by Naima Simone
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
If you love erotica, one-click these hot Scorched releases… Breaking Him
Hands On
Desiring Red
Shameless
Discover the Lick series Only for a Night
Only for Your Touch
Beauty and the Bachelor
The Millionaire Makeover
The Bachelor’s Promise
Witness to Passion
Killer Curves
Secrets and Sins: Gabriel
Secrets and Sins: Malachim
Secrets and Sins: Raphael
Secrets and Sins: Chayot
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.
Copyright © 2016 by Naima Simone. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Scorched is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Tracy Montoya
Cover design by Cover Couture
Cover art from Shutterstock
ISBN 978-1-63375-772-1
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition December 2016
To Gary. 143.
Chapter One
Grunts. The wet suction of metal slamming into flesh and jerking free. The dark crimson splash of blood. The tangy, wet-penny scent of it heavy in the air.
The large, meaty fist crashed into Killian Vincent’s jaw, and his head snapped back. He welcomed the hot blaze of pain. Loved it.
More.
Another blow to his jaw. A red haze dropped over his vision.
The clang of a steel door closing. The stygian darkness. The walls and ceiling inching closer…closer…sucking the air from his lungs. “I can’t breathe. I’m going to die…”
He shot his arm out, the swing a bit wild, a lot desperate. But accurate. Bone connected with his knuckles, transmitting a jagged, almost pleasurable vibration up his arm, into his shoulder.
Yes. More.
His opponent, probably some frat boy slumming it for shits and giggles, grinned. “What’s the matter, bitch?” he sneered, flashing a cocky smile that had probably cost his parents thousands. “You look a little tired there. Not used to having your ass kicked?”
Less talk. More punching. As long as flesh connected with flesh and pain white-washed thought, the memories didn’t choke him.
He cranked his jaw from side to side, then ducked the fist flying toward his throat. Killian slammed his own into the preppy, wannabe badass’s kidney. The fresh meat doubled over, and Killian jacked up his knee, ramming it into the guy’s face. Blood spurted, splattering Killian’s skin and the dirty cement floor of the abandoned Boston warehouse. The crowd surrounding the makeshift ring roared, the sight of so much blood rousing them into a fury. But Killian backed off, balancing on the soles of his booted feet.
C’mon, man. Fight, he silently urged the preppy. The demons in his head hadn’t quieted yet, though their noise had muted some since the fight began. But not completely.
The guy stumbled backward, dropping his guard and clutching his bleeding nose. Growling, Killian advanced and let loose with a flurry of punches to the abdomen, chest, and finally, to the jaw. The other man dropped to the ground, his head bouncing hard off the crimson-spattered cement.
Get up, damn it. He wasn’t ready to call it quits. This bout hadn’t lasted nearly long enough. The memories still lurked in his head, flickered in the shadows.
When the preppy didn’t move after several long moments, Killian strode out of the makeshift ring in disgust. When the asshole eventually came to, it was going to be a long, painful ride back to Beacon Hill or whatever rich part of Boston he’d traveled from.
The yells and shouts of the hyped-up crowd rose to a deafening din, bouncing off the bare walls of the warehouse. Men in business suits or jeans and T-shirts. Women in short, designer dresses or cutoffs and skimpy tops. Rich, poor, black, white, gay, straight. Watching one man beat the shit out of the other was equal opportunity entertainment.
Killian ignored them all, pushing through the mob of bodies. They parted for him, but more than a few women grabbed at his arms or stroked a hand over his chest, grazing his nipple piercing. If he stopped, they would all issue the same invitation: Want to fuck? Some of the women came to these things specifically to ball a fighter. But none of them interested him.
Not that he wasn’t down to screw.
Fighting and fucking… They were the only things that quieted the incessant drone buzzing under his skin and the memories clawing at the inside of his skull.
“Vincent.” The harsh, smoke-blackened voice halted him as he snatched up the T-shirt he’d dumped in the back corner before his fight.
Glancing at Rick Lester, the organizer of these underground fights, Killian dragged his shirt over his head before answering. “Yeah.”
“You keep knocking ’em out that quick, people get disgruntled about not getting their money’s worth. And it’s becoming hard to find someone to go up against you.”
Killian shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re getting at. I’m not taking a dive for anyone. So get better opponents.”
Even in the dark warehouse, Rick’s eyes gleamed like the sly ferret he resembled. “Tomorrow night. I can line you up with Ben Trainor. What’d you say? You up for it?”
Ben Trainor. The man had a reputation for being brutal, merciless. Known for fighting dirty.
Perfect.
“Yeah. I’ll be here,” Killian growled.
Half an hour later, a roll of cash in his pocket, he handed his keys to a valet and looked up at the huge, converted brick warehouse that dominated most of the block in Boston’s upscale Leather District.
Lick.
The club he and his best friends, Rion Ward and Sasha Merchant, owned together. The three of them had come from nothing—broken homes, screwed-up parents, the Irish mob. Through jail, getting shot…and worse…they’d survived and finally escaped a world that would’ve eventually left them dead or back in the hell also known as prison. Now they were legitimate businessmen, owners of Boston’s newest and most exclusive aphrodisiac club. They were their own men, their loyalty to no one but each other and the two new women in Rion and Sasha’s lives.
