Wicked Love: Frighten Me Collection
Published by Forever Romance Press
Copyright © 2020
First edition, 2020
E-book ISBN: 9781951325176
Print ISBN: 9781951325183
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, or by any other means, without written permission from the author. The only time passages may be used is for teasers, blog posts, articles, or reviews, so long as the work isn’t being wrongfully used.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events, and incidents portrayed are solely from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual places, people, events, or other incidents is coincidental or are used fictitiously.
Some of the stories within this collection are intended for mature audiences due to graphic language and sexual content.
Cover design by Sly Fox Cover Designs
Table of Contents
Carson: The Beginning
Andrea Smith
Night Moves
CJ Pinard
Never Let You Go
Dani René
Voodoo Love
JD Hollyfield
Can’t Forget You
Kristen Middleton
Dead of Night
Lexy Timms
Knight in Manhattan
M.C. Cerny
A Very Avynwood Halloween
Michelle Dare
Love in Pieces
Natasha Raulerson
Trace of Darkness
RB Hilliard
Bayou’s Edge
Sarah M. Cradit
Acknowledgments
Carson: The Beginning
Andrea Smith
Carson Matthews, a sophomore at Columbia University met with a brutal attack. Her memory is foggy, but somebody out there doesn't want her to remember. Because if she does, it will certainly put them, and their undergound sex trafficking operation at risk, not to mention, their identities. They have a lot to lose, but Carson has more.
Copyright
Carson: The Beginning
by Andrea Smith
Meatball Taster Publishing, LLC.
Copyright © 2020. All rights reserved Andrea Smith dba Meatball Taster Publishing, LLC.
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 (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) or stored in a database or retrieval system without the written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only licensed authorized electronic editions, and not from piracy sites which are illegal. Piracy is illegal, and there is currently federal litigation pending against a well-known operator of one such site, and of those found to be downloading stolen, copyright- protected material from this site. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is purely coincidental.
Introduction
I am so happy to introduce Carson – The Beginning, in the Wicked Love Anthology and to support this very worthy cause.
PART ONE
Prologue
Sometimes life is just too damn complicated. This is as true for nineteen-year-olds trying to find their place in the family unit, their elite social circles, or their academic culture as it is for a ninety-year-old, trying to find their mouth to spoon-feed themselves gruel.
Sometimes I wish I were ninety years old. That I had already found my way through the complicated maze of confusion, contradictions, poor choices, failures, successes, disappointments, doubts, and self-loathing.
I long to stand at the precipice of my existence, watch my whole life replay in front of me in bold, neon, polychromatic flashes from a kaleidoscope that shows my story so I can see how it all finally ends.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not depressed; honestly, I'm not. I'm more like . . . desperate. Yeah, that's what I am.
Desperate to know how it all turns out.
But I don't have that luxury right now. It is totally my fault. I'm ass deep into something I never would have imagined in a sober moment: My investigative research paper, for a class next semester.
I'd been so pumped about getting accepted as a sophomore into a seniors' class, that I'd started my research early, complete with a journal I've been keeping this semester.
It's going to be "cutting edge." I am confident it will blow Professor Armentrout out of his comfort zone when he reads my final right before the fall semester ends before winter break. It will be epically unique.
The prestige of garnering a slot as a contributing journalist for the monthly publication will practically ensure my acceptance into the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism. Yeah, the one founded by Joseph Pulitzer himself.
My aspirations are high, but almost always met. It's the thing I do. It's who I am.
Carson Renee Matthews.
Second child, only daughter of Easton and Darcy Matthews.
My father, Easton Matthews, is a global industrialist, a venture capitalist dabbling in all sorts of lucrative goods and services. He and my mother are thicker than thieves. Never argue. They still look at one another as if they're meeting and falling in love for the very first time.
Never argue.
Disagree?
Oh yeah. Lots of times. But it's usually about Weston. Mom thinks Daddy is too harsh with him. Her favorite line is, "Easton, he's testing his wings. Cut him some slack; let him soar with the eagles in his own good time."
Daddy's response?
"For Chrissake, Darcy, how will he soar with eagles when he surrounds himself with dodo birds?"
Oh, I know he loves Weston and me unconditionally; neither one of us has ever doubted that. It's just that . . . well, I wanted to make sure I didn't put the unconditionally to the test. Both of our parents were über attentive, although Daddy traveled quite a bit for his global business interests. But when he was home? It was all about Mom, Weston, and me.
