by Liza James
Copyright © 2021 by Liza James
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All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Editing and Proofreading: Amy Briggs
Cover Design: Cassie Chapman with Opulent Swag and Design
Contents
Trigger Warning
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Also by Liza James
About the Author
K
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My life. My rules.
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That’s how it’s always been for me. Well, since I did something that ripped apart the threads of my humanity.
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After that, I let go of everything that left me exposed.
Relying on myself alone was the best option.
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I can’t allow anything near me anymore, not even the one girl who somehow intoxicates my blood and proves she means more.
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Calypso
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Sacrifices were made when I was young. Vital pieces of my vulnerability were stolen from me.
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It would have been far too easy if I hadn’t seen her again.
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So, of course, the one girl I hate most is the constant reminder of my most painful past.
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She thinks I’m still the weak one between us.
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It’ll be my sweet revenge proving her otherwise.
Trigger Warning: This book confronts several issues that could be potential triggers. Genuinely, there are SEVERAL so I’m placing a general blanket trigger warning over this. Sexual scenes are also written in explicit detail. Please be aware before stepping into this world.
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Recommended ages 18+
To connection. To the flame. To the draw you can’t seem to ignore even if your life depends on it.
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To the girl who forced me to face my shit and feel it.
“I prefer it when you aren’t speaking,” I mutter, pressing Skilla back until she’s flat against the brick wall behind the club.
“But—” she replies, placing her hands on my shoulders as she weakly attempts to push me away. She can deny it all she wants, but I know how she truly feels. I know what she wants.
I slide my hand down the front of her neon orange, tight spandex shorts. Knew it.
“Seriously, shut the fuck up.” I drag my knuckle along her clit, feeling everything her body is asking for even if her words are saying something different. It's hot as fuck outside; an early summer heat wave has overtaken the city and the club is busier than ever. Skilla's strappy white bra is all but falling off her shoulders as my lips drop to her neck, taking each moment to remind myself of why I enjoy this so much—fucking her.
It's painful, in the ways I need to be reminded of. Because she isn't the one I'm thinking about while my hands drift across her stomach and reach behind to grip her ass. It isn't her taste I think of when my lips consume hers, or when my face is nestled tightly between her thighs.
It isn't her energy flooding my mind and lighting me on fire.
But it's good enough. And she's the distraction I need when I can't seem to get someone else out of my fucking thoughts.
"I don’t want to be this for you," she whispers. Even though her hands run across my flesh as if I'm the only thing she could ever need.
"Jesus, what?" I bite out, leaning back for a moment while my mind attempts separating the memory from my reality.
"I don’t want to be this for you," Skilla repeats herself, but her eyes hold a sense of disappointment that doesn't rip me apart like the last one did. It doesn't hurt like the last time I heard those words.
It was never supposed to be like this.
She was never supposed to love me.
"That's unfortunate for you. Is this how you felt last night? Was it after your fourth orgasm? Or seventh?" I lift my hand and sarcastically pat her cheek. My lips press into a tight line when I drop my hand back to her shorts and run them along her incredibly wet pussy.
"You're a fucking bitch, K. You know that?" She shoves me back while a smile spreads wide across my lips. I love this part, the fight.
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I step forward again and she pushes me away. But I halt my stride and refuse to move. Instead, I rush closer to her, until her hands are slapping against my shoulders while she tries to separate us.
My hands grip her wrists entirely too quickly and I slam them back above her head. Her skin scrapes against the gritty texture of the brick wall and I feel her chest rise when she sucks in a breath at the pain. "You know I don't like this." Her voice is pained, but I don't care. I don't know why I'm like this... but how she feels, what she wants—I couldn't care less.
I stand up against her chest, pressing her back while my head rests just above hers. I tilt my chin down so I can meet her frightened gaze. Hell, I can practically feel her small frame trembling beneath mine.
"Liar," I whisper while I lift the hand that was just playing with her pussy and bring it to her lips. I brush my thumb along her skin, slipping it inside of her mouth until she opens and tastes herself on my skin.
She moans around my touch and her body visibly relaxes against mine. This is what I enjoy. The chase, the fight, the submission.
