Forever With You

by Beverley Kendall

  Forever With You

  Beverley Kendall

  Copyright © Beverley Kendall 2017

  Published by Season Publishing LLC

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

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  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  License Statement

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  FOREVER WITH YOU

  I’d never fallen harder for anyone than I did for Graham Prescott. The British hottie was like no other guy I’d ever met. And the attraction between us was mutual and red-hot.

  I would have done and said almost anything to be with him. So I’d told him one harmless, little lie…

  But it hadn’t been.

  Harmless or little.

  That lie nearly destroyed his life.

  Seeing him again after four years stirs up feelings I have no right to feel. So I tell myself the only thing I want from him is his forgiveness. But first I have to earn his trust—something easier said than done. Especially when he makes it clear there’s only one thing he wants from me.

  To stay the hell out of his life.

  Prologue

  I wake up knowing something is wrong.

  Last night, I fell asleep with Emily in my arms. This morning, I can feel her absence before I angle my head to take in the empty spot beside me, her presence now marked by rumpled sheets, the lingering scent of her jasmine body lotion, and the faint indent where her head had lain on the pillow.

  We’ve been going out close to two months and she’s been sleeping over at my place maybe three or four nights a week. And when she’s here, I’ve gotten used to waking up with her next to me, my morning wood ready for another round.

  Not this morning.

  “Em?” I call out, only to be met with silence.

  Where the hell is she?

  Throwing off the covers, I climb out of bed and hastily pull on my boxers.

  I share a two-bedroom apartment in the West Village with my best friend Blake. It’s a decent size for something in this area, but not so big that I wouldn’t hear her if she was moving around out there. I exit my room without bothering to throw on a shirt.

  At nine in the morning, the sunlight filtering in from the windows in the living room is enough to light the hall.

  “Emily, you here?”

  Still no response.

  A quick search of the apartment turns up nothing. As a last resort, I track back down the hall and poke my head in Blake’s room, which has been empty since he went home to Massachusetts for the summer. But his room is exactly the way he left it; bed made and vacuum lines still visible on the dark carpeting. So unless she’s hiding in one of the closets, she’s not here.

  Now genuinely concerned, I return to my room, snatch my phone off the dresser, and pace back to the dining area as I tap her name on the screen.

  She answers the phone before it barely has a chance to ring. “You’re awake.” She sounds breathless, as if she’d been waiting for my call. “I didn’t want to call too early in case you were still sleeping.”

  I slowly release a held breath, relieved she’s not lying in a ditch somewhere. “So you thought it’d be better if I woke up to find you gone? You could’ve left a note or texted me.”

  “I didn’t think about a note and I was afraid a text would wake you up. You know how loud your phone is,” she says, her tone hushed.

  It’s not that loud. “Where are you? And why are you whispering?” She’s beginning to sound like a girl with something to hide.

  The long pause that follows is hardly reassuring. Then an unwelcome thought enters my mind causing something sharp to twist in my gut. What is going on? What is she hiding? Does it have to do with another guy?

  When she responds, I have to strain my ears to hear it. “I’m at home. We kind of have a family emergency.”

  “What kind of emergency?”

  She sighs audibly. “Just my dad being my dad. I can’t talk about it right now but I’ll fill you in when I see you.”

  Just my dad being my dad? What exactly does that mean?

  I rest my hip against the kitchen counter and tuck my free hand under my armpit. “And when is that? We were supposed to spend the day together.” Preferably in bed. It’s Sunday, the day of rest and lots of sweaty sex.

  “Um, I’m not sure. I’ll have to let you know. Right now things are kind of…intense here.”

  The trepidation in her voice evokes my protective instincts. This is sounding less and less like run-of-the-mill family drama. Something serious must be going on. “What do you mean intense? Look, Em, if there’s something you need—”

  She quickly interjects, her tone soothing. “No. No. I’m fine. I just meant my dad is going through something right now. It’ll be okay once he calms down.”

  Calms down? I want to demand she tell me what the fuck is wrong. I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark, especially if whatever it is is serious enough to send her fleeing from my bed in the middle of the night. But she said she’ll tell me when she sees me, which hopefully won’t be too long. Sometime today, for sure.

  I steer the conversation back to my original bone of contention. “How did you get home?” I live in a decent neighborhood, but this is New York City, not exactly the safest city in the world.

  “My mom picked me up.”

  The mother I have yet to meet. “What time?”

  Her voice gets noticeably smaller. “Three.”

  I curse under my breath and gaze up at the ceiling.

  “She double parked in front of the building so it was out the front door right into the car.”

  I make a displeased sound in my throat. That doesn’t make me feel better. A woman alone at three in the morning attracts a lot of unwanted attention. And someone with Emily’s looks attracts even more. Guys have hit on her with me standing beside her. Holding her hand.

