The Fixed Trilogy

by Laurelin Paige

  To the people who make things happen for me: my agent, Bob DiForio; my formatter, Caitlin Greer; Julie at AToMR Book Blog Tours; my publicists at Inkslinger, Shanyn Day, and K.P. Simmons—both of you are amazeballs; Melanie Lowery and Jolinda Bivins for making me awesome swag; to my “other” editors Holly Atkinson, who has taught me to be mindful of comma splices, and Eileen Rothschild who is supportive of all my works and not just the one she bought.

  To my FANTASTIC assistants, Lisa Otto, Amy McAvoy, and Taryn Maj. How did I get so lucky to have all of you working with me this past year? In many ways it’s been the best part of the job.

  To my soulmates and bandmates, The NAturals—Sierra, Gennifer, Melanie, Kayti, and Tamara. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you women. You love who I love, hate who I hate—you’re my touchstones. I think Mel said this first, but I’m stealing it: If anyone had told me three years ago that I could love people I met on the internet more than people I knew in real life, I’d never believe it. But then I met you. Love and boobs to you always.

  To Joe, last year was our year. So how much cooler will we be by this time next year?

  To the authors who have helped out the newbie and inspired me with beautiful writing and so much amazing advice, especially Kristen Proby, Lauren Blakely, and Gennifer Albin. I’m really honored to know you all. Thank you for sharing your words and wisdom.

  To the WrAHMs and the Babes of the Scribes—I can’t wait to meet you at WrAHMpage and to hug the fuck out of all of you.

  To the Book Bloggers and reviewers who have so enthusiastically shared my books. I can never hope to mention you all, but there are some of you I wouldn’t dare miss: Aestas at Aestas Book Blog; Amy, Jesse, and Tricia at Schmexy Girls; The Rock Stars of Romance; Angie at Angie’s Dreamy Reads; Lisa and Brooke at True Story Book Blog; Kari and Cara at A Book Whore’s Obsession; Angie and Jenna at Fan Girl Book Blog; Jennifer Wolfel at Wolfel’s World of Books. Though we have a symbiotic working relationship, I also truly think of you as friends. Thank you for your love and support.

  To the Readers who make it possible for me to work full time as a writer and take care of my family with what I earn. I am so appreciative to you that I get choked up thinking about it. I know you have so many choices when it comes to picking up a book—thank you so, so much for picking up mine.

  To my Creator who has given me more than I deserve—may I continue to understand what your role is for me in this life and to accept it with humility.

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  You can sign up for my email newsletter to receive new book release info at www.laurelinpaige.com. You can also connect with me on Twitter @laurelinpaige and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/laurelinpaige.

  Enjoy a preview from Laurelin Paige’s upcoming novel,

  HUDSON

  A full-length companion novel to the NY Times Bestselling Fixed Trilogy.

  Told from his point of view, Hudson fills the holes in his love story with Alayna Withers. His past and relationship with his long-time friend Celia is further revealed and light is shed on his actions during his courtship with Alayna.

  “I can easily divide my life into two parts—before her and after.”

  Chapter One

  I sign in on the form and hand the clipboard back to the volunteer manning the desk.

  The young man’s brows rise in recognition of my name. “Mr. Pierce!” He stands from his seat and sticks out his hand to shake mine. “I didn’t expect it would be you representing Pierce Industries. I thought you’d send someone.”

  I shake his hand, out of politeness, then force a stiff smile. “Surprise.” God, I hate small talk. Especially from this twenty-two year old ass-kisser who likely hopes this interaction will earn him employment at my company. I’m afraid it’s not that easy to even get an interview.

  He lowers his focus to the nametags on the table, searching for the one with the Pierce Industries logo. He hands it to me, and I pocket it. I refuse to wear it. I’m easily enough recognized without advertising it.

  The man—nothing more than a boy, really—seems disappointed. Whether it’s because I’m not as charismatic or charming as he’d imagined or because I dismissed the damn nametag, I can’t be certain. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. Once upon a time, his emotions would have elicited more interest from me. Now, they’re barely a blip on my radar. I’ll never understand them. No point in wasting my time trying.

  His smile is professional as he gives me the portfolio for the evening’s presentation. At the same time, I feel a small hand press into my back. I tense. I know that hand.

  I glance behind me, confirming my suspicion as I start toward the lecture hall. “What are you still doing here? I gave you what you wanted.”

  “I’m already here. I thought I’d stay.” As she trots to keep up with me, Celia’s heels echo on the marble floor of the Kauffman Management Center, the house of NYU’s Stern School of Business.

  I stop at the door to the hall and turn to her. “You weren’t invited.”

  Her lids flutter ever so slightly, and I know my words have stung. “You could invite me. We rarely see each other anymore.” She lowers her voice. “I miss you.”

  My jaw ticks, and I let out a slow breath. Celia is the one person I’ve been advised not to spend time with. She’s also the one person who understands me better than anyone else. It’s a war I wage daily—being with her is akin to being a drunk in a liquor store. She tempts me to indulge in wicked ways, even if she doesn’t intend to. And I’m certain that usually she does intend to.