Anger, bright and hot, flared inside him as he turned into the side alley bordering Lick. Women and loyalty. Not his strong suit. Being narced out to the cops by one didn’t foster trust.
Unlocking a steel door, he stepped inside a tiny, dimly lit vestibule. Like every night, sweat popped out on his forehead, neck, and arms. His chest constricted, as if a vice grip slowly tightened and tightened, compressing the air out of his lungs. Gritting his teeth so hard, his jaw twinged in protest, he punched in a five-digit code on the lit pad next to the second door. As soon as the light flashed green, he pushed through, entering his office with a loud expulsion of breath, followed by a greedy gulp of air.
He sto
od still on the other side of the entrance, eyes closed, hands curled into fists at his sides. In. Out. In. Out. He drew air in his nostrils, blew it out through his mouth until his body relaxed, and bit by bit, the panic eased its claws out of his psyche.
The two doors with the coded entry were added security measures, but goddamn, every night, he suffered a measure of hell just to enter the building.
Fucking claustrophobia.
Opening his eyes, he rolled his shoulders back and cracked his knuckles. The blissed-out moments the fight had given him were already ebbing. Growling, he stalked to his office bathroom, showered quickly, and changed into a black, long-sleeved shirt and black pants. With efficient movements, he swiped a rubber band off his desk and gathered his dark, shoulder-length hair into a bun at the back of his head.
A knock sounded at the door, and a glance at the bank of monitors on the far wall revealed who stood on the other side. He crossed the room and pressed a button on the underside of his desk, and the lock disengaged. Sasha Merchant entered the office, his blue-gray gaze locating Killian and scanning him from head to toe, pausing on the small bruise he felt darkening along his cheekbone. Wasn’t the first, wouldn’t be the last.
“You should see the other guy,” Killian drawled. A cliché, but, in this case, definitely true.
Sasha grunted, striding across the room. “You just getting in?”
“Yeah.” Killian scrubbed a hand over his chin and jaw, hair bristling against his palms. He’d passed five o’clock shadow about twenty-four hours ago. Narrowing his eyes, he studied the other man. Noted the taut set of his shoulders, the grim set of his mouth. “Why? Is something wrong?”
Rion and Sasha understood Killian’s need to fight, to release the tension, ease the noise. They didn’t give him shit the two or three nights he arrived at Lick after the doors had opened. In charge of security, Killian had hired a professional and skilled team, and they were more than capable of handling any issue that arose in his absence. Still, if Sasha was in Killian’s office—instead of out in the club or up in The Loft—wearing an expression that promised an ass-beating, then there was a problem.
“What is it?” Killian asked again, bracing himself for anything from drug dealers in the club, to overzealous guests trying to snap pictures of celebrity guests in the VIP lounges, to reporters sneaking in and trying to sniff out rumors about a “sex club.”
Not that the rumors were false, but they didn’t need the press hounding the clientele who paid obscenely for discretion and privacy. The second level of Lick—The Loft—offered a safe haven for certain members to indulge in and enjoy their particular desires and fetishes. And the last thing those members wanted—or Killian, Rion, and Sasha needed—were photographs and articles written in detail about the aphrodisiac club on the second floor of Lick.
Sasha nodded toward the monitors behind them. “Pull up the camera behind bar two.”
A sense of dread rose in his chest as he turned around and faced the console behind his desk. With a few taps on the keyboard, he brought up the live feed from the cameras behind one of the long, glass bars that dominated each side of the converted warehouse.
“The one on the far end near the dance floor,” Sasha instructed.
Another tap, and a view of one of their registers, Point Of Sale systems, and bartenders filled the screen. For several long seconds, he scrutinized the images. The bartender filled glasses and rang up drink orders. She didn’t pocket money or over-pour alcohol. So she wasn’t who or what Sasha needed him to see.
Killian shifted his attention to the people filling every available space around the bar. Guy with too much gel and obviously too little game chatting up a woman who wore a frown that practically screamed “kill me now.” Two women sipping cocktails and giggling together. Hmm. They appeared a little on the young side. He needed to have their IDs double-checked to ensure they were actually twenty-one. Another group of women gathered in a tight semi-circle. One, a blonde who seemed vaguely familiar, tipped her head back, laughing. The dark-haired woman on the right lifted her head, smiling directly into the camera…
Holy. Fuck.
The hair was longer, the makeup more understated than he remembered. But those lips. Goddamn, those lips. They hadn’t changed, and he could still easily recall how they were slow to smile, but when they did, the sight had filled him like helium in a balloon, lifting him higher and higher. How they opened so willingly for his tongue, for his kiss.
And the eyes. Christ. Those deep, heavily lashed, purple eyes had glittered in anger, shined in laughter, darkened with lust, and gleamed with love.
Or so he’d thought. The love had been a lie. A cruel, fucked-up lie.