  “You should’ve woken me up so I could at least walk you down,” I grouse.

  “It didn’t make sense for both of us to lose sleep.” `

  I stare down at my bare feet. “If the choice is between losing sleep and making sure my girlfriend gets home safely, you’re going to win every time.”

  “Oh, Graham.” My name comes out on a wistful breath of air.

  That immediately has me thinking of everything we did last night, and all the things I plan to do to that gorgeous body of hers today, causing my morning wood to spring back to life.

  “When am I going to see you again?” It’s only after the question is out that I realize what a needy son-of-a-bitch I must sound like.

  I’ll admit it. I have it bad for Emily Leighton.

  Although we haven’t been together that long, I’ve never felt like this about anyone I’ve ever dated and that includes my high school girlfriend, and we were together two years. It’s too soon t
o say I’m in love with her, but my gut tells me that Emily is going to end up being The One.

  Before she has a chance to answer, an angry male voice filters over the phone line, his message loud and impossible to ignore. “Emily, get off the goddamn phone and get in here.”

  Her gasp is audible. “Listen, Graham, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you when I can.”

  “Wait, who was—” She hangs up on me mid-sentence.

  What the hell? Slowly, I pull the phone from my ear and stare at it as if it’s going to give me the answers I’m looking for. Then I place it on the counter and rub the back of my neck, worry knotting the muscles in my back and shoulders.

  What the hell is going on in that house? What if she’s in trouble? I can’t just sit by and do nothing.

  Snatching up the phone, I call her back. But with every ring that my call goes unanswered, my anxiety level climbs. Finally her voicemail picks up and her perky greeting instructs me to leave a message.

  Shit! I’m about to try again when my phone dings with an incoming message.

  Emily: I’m fine. That was just my dad. He’s kinda mad right now. We’re talking. I’ll call you later.

  Okay fine, I won’t call the cops. But Christ, what the fuck is up with her father? Seriously, the guy needs to take a Xanax and chill the fuck out.

  Where r u?

  Why haven’t u called me back?

  Em, what is going on?

  Emily, I’m REALLY starting to get worried. CALL ME!

  I finish glancing over the last four texts I’ve sent Emily since I spoke to her yesterday before placing my phone back on the desk. She has yet to text me back. She also hasn’t returned any of my half-dozen phone calls—calls, that as of this morning, are going straight to voicemail.

  I don’t know what the hell is going on but the longer it does, the angrier I’m getting. How hard is it to pick up a phone or return a text? It also doesn’t help that I have to sit through an hour and forty-five-minute lecture on the Keynesian Cross model in my macroeconomics class. My professor could be reading Shakespeare in French and it would be all the same to me. Might as well shoot me with a tranquilizer dart. With fifty minutes to go, my concentration is shot to hell and the chair I’m sitting on feels harder than fucking granite.

  Last night, one thing became very clear to me: I don’t know much about my girlfriend. I know the basics, like she grew up in Westchester County, has two older brothers, and her parents are still together. Oh, and she has a thing for B&Bs—she says they’re romantic—but I couldn’t tell you much beyond that. I’ve never been to her apartment, I’ve never met her two roommates, and I’ve never been to Stony Brook in Manhattan where she’s taking summer classes. There’s literally no one for me to call when I can’t get in touch with her.

  She’d been sure to pepper me with questions about my life, though. We talked about me moving to America with my mum when I was sixteen after my parents divorced. She knows my dad owns a pub in London and that my mum grew up in Pennsylvania and met my dad on a school trip to England. Emily’s actually supposed to meet my mum for the first time next week.

  That’s if I ever hear back from her.

  What if the guy on the phone wasn’t really her father? It could be a guy she’s fooling around with. Is that why I’ve never been to her place? Or the reason she changed the subject the last time I asked her when I was going to meet her parents? The longer I go without hearing from her, the more those sorts of thoughts plague my mind.

  Agitated, I glance down at my phone, willing the damn thing to ring. Willing her to call or text me. I note the time and suppress a groan. Forty-five minutes to go. I’m in hell.

  “Mr. Prescott.”

  My gaze snaps up to find Professor Landon soberly regarding me from behind round, wire-framed glasses, his slender form standing just inside the open classroom door. “Collect your things. Mr. Feldman would like a word with you outside.”

  My academic advisor? What does he want? And what could be important enough to call me out of class?

  Feeling a sense of unease, I stand, shove my notebook and textbook into my backpack, hook it over my shoulder and slide my phone into my front pocket. Curious stares follow me as I make my way down the aisle toward Professor Landon. He acknowledges my departure with a quiet nod. The guy isn’t much of a talker.