  But she’s my only friend, if that’s what you would call our relationship. Without her, I’m all alone.

  “Fine; you’re invited,” I resign. I open the door and hold it for her to walk through. “I don’t know why you want to be here. These things are boring as hell.”

  I follow her down a row toward the back of the room and take two seats in the middle. The hall is small, and there are less than ten other corporate representatives currently seated. We could easily move closer, but Celia knows me well enough to understand that I prefer to be removed from situations such as these.

  She leans toward me, the scent of her too-strong designer perfume pervading my space. “If it’s boring, why do you even come? You could send someone who’s twenty rungs down the ladder from you.”

  I pause, deciding if I want to explain. The annual Stern Symposium is the only event of its type that I attend. While the majority of the presentations are dull, I’ve found a handful of stellar students in the mix. A good find is rare and not worth the two hours I spend here every year, but that isn’t the reason I continue to show up. Any of my execs could come in my place and be a better use of time management.

  Still, I insist on coming myself. Partly, I’m curious. I want to know the ideas and trends emerging from the top schools. It’s an attempt to stay in touch, to remind myself how to be fresh and innovative like the MBA graduates that will present tonight.

  There’s also another reason I attend, a reason that’s less tangible and harder to put into words. It’s been eight years since I finished my own business degree. Then I went straight to managing my father’s company. I’ve become known for my cutting edge corporate decisions, my contemporary workplace vision. But the truth of the matter is that I was handed everything on a platter. I never had to fight for it or earn it like the students we will soon see. I’m ambitious and intelligent, but they have a passion and a fortitude that is intriguing. It inspires me. Most of them will do anything to make it to the top. They want to be me, to have what I have. They look up to me to show them how to get there.

  And I look up to them.

  Celia would never understand, so I simply say, “You never know what gems you might find.” I pick up the portfolio from my lap and flip through it absently as I speak. “Don’t blame me, though, when you hav
e to fight to stay awake. And don’t even think of trying to get me to leave.”

  “I won’t do either. I’ll be a good girl.”

  My eyes dart to her legs as she crosses one over the other. They’re attractive, I’ll admit. She’s attractive. I’d be a liar if I said otherwise. But I am not attracted to her in that way. Not at all. It’s likely a symptom of my inability to love, though I do take interest in other women. Women I don’t know. I fuck them and have a good time, but that’s all. Celia is the only woman besides my mother and sister that I know on any sort of intimate level. And as if she were a family member, I have not a speck of desire for her.

  “I’m only here to be with you, anyway,” she says now, wrapping her hand around my arm.

  I flick my gaze toward her grasp, but don’t shrug her away. “Stop saying things like that, Celia.” As well as I know her, I’ve yet to understand her intentions by making statements such as this. She’s smart enough to realize that I will never return any affection, and strangely, I don’t think that’s what she’s after. She simply wants that same connection that I do—a kinship with someone who understands the dark fascinations that live inside her.

  And I do understand her darkness. In fact, I’m fairly certain I birthed it in Celia. Time and again I try to remember if I saw it residing there before I subjected her to my cruel experiment. I can never be sure of the answer. How could I be expected to identify light when I dwell in total darkness myself? Now, even though I’m better, though I’ve resigned from the game, there is only black everywhere around me.

  Still pretending to focus on the portfolio, I feel rather than see her look away.

  “I’m sorry,” she says in a low voice. “I just…I don’t know.”

  A moment of pity grips me. “You don’t have to explain. I understand.”

  The lights dim, and the president of the business program takes the stage. I drop the folder onto my lap, having garnered very little information about the night’s presentations. I won’t learn anything from that, anyway. If there’s someone worth my time, I won’t know until I hear him or her speak.

  After the president speaks, the first presentation begins. I know there will be six students in all. That doesn’t vary from year to year. Only the top students of the graduating class are invited to present. They are the cream of the crop. Stern isn’t Harvard, but it’s a Top Ten business school. These students are some of the nation’s best.

  As I promised, though, the evening is a bore. Also true to her word, Celia doesn’t complain. She appears to be deep in thought, most likely concocting her next scam. The temptation to join her in scheming is great, but I push against the pull and focus my attention on the event. International trade seems to be the topic of the night, but there are a few differentiations—one talk is about the newest tax codes and how they can better benefit corporations. Snore. Another presents a variation on an old business model. It’s an original idea, but not practical.

  By the time the fifth student finishes, I’ve met my limit. I nudge Celia out of her reverie. “I’m ready to go,” I begin to say, but stop myself before I get the words out. The woman ascending the stairs to the stage has caught my eye, and all thoughts of leaving disappear. Something about the way she moves is captivating—the wiggle of her hips suggests an undercurrent of sexuality, and her back is straight with confidence.