Daddy can be a bit over-protective. Way worse than Mom, that's for sure. But the fact they own a condo here in the city, which they visit more often now than they ever did the whole time I was growing up, is their way of making sure they keep parental tabs on me. Which is fine. I happen to love my parents to the moon and back.
But nothing in my formative years, my teen years, or my college years had prepared me for the ramifications of the choices I made.
1
Aftermath
I feel like I'm floating in darkness. My eyes refuse to open, my limbs refuse to move, and the only sense not shut down appears to be my hearing.
Hushed voices.
Repetitive beeping.
Sounds of air being pumped and then released into something with a long sigh. Doors swishing open and closed. Echoes of footsteps in the distance.
And then I hear a voice. A familiar male voice with an unfamiliar timber. He's murmuring to someone. I then process that he's talking to me.
It's my older brother, Weston. He's blaming himself for some shit I clearly don't understand. What the hell does he think I've been involved in?
Silence
follows. Is he still here with me? Then his voice floats to my ears. It calms me.
"Anyway, Sis, when you wake up, you and I are gonna have a long talk about that shit, you hear me? You've been playing Russian Roulette with your life, and I need to know you're going to stop that shit. So, you focus on getting better for now. And then I will make sure that you're safe from here on out. I love you, baby sister."
He said when I wake up. Then I'm not dead? Thank fuck! I'm in the hospital. It explains the beeping noises, which, quite frankly, are really getting on my nerves.
So, apparently, something horrible has happened to me that has landed me here in the hospital. I'm trying like hell to recollect what it could be.
I feel someone else is standing over me. But somehow I know that it's not Weston.
"My sweet baby girl. Mommy's here. If you can hear me, please give me a sign."
The sound of sniffling follows. Mom is here, and she's crying. I want to give her a sign, I really do! But I can't because nothing is working like it should.
"I feel like this is my entire fault. Like maybe I should've kept a better eye on your activities at college."
Oh hell. She's beating herself up. If I could talk, I would immediately blurt out to her that nothing is her fault because I know I have a mind of my own.
I hear distant footsteps getting closer. Someone else is now here with Mom. I hear his comforting words to her. It's my father.
Family dynamics are funny. Not 'har-har' funny, but rather odd. The reality is Weston's connection with Mom is much tighter than mine, though I do love her to pieces, but with Daddy, it's like I can do no wrong. It's the same dynamic between Mom and Weston. He, of course, doesn't see it.
My brother and I are a couple of years apart, but growing up, Daddy was gone a lot, and Mom was the disciplinarian. It seemed like I was forever grounded for this reason or that, but not Weston. All he had to do was turn on the charm, and Mom melted like a snow cone in hell.
I can hear his comforting words to her right now, in that lovely British accent.
"Darcy, love, Carson is strong. She will pull through this, I promise."
"Oh Easton, you can't make that kind of promise. I need her to give me a sign. I've been talking to her for the last two days, and no sign she even knows I'm here."
I want to scream, "I hear you Mom! I hear you Daddy," but nothing will come out. I'm frozen but not cold. I can't feel anything. Am I paralyzed?
My father's voice now sounds tortured. I hate that I've caused this pain to my family.
"Easton . . . don't."
My mother's voice sounds strange. Like there's some dark secret they share.
"My God, Darcy, even you must consider the possibility that this . . . this proclivity could be inherited in which case, I'm to blame."
"Easton, stop, please. We shouldn't discuss this in front of her. But put that out of your mind. I assure you, it's not genetic."
Oh shit. What the hell are they talking about?
"We don't know that, Darcy. Nobody knows if sexual proclivities are a result of nature or nurture."
"Hush, Easton. Let's talk about it later and not here."
Huh?
Sexual proclivities? Did I get here because of some kinky shit Daddy thinks I inherited from them - or, more specifically, him? Isn't that just like parents to want to assume guilt for something they played no part in? I think back to when I was eleven or twelve years old.
I was snooping around in my parents' suite before Christmas. Suffice it to say, I found no hidden presents, but I was able to uncover some . . . well, for lack of a better word, interesting gadgets. At the time, I was clueless about their purpose, but years later, it became perfectly clear to me. Crops, leather harnesses, nipple clamps, furry wrist, and ankle cuffs.
Later on I understood what those gadgets were all about. So, my parents were into some kink? It was no big deal, although I didn't actually want to dwell on it, they were my parents for Chrissake. But now Daddy had just outed himself as being the instigator. Apparently, he thought it was genetic. If I could have mustered up a giggle in Coma-World, believe me, I would have at that moment.
