by Nikki Ash
Going Deep
Copyright © 2018
Nikki Ash
All rights reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Cover design: Jersey Girl Designs
Cover photograph: Sara Eirew Photography
Table of Contents
Going Deep
Copyright © 2018
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Epilogue
The Pickup
Other books by Nikki Ash
An excerpt from On The Surface
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Dedication
To my happily-ever-after, I’m in deep with you.
Prologue
Giselle
“I know you’re cheating on me! Admit it!” Mom chucks a vase across the room at Dad, who doesn’t duck quick enough, and it hits his shoulder before it crashes onto the tiled floor, breaking into a million pieces. “I hate you!” she shouts with tears streaming down her cheeks. She turns around, her possessed eyes searching for another item to throw. My dad uses that moment as an opportunity to wrap his strong arms around her tiny, fragile body from the back. She kicks and screams, trying to get out of his hold, but he’s stronger. “Let go of me! I’m going to kill you! You’re such a piece of shit liar!”
Ignoring the hateful words she’s spewing, he pulls her down onto the couch as I pop the lid to one of her prescription bottles and shake out two pills. While he’s holding her down, I pry her mouth open and push the pills down her throat. She tries to gag, her manic gaze hitting me with so much hate, it sends chills racing up my spine. She continues to kick and thrash around while Dad holds her tight, waiting for the pills to make their way through her system and temporarily calm the beast inside her.
She was doing so well the past few months, I thought for sure this time the therapist got her meds right. She was so happy and cheerful. It was as if she was on cloud nine. Until she wasn’t. And now, once again, it seems we’re back to where we started.
Once Mom’s lids begin to droop, Dad lessens his hold on her, and my sister makes her presence known. “Is Mom okay?” she asks quietly, afraid if she speaks too loudly she might poke the beast, which in our many years of experience is never a good thing.
“She’s okay, Addy.” I cut across the room and pull my scared sister into a tight hug. When she was little and Mom would lash out, she would hide in her bedroom until one of us would come and get her. Now that Adrianna is older, she no longer hides. She’s too worried about our mom hurting herself or one of us. But because of how violent mom can get, Dad and I make her hang back while we get her under control.
“Dad, I think she needs to see a psychiatrist again,” I say to my father. “Her pills aren’t working. We can’t keep drugging her like this.” My eyes dart to my mother who is lying lifeless on the couch, still in my father’s arms. My heart breaks every time we have to sedate her, but we don’t have any choice. It’s either that or she will end up hurting one of us, and then when she wakes up and realizes what she did, she will sink even further into depression. It’s a shitty no-win situation.
Dad silently shakes his head in frustration as he lifts my mom and carries her to their bedroom. Once he comes back out, he grabs his briefcase and cell phone and heads toward the front door without saying a word. This is what he always does when she gets like this. Hides away at his office. Sometimes he’ll be gone for days at a time, but it’s pointless to call him out on it. He’s the only breadwinner in this family, which means we need him. He pays the bills and attempts to take care of our mom. And I love him, even if many days I also hate him. When he comes home and smells of another woman’s perfume, I want to smack him senseless, yet at the same time, I can understand why he does what he does. He’s married to a woman who is so far gone most days, he spends more time taking care of her than actually being with her. Their kisses have turned to tears, and their love that once upon a time shined through during even the darkest of days has been covered by a dark, black cloud that has been stagnant directly over our life for too many years.
“Dad,” I call out, refusing to let him run this time. We can’t keep doing this. “She needs help.”
“What do you want from me, Giselle?” he snaps. “Our insurance barely covers the appointments, let alone the medications. The doctor has tried every drug imaginable, and nothing fucking works. I’m doing the best I can.” And without waiting for my response, he’s out the door.
“I found this,” Adrianna says softly once the door has slammed shut. I turn around to see what she’s talking about, and in her hands is my acceptance letter to NYU Paris I received in the mail last month. The deadline to accept is coming up.
“How many times have I asked you not to go through my stuff?” I swipe the paper out of her hands. She frowns, and I immediately feel bad.
“I was looking for your eyeliner. I’m sorry. Now, tell me you’re going.” Her voice is demanding, and her hand goes to her hip. I have to bite down on my bottom lip to stifle my laugh at my little sister’s attitude. “Giselle, tell me you’re going,” she repeats.
“Addy…”
“No, don’t you dare ‘Addy’ me. I don’t want to hear some bullshit excuse about you needing to stay here for Mom. She’s been like this for as long as we can remember, and it’s never going to get better. This is your out.” She snatches the paper back from me, waving it in the air. “Run, Giselle, and don’t look back.”