But I almost feel satiated now, and I haven't even gotten off. The thrill of the catch has already come and gone and now I'm reeling in my mind over all of the things reminding me this isn't the girl I actually want to fuck.
So, once again, I tell myself of all the things Skilla unfortunately is not.
She's a distraction. Another hit to my already desperate addiction. She's the gap between what I hate and what is absolutely necessary.
I keep my eyes locked on Skilla while I dig through the pocket of my distressed black denim, pulling out another cigarette and lighter while I light up in front of her.
"Why is it always like this with you?" she asks, crossing her arms around her chest while her eyes drop to my lips and lift back to meet my gaze. Even like this, even angry, she watches me smoke, consumed by the drag my lips take from the cigarette, fantasizing about the ways they work against her skin.
I'm her drug. And I'll be the inevitable fall to her stability. I'll destroy the picturesque vision
she has in her mind, where one day I'll be the one to realize my feelings for her.
It'll never happen though. I don't have feelings for anyone.
Anyone.
"Like what?" I reply, my voice vacant and dry. We've had this conversation far too many times now.
"Why can't you feel—"
I pull in a deep breath, letting the smoke fill my lungs until my head feels light and the burn stings inside of my chest for an extended moment. Then I release, dropping the half-smoked cig to the ground and crush it under the heel of my black doc Martens.
"Why can't you feel anything for me?" I interrupt her painfully obvious question with a higher pitch to my voice and sarcastic lilt in the words. "God, that's fucking pathetic. You know that, right?"
I step forward so there's only an inch of space between us, and she shrinks back against the wall while goosebumps break out over her shoulders. It's hot, but she isn't shivering from the cold. Her eyes are brimming with tears, threatening to spill down her cheeks while her eyes remain on my own.
She'll cry. She always does. Because for some reason, she's the girl we don't mind fucking around with. Ruby did it for a while before Aura became hers. I've done it for years now, off and on and amongst countless others. The difference, is while Skilla will never have my genuine affection, she'll continue to have this.
These highs and lows. Orgasms and then regrets. She's strung along while I take what I need before hiding away on my own again.
Because I know the darkest truth everyone refuses to acknowledge.
You can't trust anyone. Not one fucking person. Not your family or casual friends. Not your blood, or your colleagues. Not the people you surround yourself with, not even your best fucking friend.
I don't care how you feel when you're around them. I don't give a shit how often they tell you they love you. It means nothing, really. And I've chosen a life on my own for that very reason.
I don't give my emotions, my connection to anyone because they’re just that—mine.
And they always will be.
I'm not high enough for this.
The music pounds through my head, moving in slower beats than I realize is true. Everything just feels dimmer. Less significant. Bland. Boring. Plain.
The pole is cold against my back, but I hardly notice it. My eyes collide with Trevor's, he's one of the new dancers from the male side of the club—a newer addition we've recently expanded with. He moves closer to me, his rippled abs tensing with every step he takes. He's handsome, incredibly so, and my heart picks up speed as he approaches. Sometimes, they'll put both of us on stage together, male and female strippers. Usually it's me, honestly, because I request more of these dances.
I don't feel so alone when someone else is on stage with me. I don't have to be the center of every move, every dollar, every throw of attention. Sometimes, I can simply stand here with a fake smile plastered to my lips while the guys dance around me.
Sometimes I can escape in my mind to other places and forget this is what I'm doing. This place, the club, is where I'm surviving.
I don't mind this career field, I have no qualms with it. Except I don't love it. I'm not passionate about dancing, I don't enjoy the glances I get from the customers, or the idiotic shouts over the music, the entitlement, the uncomfortable desires.
I know this stage holds power, I know most of the girls here find a draw of independence by being the one in control. I felt that once too... it was why I started at Pandora's Box in the first place. But now? Everything seems to fall short. The atmosphere is stale and predictable.
God, everyone is so fucking predictable.
My head feels heavy, but not heavy enough. Trevor's hands fall to my waist while he pulls me against him and we begin dancing against the pole together. Oh, let me guess, before his hand even begins shifting upwards, I'm tilting my head back because once again...he's predictable.
His fingers wrap around the base of my throat and his face drops closer to my own while we move against each other. I struggle not to roll my eyes when his lips barely brush across mine, as if he's teasing me. I laugh, and he thinks I'm enjoying this but I actually find amusement in the fact he's so easily fooled.