  Then she turns toward the audience, and my breathe catches. Even here twelve rows away, I can tell she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her dark brown hair falls just so around her face, accentuating sharp cheekbones. Her eyes are dark. Her short dress reveals long, lean legs. The modest cleavage of her outfit can’t hide perfectly plump tits.

  There’s something else—something about her carriage that makes me sit up and take notice. And she hasn’t even spoken yet.

  “What?” Celia whispers, responding to the jab I’d given her. Or perhaps to the way I gasped at the sight of the angel before us.

  “Nothing. Never mind.” Our conversation was in conjunction with the introduction and I missed what the presenter’s name is or what she’s meant to talk about. I can’t move my eyes for even a moment to check the program.

  I’m mesmerized. Truly mesmerized.

  She takes her place at the podium and begins her presentation, and I half expect my attraction to her to fade the minute her mouth opens. The opposite occurs. The sound of her voice sends a jolt through me, and I straighten in my seat. Her tone and demeanor ooze passion and authority, and also a touch of caution. For several minutes, I barely focus on her words. I’m too beguiled by her mere presence—by her smile, by her body language, by the way she furrows her brow when she refers to her notes.

  And there’s an air about her that I’m drawn to immediately. I sense that she’s been downtrodden, but not broken. That she’s known pain but emerged whole and strong. I scoff at myself—how can I know that from a few minutes of business talk? I can’t. But I also can’t shake the feeling that it’s true. It attracts me more than anything else about her.

  When I finally do catch her speech, I’m further impressed. Her topic is simple—print marketing in a digital age—but she’s approached it with brilliant practicality, and I’m sure that every exec in the room is going to pursue her at the meet and greet after.

  I make it a point to find her first. This, precious, precious, gem.

  “Alayna Withers,” Celia says quietly at my side.

  “What?” I shake myself from the presenter long enough to see Celia reading from the portfolio folder.

  She nods toward the stage. “Her name is Alayna Withers.”

  I bristle, irritated that Celia has noticed my interest. At the same time, a surge of gratification spreads across my chest. I have her name! It’s a small thing and unfortunately everyone in the room has it as well. But I cling to it, this one bit of information I have about her. I say it quietly to myself. Let the sound of it settle in my ears. Let the texture of it swirl on my tongue.

  The room is still dim, the stage the only place illuminated, but I feel the cloak of darkness around me start to dissipate.

  Suddenly, I see light.

  Chapter Two

  Before

  “Your serve is terrible,” I shouted to Mirabelle. Overall, my sister had gotten better since last summer. The private lessons she’d had throughout the year had strengthened both her backhand and her volley. Not that I planned on giving her the satisfaction of telling her I’d noticed.

  Mirabelle’s eyes sparkled as she bounced the tennis ball in front of her. “My serve is fine. I’m winning, aren’t I?”

  She’d won the first match because I’d gone easy on her. I hadn’t expected her to be as good as she was. “Only because I’m paying more attention to your god-awful posture than to the ball.”

  Her lips curved up. “That’s your problem. You’re easily distracted.” She tossed the ball up, but instead of swinging at it, she let her racket fall to her side and her attention shot elsewhere. “Oh, hey. I didn’t see you there.”

  I followed Mirabelle’s gaze and found Celia leaning against the side wall of our private court.

  Well, what do you know?

  I wasn’t sure yet if I was glad to see her or not, but when she grinned, I returned her smile easily. I hadn’t known she was in the Hamptons, but I wasn’t surprised to see her. Of course, she’d stop by. Even if our mothers weren’t the best of friends, Celia would find a reason to see me.

  “I was enjoying your game,” she said to my little sister, but her eyes never left me. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s over now. Huds, we can play later.” Mirabelle stomped to my side of the court where she left her racket cover and began packing up.

  “Mirabelle,” I said, low, with a hint of warning. I knew she didn’t care for Celia, but she didn’t need to be nasty.

  She ignored me. Giving me a final scowl, she said, “Enjoy the rest of the day with your girlfriend.” Then she took off throu
gh the opening in the hedges toward the main house.

  “I’m not his girlfriend,” Celia shouted after her. Then she turned to me, a fist on her hips. “Why didn’t you correct her?”

  I tilted my head to the side, waiting for my neck to pop. Honestly, I was surprised that Celia had corrected Mirabelle. I would have thought she’d be happy about the title. As for me, I preferred to let people believe what they wanted to believe. It made life far more interesting.

  But my fascination with human behavior was one I kept to myself, so instead I said, “Mirabelle’s a hopeless romantic. She’ll form her own opinion no matter what I say.”

  Celia looked back after Mirabelle for a moment then walked toward me as I wiped sweat off my forehead with a towel. “She still doesn’t like me.” Disappointment was evident in her voice.

  “Sorry,” I said. I suspected that only-child Celia had always sought after Mirabelle as a surrogate sister. Our families were certainly entwined enough to make a bond between them seem inevitable. For some reason, it hadn’t happened. Why was that? Curiosity tugged at my subconscious, but I forced it away. I would ponder that further at another time.