Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
About the author
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Ant resemblance to actual people or events is strictly coincidental.
Editor: Patricia Duhon
Proofreader: Kim H.
Formatting: AM Creations
Cover Design: Kari Nappi with Kovers by Kari
Photographer: Furious Fotog
Cover Model: Dusty Griffin
To strong women.
You are incredible. The world is a little bit more hopeful because of you. Someone’s smile is a little bit brighter because of you. Keep fighting. The hardest battles are won by the bravest soldiers.
I have so many things to be thankful for. But I have to say first and foremost is the gift of prose and the readers that keep my dream alive.
I need to thank my family, who suffers through my mood swings, my freak outs, and my moments of silence when I’m pushing my deadline. To my boys- momma loves you (not that you’ll EVER read this) but I do. You are my world. None of this would matter without you. And to the baby daddy- you’re a patient man lol. Thank you for loving me. I love you more…
My PA, my lifeline, my saving grace. Kristi Lynn- I couldn’t do this without you, any of it. I love you, my girl. Thank you for all you do. You’re overworked and underappreciated. You deserve the world. You’re totally the boss. And now it’s in writing so I can’t take it back. But that doesn’t mean I have to like the beard…
Two of my very best friends, Roux and Lee Ann- You keep me sane when I don’t think it’s possible. You make me laugh. You make me cry. You inspire and encourage me when I want to quit. Thank you. I love you both.
Kari Nappi- As always you are my angel. You nailed it with this cover. You have helped me with so much and listen to me vent when I want to break down and cry. You have been here from “go” and I will always be grateful to you. Always. Love your gorgeous face!
To my betas- Jami, Nicole, and Ardent Rose- You ladies are GOLD. This is my first time using betas and you have made it an amazing experience. Thank you for all your input and hard work.
To my divas- I love you hookers! That is all. You rock my socks. Every one of you.
To all the blogs, and professional pimp mamas out there who took the time to read and promote my book- You are the backbone of what us authors do. Your hard work doesn’t go unnoticed. Thank you so much for your countless hours and dedication to my craft. You’re the real MVP.
To my editor and proofreader- Sorry for the hot mess. You two are awesome. Thank you for all you do. I know I don’t make it easy.
To Inkslingers PR- Thank you for taking a chance on little ole me. Nazarea, you have been amazing. Thank you!
And to Golden and Dusty- Thank you for turning my vision into beauty. Alex turned out to be everything I imagined. Thank you for all your hard work. You guys are rockstars.
Emma
Dear Emma,
I witnessed a murder.
For the second time in my existence, I watched as the last breath of life was stolen from someone’s lungs.
This time was different from the first, though. This time, the woman is still alive. Her heart still beats. The only thing holding it together is the very weapon that sliced it open to begin with- Love.
It was all so gradual she didn’t even realize she was dying. The toxic words and deadly rage were like poison streaming through her veins.
She still speaks, sings, laughs- but that’s not her. It’s nothing more than an empty shell of who she used to be, dressed in her clothing, wearing her smile.
She’s gone, but no one knows it.
I do. I miss her every single day.
Goodnight.
-E
Emma
“I can’t fucking stand that sound. Do you really have to make so much noise when you laugh?”
The memory of Bastain’s voice rings loud in my head, like an album stuck on repeat. When I need a break from it all, when I just can’t pretend anymore, an oversize tub and bubbles are my therapy. Sometimes I light candles and pour a glass of wine while I just sit. Finding solace in the darkness. It’s quiet here. The water is my fortress. I sink down into its depths, letting it wrap me in the security of its warmth.
“You’re overreacting. You sound like a crazy person right now.”
The scent of sweet cashmere washes away the worries of the day and drowns out the static in my head. Voices that try to convince me I’m worthless, crazy… lost. The little girl that used to dance around her room using a baton as a microphone as she pretended to be Madonna disappeared a long time ago. The confident young woman that graduated summa cum laude with a bachelor’s degree in business hides behind baggy sweatshirts and messy buns. And all that’s left of the energetic girlfriend that used to find joy in making beauty out of everyday yardwork and laughing at her own jokes is a perfectly fabricated smile that lets the world know everything is okay. Even when it isn’t.
“Why did the whale cross the ocean?”
It was a simple joke. Meant to make my boyfriend smile after a long day. He looked across the dinner table, over the top of his still full plate of chicken parmesan, and his eyes met mine. Lifeless and dull. He wasn’t amused. All I wanted was to make him smile.
“To get to the other tide.”
The words had barely left my lips when I started laughing. Childlike and uncontrollable. Maybe it was the tension rolling off his shoulders, or maybe it was the fact that Bastain hadn’t spoken three words to me since he walked through the door. But I needed to laugh. I needed to escape the negativity, if just for a second. I laughed so hard my sides started to burn and my eyes started to water. I had to set my fork down on the freshly polished surface of the solid wood dining table to keep from hurting myself. The laughter spilled from my mouth without hesitation and then it happened. I snorted. The moment I did it I knew it was a mistake. His blue eyes narrowed and he glared at me.