As soon as I step off this stage I'm going to smoke another joint. I don't want to be present for the rest of the night. I just want to go home and sleep off this shift in the confines of my own big, warm, comfortable bed.
I vaguely hear the side door to the club slam shut. It's barely audible over the music and buzz of the customers, but it's a noise I know all the same. A familiar click that I can pick out over everything else. My eyes snap to the side while Trevor stays focused on me. He shifts his own stance so he's twisted me around and my back is flush against his chest.
His hand remains around my throat because power play and I remind myself he holds no authority over me. I'll let him believe so, this time, but if he ever thinks this is how it would go in the bedroom? He's fucking mistaken.
My desire for control lies in much darker places than this illuminated, fluorescent stage.
Shit. My heart beats, a little harder than it usually does, when my eyes lock on the girl with long, blonde hair. Hers isn't like my own, it isn't wild and messy, scattered with little flowers I managed to forage in a field outside the city.
Hers is darker by a few shades. It whips around her shoulders while she moves, and she wears it as though she doesn't give a fuck who’s looking. Just like everything else about her—cold, detached, reckless.
I fucking hate her.
I can't help but notice the way her hand rests on the back of Skilla's neck while they stalk through the club. Skilla is laughing at something, and K is leaning into her ear while she whispers words I couldn't care less about.
However, I wonder what their relationship is like. I know they spend time together. I know they hook up. But I don't think they're dating because every once in a while, K shakes it up with another girl here. Or a guy. It doesn't really matter. She's never cared about that shit, and that was always the problem.
She never actually cared. I’m painfully reminded of it.
My mind flashes back to the night at Liquid Kitty, months ago. When I was fucked up and high and trying to fit in with everyone else around me. K knew exactly what she was doing when she asked me those questions, and I played it off as if I hadn’t been ripped apart by her before.
As if she didn’t know exactly what it feels like when I—
Trevor rolls his hips forward and I can already feel his stiff cock pressing against my ass. Jesus, on stage? Seriously?
I quickly turn to face him and drag my finger-tips up his arms, swaying my hips with the beat of the music while I look up and meet his bright green eyes. "Get it together," I bite out, subtly dropping my hand and tapping the front of his tight spandex just a bit harder than I should.
"It's hard when you're rubbing your ass against it the entire time, Sunflower."
Sunflower. My eyes narrow at him for a split second, it's been a long time since I've heard that nickname. But I refuse to acknowledge the coincidence because it's a common term for someone like me.
Bright. Blonde. Flowers and glitter and makeup. I tend to resemble sunflowers without even realizing it, even if it can be the opposite of the storm inside of me.
"Don't call me that," I reply quietly, as I turn back around and I’m met with the hard gaze of K while she watches us.
Fuck, there it goes again. The betrayal of my heart while it slams against my chest. Anger and resentment roll through me while memories of our past whip through my mind. Our childhood, our families, growing up right down the street from each other while our lives fell apart.
We found each other in the midst of ruin. Her family had lost their mom to suicide, and my family had lost the one person I could identify with. I had lost the other half of my heart, while K had lost the only person who ever defended her against her father and brother.
She had lost her shelter, her home, and
I had lost my sister.
But our mutual bond through pain wasn't enough to protect us from the darkness. It never would have been, and I was young and naive to hope otherwise.
Now, we're strangers existing in the same atmosphere. Our mutual pain has transformed into shared hatred for each other. So, when my heart instinctively responds to her eyes on me, my mind is immediately present, reminding me exactly why I hate her. Why I enjoy drawing any sort of reaction from her cold, vacant, being.
My hands drift up and around the back of Trevor's neck, urging him to the side while my head twists and tilts up toward his. I arch my back, suddenly allowing the feel of the music to pulse through my blood while I dance against him.
He responds immediately, his fingers gripping my waist while he drags my ass against his hips again. I glance back to the audience, noticing how immediately entranced they are with our sudden connection. The flare of thrill and temptation work through the eyes of every customer, more bills are thrown at our feet and I drop my hands to the band of my thin, gold panties until my thumbs slip into the sides at my hips.