“One, you’re thirteen, don’t say bullshit.” She rolls her eyes and tilts her head to the side, waiting for me to continue. “And two, I can’t leave you—” Before I can finish my sentence, Adrianna cuts me off.
“One, you’re not my mother, and mine is too depressed and out of it to give a shit what language I use.” She purses her lips together in defiance, daring me to argue. I know her words aren’t meant to be hurtful. We’ve grown up taking care of one another. But with my being five years older, I’ve always tried to be the mother she’s never really had. However, as she gets older, she often says she prefers me to act like her sister and not her mom, which is understandable. But that doesn’t stop me from trying.
“And two,” she continues, “this is your dream, to study interior design in Paris, and there’s no way you’re
not following it, just to stay here in this hellhole for me. I’ll be fine. You’re going to do whatever you’re supposed to do to let them know you’ll be there, and then you’re going to get on that damn plane after graduation and get out of here.”
Tears prick my eyes as I stare at my beautiful, grownup sister. Sure, she’s only thirteen, but because of the life we’ve had to endure, she’s been forced to grow up twice as fast as other kids her age. I can’t imagine being across the pond from her for a week, let alone for years, and with us having no money, who knows when I’ll be able to come back and visit. But for her, I will find a way. If I have to work full-time while going to school, I will. I’ll do whatever I have to do to make sure she’s okay.
“I’m going to miss you,” I tell her.
She snakes her arms around my waist and rests her head on my shoulder. “And I’m going to miss you, but in five years I’ll be out of here as well, and I can tell you one thing. I’m not staying here for mom. I love her with everything in me, but I can’t live like this forever.”
“Promise me that if you need me, you’ll call. I don’t care what I’m doing, I’ll come home,” I murmur.
“I promise. Now, can I borrow twenty bucks? I’m meeting some friends at the movies.” She backs out of our hug and bats her lashes innocently. I sigh dramatically then giggle.
“Sure, how about I drop you off on my way to Christian’s house?”
Adrianna rolls her eyes. “I don’t need my big sister to hold my hand on the subway.”
“I know you don’t need me to, but I would feel better if I did. I’m heading that way anyway.”
Adrianna huffs in annoyance. “Fine, but only because I know you’ll withhold the money until I agree. Let’s go.”
After checking on our sleeping mom, we head out to the Rye Metro station. After making sure Adrianna makes it safely to the IMAX theater in Rochelle—and only once I see her and her friends go inside—I head back to the station, jump on the 6 and take it to Lafayette. I get off then take the F to the Lower East Side. The entire trip is a good seventy minutes, and I’m lucky enough to get an actual seat, so I use the time to pull up the online application to NYU Paris. Without giving myself time to second-guess my decision, I click accept. Even with the help of financial aid, I’m not sure how I’m going to be able to afford it. But my sister is right, this is my dream, and I will always regret it if I don’t follow it.
When East Broadway lights up, I stand and make my way to the doors, so I can exit. I climb the steps and glance around for Christian. He said he would meet me here. I spot him across the street and wave. I know he sees me when his face breaks out into a huge grin. With black curly hair, onyx eyes, and dozens of tattoos running up and down his arms, he is the epitome of a bad boy. He’s also my best friend and boyfriend. I run across the crosswalk and throw myself into his awaiting arms. He lifts me up, twirls me around in a circle, and kisses me passionately.
“Mi Amor,” he murmurs against my lips. It’s been almost a month since I’ve seen him, and I’ve missed him like crazy. Because he’s a year older, he graduated a year before me and attends NYU’s School of the Arts. His dream is for his band, Down Coyote, to one day get signed. We’ve been dating for close to two years now. I hate that in order for both of us to follow our dreams, it means we’ll be living four thousand miles away from each other.
“What do you want to do today?” he asks excitedly, and my heart fractures.
“I was thinking we could go back to your dorm. I need to talk to you.”
His steps falter, and he eyes me skeptically before he says, “You’ve decided to go.” It’s not a question, he knows I’ve already made the decision. He knows me that well.
“I have,” I say. “It’s just that—”
“You don’t have to explain, Giselle, I get it. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity and a chance for you to break away from your mom for a little while. You deserve this. But what does that mean for us?”
“It means we enjoy the next couple of months together, and once it’s time for me to go, we say goodbye.” I’ve always been a realist, and I’m not about to hold either of us to being in a long-distance relationship. While Christian was my first kiss, my first love, the first guy I had sex with, it’s not fair to expect him to remain faithful to me while I’m overseas for school for the next four years, if not longer.
“Okay,” he agrees, “but promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“When you return to New York, I’m the first person you look up after you see your sister.” He pulls me into a hug and gives me a soft kiss on my lips.