  Out in the hall, my sense of unease doesn’t just grow, it skyrockets. And not at the sight of the worry creasing my academic advisor’s weathered face but because of the uniformed cop—a lanky man with a narrow face and dark hair graying at the temples—standing behind him. I freeze, my thoughts immediately going to my mum.

  God, please don’t tell me something happened to her.

  “Graham Prescott?” The cop’s tone is brisk and matter-of-fact.

  Abject fear constricts my throat, cutting off my oxygen supply. I can only manage a nod.

  Grim-faced, he approaches, his cold stare locked on me. “I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  I don’t feel as much shock as I do disbelief. My gaze darts from the cop to Mr. Feldman, whose pained expression does little to clue me in on what the fuck is going on.

  I return my attention to the cop, who to my horror, is now holding up a pair of silver handcuffs.

  “There has to be some mistake,” I croak, my eyes now glued on the handcuffs.

  The cop ignores me, deftly grabbing my wrist and jerking my hand behind my back. I wince as the strap of my backpack cuts deeper into my shoulder.

  “Are the handcuffs necessary in here?” Mr. Feldman asks, looking more than a little uncomfortable as he scans the empty hall. “I’m sure Mr. Preston doesn’t intend to give you any problems.” The look he sends me seeks my assurance of that.

  I respond with a brief nod.

  The cop tightens his hand around my wrist and looks up at me, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t give me any trouble and I won’t cuff you till we get to the car.”

  I have no choice but to agree, so again I nod, hoping that at any minute I’m going to wake up from this nightmare.

  The cop releases his hold on me long enough to return the handcuffs to his belt. “Let’s go,” he orders. Grasping my upper arm, he gives me a hard shove.

  I stumble forward a step, just barely able to maintain my balance. Now I’m getting pissed and it takes everything in me not to jerk my arm from his grip. “Why am I being arrested?” I ask, this time with my jaw clenched and on a wave of mounting anger.

  He angles his head a fraction, just enough to meet my gaze. His eyes narrow and contempt laces his voice when he bites out, “Rape.”

  Chapter 1

  Four years later

  I’m not sure why I thought I’d be prepared to see him when the time came. Caught up in the fantasy of wishful thinking no doubt. But seeing Graham for the first time in four years makes me realize just how much I’ve been fooling myself. Big time.

  The feeling is indescribable. A seesaw of emotions. Guilt and longing colliding. My body reacts to the sight of him the same way it did the first time I saw him on Park Ave. after a modeling shoot—accelerated pulse, suspended breath and all erogenous zones fully engaged. His looks, his height and the way he’d carried himself, commanded attention, and I hadn’t stood a chance against the combined package.

  Today, he’s a more mature version of that man; the same square jaw, hooded brow and full lips. His muscled body is shown to its best advantage in a snug, white t-shirt and tan cargo shorts that hang slightly low on his hips. His hair is uncompromisingly short on the sides and back with more length on the top. Longer, his hair has a tendency to curl, and I used to love running my fingers through his thick, sandy locks.

  Forget all that! That was another lifetime ago. You’re practically strangers now and there’s only one thing you want from him.

  His forgiveness.

  “You know him?” My best friend’s green eyes brim with curiosity. I’m moving in with April this weekend, and we’re at the mall getting stuff we’
re going to need for the apartment when her other roommates, Liv and Rebecca, move out and in with their boyfriends.

  My nod is firm and quick. Inside, I’m a vacillating bundle of nerves. Am I doing the right thing? Is here and now the right place and time?

  “Who is he?”

  He turns his head as if he can feel my stare, then I’m looking directly into his eyes. Recognition is swift, as is the transformation of his expression.

  I stopped modeling after Graham moved back to the UK, and the memory of being inspected as if I were a commodity and not a human being is something I’ll never forget. It can chip away at your humanity if you let it. Still, I’d prefer that look to the one Graham is giving me now. Never in my twenty years have I seen such naked hostility on display, much less directed at me.

  Maybe if I didn’t think I deserved it, I would have turned and walked away and saved myself what is sure to be not a particularly pleasant encounter. But this meeting is long overdue and this may be the only chance I get to apologize to him in person.

  And it’s my well-meaning intentions that give me the courage to close the distance between us without breaking a stride. I’m so wholly focused on my ex that I don’t notice the woman at his side until I’m almost upon them.

  She’s not exactly easy to overlook, yet somehow I managed it. I’d like to say she’s average but the only average thing about her is her height. Her pretty face, pixie haircut and slender curvaceousness are well above that. A closer inspection of her has me estimating her age at closer to thirty than the mid-twenties I’d thought upon the fleeting first glance. Making her older than Graham’s twenty-five years.

  He’s dating older women now?

  That’s none of your business.