Ah, so yeah, that must be what landed me here. I connect the dots and recall the things my brother Weston mentioned while talking to me, and it now makes perfect sense. I'm sure bits and pieces will surface, though a part of me doesn't want it to because I may not survive the memory emotionally. I can choose not to remember. I'm stubborn that way.
I need to sleep now; to shut out the sounds and let my mind rest. And just as I think that thought, I hear a nurse murmuring something to my parents.
"She needs to get some deep rest, Mr. Matthews. This will help her."
"But all she does is sleep," he argues.
"Comas are not the same thing as restful sleep, Sir. Actually, they can be exhaustive as the brain works to heal. This won't hurt her, Sir. She'll just get the rest she needs."
And no sooner than I absorbed her words, I did indeed drift off into a restful sleep.
2
The Dream Sequence
"Carson, come on!" Shelby yells from the hallway outside my dorm room. "If you're coming with me, I'm leaving now!"
"Okay! I'm coming," I yell back to her, grabbing my backpack and opening the door. "Geez, in a hurry much?" I ask.
"What is that?" she asks, pointing to my backpack with a look of disgust.
"Uh . . . a backpack?" I reply giving her the bug-eye.
"Leave it inside," she says tersely. "I've been over the rules with you already, Carson. Anything you want to bring inside the club has to be inspected. I'm not going to wait for twenty minutes while the bouncers inspect your backpack. Anything you need to have like your keys or wallet must be in a small purse or wallet."
"Well shit," I snap. "I wanted to take notes and shit. I know my phone can't go inside, but I'd like to have it with me."
"You can check it at the door, and they will hold it until you leave. No note-taking either. This isn't a lecture you're going to, this is a sex club."
"Shh," I hiss, tossing my backpack inside my room and closing the door. "You don't have to let the entire floor know where I'm going."
"Hey," Shelby replies, "Don't knock it until you've tried it. It's not nearly as dark and seedy as you might think. It sure as hell helps me take the pressure off. Oh, and just so you know, if you don't want to stand out in this place, you need to look like you're willing."
"Willing to what?" I ask, a hint of alarm showing itself.
"Don't be dumb. Willing to partake or at least not get snotty if you're approached. I told Derek this was your first time as a guest. And please - don't let anyone know your purpose for being there. No names, no descriptions, and you've got your fake I.D., right?"
"Yeah, got it," I reply. "No sweat. I'll just say I'm in it for the voyeurism aspect. I'm sure many of the members are quite happy to watch."
Shelby was doing me a major favor by allowing me to be her guest. I wasn't about to go into a sex club as a Single White Female looking for sex in all the wrong places. This was research for my investigative journalism assignment. These clubs weren't illegal, because it was all consensual, twenty-one and over, and there was no charge per anything. It was a private, by membership only club.
We're standing in the plush lobby area of Sanctuary. Thick piled, deep red carpeted flooring, red velvet settees, and sofas line the walls as members do a meet and greet for tonight's party. Shelby Parker is a junior at Columbia. We met in a Communications class we attend together. She's a Jersey girl with no shame or filter, and I kind of dig that honestly.
When I learned about her sex club hobby, I immediately knew this would be the topic of my project next semester.
A large, intimidating Suma Wrestler type walks over to us. I marvel at his shiny, shaved bald head and multiple piercings. His upper arms are covered with a myriad of colorful tats, all of them professionally done. But he isn't intimidating; he's more like a business-like gentle
giant.
"Hey, this is Carson, Derek. She might be interested in a membership but wants to check it out first."
"So you said," Derek replies, his voice deep and commanding. "Carson, please come into my office so we might get you a guest stamp."
I walk dutifully behind Derek as we head into his office. "I'll need your I.D. to ensure you're twenty-one or over, and also, I'll need to take a picture of you for our files. It's regulation."
I reach into my wallet and present him with the very authentic looking driver's license I paid a hefty price for back in D.C. "Here you go," I say with a smile, handing it over.
He looks at it, and then at me, and gives the nod, handing it back over to me. "I'll also need you to sign and date our club's rule list. Make sure you read each one carefully as we have a zero-tolerance policy for violations."
I take the paper from him and read through each bullet point rule:
•Sanctuary is an adult lifestyle (swinger) party studio in the heart of NYC, where on-premise play is allowed. Single ladies are highly respected in the Sanctuary community. Stalking or harassment of single ladies is never permitted and, if excessive, can result in temporary or permanent suspension of a couple's membership.
•Sanctuary does not release a guest's private information to other guests.
•Whether you are a man or a woman, please ask for the consent of others before touching.
•All guests should respect the dignity of others. No rude conduct toward guests or staff will be tolerated.
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