No, regardless of the different length of hair and amount of makeup, he knew that face.
It was the face of the woman who’d once owned every piece of his heart.
The woman who had betrayed him, sent him to hell, and damn near destroyed him.
Chapter Two
Sometimes hanging with the girls for a night out was just the thing needed to lift a person’s spirits.
Gabriella James tipped her bottle of Sam Adams to her mouth and drank deeply, throwing a glance at her cackling, tipsy cousins. She swallowed a sigh along with another gulp of beer.
Then sometimes a person just wanted to sit at home with a bowl of M&M’s and the latest season of Game of Thrones playing on DVD. Alone. Well, except for her beloved Tyrion. Between him and The Hobbit’s Thorin Oakenshield, she’d so be the filling in that dwarf sandwich.
But after being away from home for almost five years, she would’ve been a Debbie Downer to reject her cousin and sister-in-law’s invitation to treat her to a few celebratory drinks. Gabrielle snorted. These bitches had passed “a few” about three tequila shots and a raunchy twirl on the dance floor ago. They were well on their way to fucked up—which left Gabriella, with her two beers, the designated driver.
Fuuuun.
Still, she couldn’t completely blame a guilt trip on her reason for being in the packed converted warehouse. Curiosity and masochism comprised the other 75 percent.
Curiosity about the seemingly popular club that hadn’t existed when she’d left Boston all those years ago.
And masochism because she’d come here hoping to catch a glimpse of its owner.
One of its owners anyway.
She should’ve known nothing—not less-than-stellar beginnings, jail, or the Irish mob—would’ve separated Rion Ward, Sasha Merchant, or Killian Vincent.
Killian.
The familiar ache in her chest pulsed a bright, neon red at just the mental whisper of his name. The man she’d loved from the first time she’d laid eyes on him at nineteen years old, when he’d stalked into her uncle’s bar on her first night—illegally—serving drinks. The man she’d never stopped loving.
The man who hated her.
Not that she blamed him. After all, she’d ratted him out to the police. He’d been arrested. Had ended up going to jail.
Yeah, Killian despised her for betraying him.
Didn’t matter that she’d committed the unforgivable sin to save his life.
She lifted the bottle to her mouth and sipped the beer without tasting it. The mundane actions offered her something else to concentrate on rather than an ill-fated love, but did nothing for the nerves twisting in her belly. She huffed out a silent, humorless chuckle. Pathetic. She was apparently pathetic and stupid as well as into emotional self-flagellation.
One would think she’d learned her lesson about dreams coated in the glitter of gullibility and youthful, foolish optimism. Blissful couples with their happily ever afters belonged in places like Chestnut Hill and Newton with their gorgeous mansions, obscenely large salaries, and carefully manicured lawns and lives. They definitely didn’t apply to dive bar waitresses, sometimes bartenders, and their mobbed-up boyfriends from South Boston who barely earned enough to cover rent for a cramped one-bedroom apartment. Hell, her mother, with her many
boyfriends and rare moments of happiness, had proven that. Why had Gabriella believed she would be any different?
“Your man did good, didn’t he?” Her cousin, Janelle, nudged Gabriella’s arm, nearly knocking her beer out of her hand. The tipsy blonde’s Long Island Iced Tea fared just fine, though.
“He’s not my man,” Gabriella murmured, not bothering to pretend she didn’t know to whom her cousin referred. For two years, he had been the axis her world revolved on. There wasn’t any point in denying it now. “And yes,” she added, switching her bottle to the opposite hand and out of Janelle’s reach. “This is nice.”
And wasn’t that the understatement of the millennia? Lick… Lick was nothing short of amazing. She surveyed the walls of exposed brick with its sensual, framed black-and-white photographs, the two glass and chrome bars with their impressive stocks of top-shelf alcohol. She’d worked as a bartender in one of the trendiest and hottest clubs in Los Angeles before returning home and recognized the cost of the premium alcohol they offered. But from the sheer number of people jockeying for rare space around the bars, gyrating on the dance floors, and crowding every available table, chair, and red and blue couch, she supposed the club could afford every luxury item she’d glimpsed. From the liquor, to the DJ she recognized as one of the most talented and in-demand in the country, to the cordoned-off VIP lounges with their crimson drapes and celebrity faces.
Pride burst inside her like a bright, colorful firework. Jamie Hughes, head of the Irish mob’s notorious O’Bannon gang, had only seen Killian as a pair of fists to torture those poor souls who’d been stupid enough to fall on the mob boss’s bad side by not paying up on loans or gambling debts. But Killian—big, brooding, quiet—had been so much more. Loyal, insightful, incisive, and brilliant. It’d been that man she’d fallen so hard in love with, even though he’d been a mob enforcer when she’d first met him. No, that part of his life had scared her—she’d hated it—but for the man she adored, she’d been willing to love him out of it, offer him a glimpse of a future with her, marriage…a family. She’d accepted that there’d been this anger that had always simmered just under his skin. Given his rough childhood and history, she’d understood. She’d also acknowledged that he could be volatile and so stubborn…which had led to the decision that had shattered them forever.
