condemnation in his voice. “I fucking told—”
“That ain’t all of it.”
“I’m on my way.”
“In the parking lot.” I flip my phone shut before he says anything else. I’m pacing back and forth treading a groove into the sidewalk nearest the parking lot entrance.
I practically rip the car door open when Sebastian finally gets there. “It’s about fucking time.” It’s been less than ten minutes. I’m an asshole. It’s not his fault with every minute that passes feels as if I’m losing what little hold I still have on Izzy.
“Seriously, bro?” He doesn’t budge the car. I turn to look at him. He’s perfectly calm and okay with just sitting here. Fuuuuuck!!! I slam my fists on the dash above the glove compartment.
His cool and calm slightly breaks when he raises an eyebrow at me. “You done?”
“FUUUUUCK!!!” I appreciate that he gives me this moment to completely lose my shit. Eager to get to Izzy, I put a lid on it and pull my tail between my legs. “Sorry, Baz. If you drive, I’ll explain.”
He doesn’t need more than that to put the car in gear. “Where to?” he questions, looking at me from the corner of his eye.
“The Wannabes Bar. Hopefully, I’m not too late.”
“Too late? Start from the beginning, Diego.”
Is that a growl?
With a heavy sigh, I tell Baz about what Izzy walked in on and how I didn’t have the balls to stop her regardless of what that did for my image. How, when Izzy took off in the cab the tear that streaked her cheek was so out of place with the look she wore. “She reminded me of you, Baz. Right before you would pick your next fight.”
Recognition flashes across his face. “You can’t go in there. You don’t have an I.D. or Izzy to walk you in.” His verbal jab sets my jaw, but he continues. “Even if you did, they’d never let you in wearing that.” He nods in my direction. Pointing out that a t-shirt, jersey shorts, and flip flops is never acceptable attire in the bar we’re headed.
“Daaaamn,” he draws out the word. “Mano, when you said you fucked up and then mentioned Izzy, I had no idea that you quite literally fucked up.”
I turn to lay into him, but the look on his face says, I dare you. I shrug off the urge and resort to hitting the dash again. Baz doesn’t speak until I’ve finished the one-sided round with the inside of his car.
“So, what’s the game plan?” he prods.
“Like I fucking know.” I drop my head to my hands. The situation I found myself in pounding on my head from the inside out. Squeezing only temporarily stops the noise. We’re at the bar in about fifteen minutes, but it feels like hours since I watched Izzy drive off with that look. The one that says she’s so desperate to numb the pain, damn the cost. Nearby parking is about a three minute walk, I’m at the window from the outside looking in in ninety seconds. I scan the expanse of the bar, but it only takes a second to spot Izzy. She’s up on the stage. Singing.
From where I stand, it looks like she’s singing to someone. Whoever has her attention is on the backside of the bar and out of my view. Izzy’s voice carries through the open doors. “But I can’t help myself. When you put your hands on me. Ooh oh, ooh.” I’m moving towards the open door, my mind a fucking mess, when I feel a hand clamp on my shoulder.
Baz is right next to my ear. “Bro, you can’t.” He squeezes making sure he has my attention. “You sure you want to sit out here for this?”
“I have to…I can’t…
I won’t—,” the ability to put together a coherent thought escapes me. “Baz, she has to be mine.” I hear the pathetic in my voice. It’s practically a whine right into his ear.
“Thank you,” I hear Izzy’s voice through the applause.
I look to see her walking off to the side of the stage. She walks right by Mazzy and takes a seat in a booth at the same time some fucking douche in a suit takes up the space next to her. Her back is to the window, but I see her offer him her hand. “This mother fucker.” He’s got her hand in both his and he’s kissing it. The bile burns my throat as I choke on the sight before me. The space between them and me fills up and I can no longer see Izzy, but it doesn’t keep me from trying. After several minutes, I give up and start pacing the sidewalk. Baz quietly reminds me to not draw too much attention to myself.
I stop mid pace when I hear Mazzy on the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Mazzy, and I’m going to sing happy birthday to my best friend, Izzy.” After the applause dies down, Mazzy starts. “Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you…happy birthday my dear Izzy…happy birthday to you.” Making her breathless rendition of the birthday song reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe’s version sung to the President of the United States, John F. Kennedy.
That’s when the crowd breaks and the spotlights of the club reveal the object of my pacing. My frustration. My fragmenting tether on sanity. As the sea of people ebb and flow with the current singer, my next clear shot of Izzy is clearer than the glass before me. The man she was talking with earlier, the man she was probably singing to—is standing with his left arm snaked around her waist as they stand side by side with her slightly in front of him.
The weight of tonight pulls on me as I sink to the ground, my back using the parking meter to hold me up. “I fucked up,” I mumble. To no one in particular. To myself. Baz does what he can to keep me from completely losing my shit, but that ship has all but sailed. Only thing keeping me tethered to the here and now is that I may still be able to talk to Izzy.
Love Needs Another Chance (Truth About Love #3) Page 1