“I promise.”
“I know this isn’t the end for us, Giselle. This is just a minor detour. One day you’ll return, educated and cultured, ready to take the design world by storm.” A grin splits across my face. “I’ll be a famous musician, making millions and living in a penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side.” He waggles his eyebrows. “We’ll be a power couple, baby.”
He kisses me again, and I nod in agreement. Is it possible? Everything he’s saying about our future…can we really have it all? I guess only time will tell.
One
Giselle
Seven years later
“Fuck yes. You like it when I ram my cock into you, don’t you? Scream my name when you come all over my fucking cock.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes as Paul ‘rams’ his cock into me. And I’m using air quotes to emphasize the word rams, because let’s be real here, when the guy is only working with a four—maybe five—inch dick, he isn’t ramming anything into anyone. But he thinks he is, so I guess it’s the thought that counts. Not that it matters. He’s Paul Cohen, a multi-billionaire real estate tycoon who owns a good portion of the Upper East Side. I wouldn’t care if he had a one-inch dick and wanted me to call out his mother’s name as long as he keeps wanting to fuck me.
“Oh, Paul,” I call out dramatically. He looks down and grins at me as several beads of sweat fall from his face and land on my chest. And because we’re fucking missionary, and he can see every face I make, I have to force myself not to cringe. But internally I’m screaming, “Ewww! Fucking gross!”
How someone is able to work up that kind of sweat in only—my eyes dart to the clock and see it’s 9:08 p.m.—seven minutes is beyond me. But if his nasty sweat and breathless grunting is any indication, we’re going to call this a wrap in under ten minutes. Not a record time, but pretty damn close.
Wanting to speed this along, I squeeze my vaginal walls together in an attempt to grip his dick—not that it does much good. His groans get louder, his thrusts turn frantic.
“I’m coming,” he grunts out, and my eyes go to the clock again. 9:10 p.m. Damn, I’m good. Just under ten minutes like I predicted.
“Oh yes, Paul,” I call out, putting all the years of my doing Kegel exercises to use as I force my muscles to clench around him and fake my orgasm. He stills on top of me, pulls out, and climbs off the bed, going to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. I wait until he comes out, then grabbing my clothes off the floor, head inside to quickly clean up. I’ll shower once I’m home, but I hate the lingering smell of latex. After washing my face—because eww, sweat!—and hands, I make my way back out to the bedroom. Paul is in only his boxers, and is laying on the bed, scrolling through his phone.
“Have you called Henry?” I ask, referring to his driver who always brings me home.
“Any chance I can talk you into spending the night?” He looks up from his phone and shoots me a playful grin. He may have a small dick, but he’s not hard on the eyes. Between his mop of blond curls, his striking emerald eyes, and the adorable dimple that peeks out of his left cheek when he grins, he’s extremely good-looking in that boy next door sort of way. And if I were any other woman, that grin would have me climbing back into his bed. But I’m not, and his grin does nothing for me.
“Sorry, it’s already after nine. I really need to get going. I have work
in the morning.”
He nods, knowing there’s nothing he can say that will convince me to stay. I’ve been there and done that, and it will never happen again. Sleeping together leads to feelings, and feelings lead to your heart being shattered into a million pieces.
“See you Wednesday night?” he asks, getting out of bed to walk me to the door.
“See you then.” After grabbing my clutch from the table in the foyer, I turn the knob to open the door, when Paul’s arm snakes around my waist, and he pulls me in for a kiss.
“Goodnight,” he whispers against my lips.
“Goodnight.”
It’s a thirty-minute drive from the Upper East Side—where Paul lives—to Brooklyn Heights—where I live. I use the time to check my text messages and emails. I see one marked as urgent from my boss, so I click it open first.
Giselle,
please advise. Mr. Caprice has forwarded his wife’s requests, and she would like to discuss them with you tomorrow. Please confirm a time. He has listed times that will work for her.
Thank you,
Lydia Strickland
CEO
Fresh Designs, Inc.
I scroll through the requests and grin when I see everything Elizabeth Caprice is requesting are all the suggestions I made when we did a walkthrough of her home a couple weeks ago. With a degree and masters in interior design, my dream was to land a position with the largest interior design company on the East Coast, and I actually achieved it. I’ve only been working under Lydia for just over a year now, and while the pay is downright embarrassing since it’s an internship, I’m confident if I keep going the way I am, I’ll land myself a permanent position, with decent pay, soon enough. Most internships here last between one year and eighteen months. I just need to hold on a little bit longer.
After checking my schedule for tomorrow, I email Mr. Caprice back to confirm a time. When I feel the car come to a stop, I look up and see we’re here.