“I can’t fucking stand that sound,” he said.
The laughter turned to tears as he slammed his silverware down, nearly cracking the ceramic plate. I didn’t mean to cry. It just… came out. Like my body was mourning its ability to laugh. That’s when he told me I was overreacting, acting crazy, that he didn’t mean it the way I was making it seem.
That conversation took place two years ago. I haven’t laughed since. Not out loud anyway. Not like that. So, on days when the silence is deafening, I come here. To my bubble-filled haven. And I tune it all out. I search for the woman I used to be, wondering if she’s still in there somewhere or if she got trapped in the quicksand. I wonder if she fought for so long to get out that it finally just
consumed her. And now there’s nothing left. Just the quicksand.
Alex
Chase, one of the senior associates in my law firm, peeps his head through the crack in the door of my office. A slight tug at my ear buds and the Spanish speaking voice on my Rosetta Stone fades into the distance. “Hey man, you’re coming to Devon’s bachelor party this weekend, right?”
Fuck. The bachelor party. Somewhere between going over the latest deal prospectus and creating a routine for my new self-defense class, I forgot all about this weekend. However, blonde haired, blue-eyed, bulkier than the average man, Chase, is not one to let it slip through the cracks. I can think of a million other things I’d rather do, such as finally unpacking the stack of boxes that have been piled in one corner of my living room since I moved here over a year ago. Or firing up the oven for the first time ever, breaking the take-out routine. Knowing Chase, he’d show up at my flat with a full crew and a couple of strippers if I said no.
“I’ll be there,” I agree.
He grins and taps his palm against the steel door frame in appreciation then disappears just as quickly as he came. At 29 years old, he’s five years my junior and way more excited about pussy than I am. Not that I haven’t had my opportunities over the past year, but I choose to stick with a glass of Macallan, a bottle of lotion and Tumblr for now.
“Una mujer,” I say to the screen of my Macbook as I look on at the image of a pretty blonde in a blue turtleneck. The “woman” reminds me of Heidi. Hell, everything reminds me of Heidi. The 863 miles I put between our bodies doesn’t make a bit of difference if I can’t get her out of my head. I wonder what the Spanish phrase for “My girlfriend left me for my best friend” is. Okay so, technically she wasn’t my girlfriend. We were just two adults who did great things together naked. And technically she didn’t leave me. I let her go, let the best man win, so to speak.
It was a simple case of miscommunication at its finest. If he had known the woman I was fucking was the same woman he was falling in love with, our story would have had a much different ending. Unfortunately, sexcapades and relationship advice weren’t something we talked about on a regular basis. I knew he met a woman, and he knew I was fucking one. That’s about as far as it went. Until the day I walked in his office and found her there- bottom propped against his desk with his hand running up her thigh. Things pretty much went downhill from there. Now here I am, starting over- avoiding sex, women, and anything related to feelings like they were the plague. The laptop clicks as I pull the screen down and look around my office then out of the set of floor-to-ceiling windows -anywhere but at the blonde on my computer monitor.
I suppose in some ways the Miami skyline is a lot like New Orleans. It comes alive at night, bouncing reflections of a kaleidoscope of colors off the bay. The water and the black and white framed photographs that hang on the walls of my office are the only things that make me feel like I’m not so far from home. In a moment of nostalgia, I run my finger across the images of Bourbon Street, then the St. Louis Cathedral, and the Superdome before stepping out of my office and into the lobby.
I occupy the corner office on the fifteenth floor of the tallest building in Miami’s “Wall Street,” otherwise known as Brickell. Every once in a while, guys like Chase will poke their heads in my door for a “hello,” but for the most part it stays pretty quiet up here. I like it that way. It helps me get more work done. But right now, I can’t focus on work. Right now, I need to get out of here. I need to get out of my head, and there’s only one place I know I can do that.
Sweat drips from my brow, stinging my eyes. I don’t bother to wipe it away. I just keep pounding the bag in front of me. My hair is soaking wet and I have been feeling the aching burn in my biceps for the last half hour. Adrenaline keeps me going. It courses through my veins like a raging river, pushing me, driving me.
This is my haven. This is my escape. In here, I am free. Nothing exists outside of me and the 100-pound Everlast punching bag. Here, I don’t have to run. I keep my feet firmly planted as I land blow after blow, releasing all the day’s frustrations. Every time my fist makes contact, a piece of me goes with it, pieces I’ve been running from for over a year.
Classes haven’t started yet so, I blast the music on the overhead as loud as I can to drown out the voices. The voice of my father telling me I let him down. The voice of Heidi telling me I wasn’t worthy of her heart. The voice of society telling me I need to get back out there and try again. Fuck trying.
Every morning I wake up, get dressed, straighten my tie, and present myself to the world. To them, I’m the man with the perfect job and a great flat in an upscale neighborhood. I’m the strong, silent guy who teaches kickboxing classes at a gym in that same neighborhood. To the world, I have my shit together. On the inside, I’m falling apart.
Alex
“If he wants to go public, stock exchanges are going to require him to become a C-Corporation.” I cock my head to the side as I loosen my tie, knowing it’s not actually the silk fabric that has me feeling like I’m suffocating. This is the third phone call in four hours from my PA regarding Titan Industries’ decision to start raising capital through the sale of shares. “Well, that’s the price you pay when you want to go on an open market, darling.” I can hear her anxiety through the rattle in her tone. She’s simply relaying messages, and I have no real reason to take my frustrations out on her. I close my eyes and roll my shoulders in an attempt to relax before I continue. “If he doesn’t agree with the disclosure requirements tell him to contact the SEC. Look, I’ve got to run. Take tomorrow off. I’ll handle Titan,” I tell her, hearing an immediate sigh of relief on the other end.
“Yes, sir,” she replies, obedient and relieved. I click the red circle and lay my cell phone face down on the tiny square table in front of me. No more distractions for the moment.
The scent of a freshly ground French roast fills the air of the busy coffee shop. Couples and business colleagues share tables all around me. Conversations buzz in my ear, but I tune them out to nothing more than background noise. I’m in my usual corner seat near the window where I can collect my thoughts, uninterrupted. I don’t come here for the coffee. Most of the time I don’t even finish my cup. I come here for the atmosphere. I come here to people watch. I come here because it reminds me there’s life outside of boardrooms and boxing rings.
“Venti nonfat vanilla latte,” the barista calls out into the mass of laptop-bearing hipsters. The fact that there’s no name on the order peaks my interest, so I watch as she calls out a second time and waits for the owner to collect their beverage.
Red t-shirt, black cropped leggings, and gray Converse. Platinum blonde ponytail and an ass… Fuck me, now that’s an ass. “Nonfat latte” smiles at the barista as she takes her cup from the counter and scans the café for an empty table. Noting they’re all occupied, she lifts her chin in resolve, inhales a deep breath as if to accept defeat, and starts toward the door. There’s something about her that pulls me in, and I can’t seem to look away. Something that goes beyond her outward beauty, something in the way she seems to embrace the fact that there are no vacant tables available for her to relax. Something about the way she almost seems to see it as a challenge. As if the world is daring her to find another way to enjoy her solitude and she’s silently whispering, “Bring it on.”
I have to meet her. I need to know more about her. Impulse takes over and I rush to her side just before she reaches the door. “There,” I say, giving a nod to the now empty table in the corner, “I’m leaving. It’s all yours.” Not that I want to leave. I’d much rather sit and have coffee with this breathtaking stranger, but I’m afraid that’s not an option right now. I flash her a grin and raise my cup as some sort of coffee drinkers salute. Lame, Alex. That’s all you got?
Her golden-brown eyes meet mine. It’s brief, but it’s enough to send an electric current straight through my veins. Then she quickly looks away. “Thank you,” she says, her voice the most hypnotizing
, soft soprano I’ve ever heard. Echoes of that voice singing my name while I make her body shiver, bounce around in my head. I swallow hard to keep from asking her to leave with me right this very moment so I can hear it for real.
“My pleasure,” I return, forcing myself to remember I’m a gentleman. She responds with a smile. It’s delicate and poised, and... rehearsed. One thing I’ve learned over the past year and a half is that the people in this city are nothing like those back in New Orleans. Even though Miami lies at the tip of Florida, there’s not much southern hospitality to be found here. But that’s not what prompted her reaction. She didn’t force a smile to be rude or sarcastic. No. She’s different. She’s like me. She doesn’t belong here with the fast-paced, flashy car lifestyle. So why the fake smile? Before I have any more time to psychoanalyze a woman I’ve only just met, she turns and walks away. And just like that, our moment is over.
Outside, I dip my hand into the pocket of my charcoal trousers for my car keys and realize I don’t feel my phone. Shit. I’ve left it inside the coffee shop. At the table. At her table. I throw my head back, questioning the heavens, and sigh. Now, I’ve got to walk in there and look like one of two men: The guy who left his cell phone as a ploy to talk to a beautiful woman, or the guy who left his cell phone because he can’t seem to keep his shit together in front of a beautiful woman.
I turn to catch a glimpse through the window, just to see if she’s actually taken the table I abandoned. And there she is, one eyebrow cocked in amusement, holding my phone against the glass. I chuckle and she shrugs. Here goes nothing...
“Your wife called. She’s leaving you for the pool guy,” she says, flatly as she casually sips her nonfat latte. Oh, she’s got jokes? Her shift in demeanor throws me off-kilter for a moment, but I catch up straightaway.
The Perfect Gentleman Page 1
