Make Me Stay II: A Second Chance Romance
Page 1
Make Me Stay II
A Second Chance Romance
Amarie Avant
Edited by
Melissa Harrison
Illustrated by
Vixens Designs
Copyright © 2018 by Amarie Avant
All rights reserved.
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.
ISBN: 9781790891221
Created with Vellum
Contents
Playlist
Prologue
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
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
About the Author
Black Queen, Dark Knight II
Prologue
Playlist
* * *
John Mayer— New Light
The White Stripes — Seven Nation Army
Toni Braxton — Long As I Live
Bishop Briggs— Dreams
Post Malone— Sunflower
Daley, Jill Scott—Until The Pain Goes Away
Lady Gaga, Bradly Cooper— Shallow
Drake — Doing It Wrong
Kendrick Lamar – DNA
Ed Sheeran— A Team
Prologue
“We aren’t getting married, Donnie.”
“AC, I swear—you take that ring off your finger—you’ll regret it.”
“A threat, huh? Sounds like the new Donavan Hardy. More of a badass, even more untouchable.”
Avery’s world was blanketed in silence. She could still recall how his beautiful face twisted when he’d responded. The entire moment reverberated, an earthquake shattering her heart. An image of Donavan’s thick, taut muscles shaking with rage as she removed the engagement ring and flung it at his face took hold of her mind.
What once had symbolized a blossoming happily ever after—made even more precious by the storm they’d endured—had bounced off his thick chest, coming to a clattering stop where Avery had fallen through the rotted-wood flooring last year. Donavan had saved her from tumbling fifteen feet down into the massive ballroom below when she was remodeling her great grandmother’s home—The Baudelaire Estate.
In the past, if there were anyone that could calm Donavan’s rage, it was Avery. She’d cuss and slap, finally getting him to understand what needed to be understood, the tough way. Farther back, there was also Franny, Avery’s great-grandmother and the former owner of The Baudelaire Estate, who had made the boy from the wrong side of the tracks feel at home even when Avery’s own father glared at him.
She sunk down to the glossy wood floor, clutching her arms across her abdomen. She was much too tired to argue with Donavan now, and Franny had died years ago.
An imaginary elephant took up residence on top of her chest. Don’t do it, Avery, don’t lose your mind right now.
It felt like it had always been Avery and Donavan. Before the notion was even fathomable, Donavan Hardy had claimed Avery’s heart. Giving him her heart as a child was the equivalent to taking her next breath of air.
Crack!
Avery started. There had been a sound loud enough that she could feel it, like a firework. Avery pulled herself up off the floor. She looked around, not sure where to start since the storm that raged outside could have caused damage anywhere in the massive house. Feeling vibrations on the floor, Avery turned around. Sheriff, the black golden retriever that Donavan had purchased on a whim a month back and another topic of their burgeoning fights, barked to the high heavens.
“You are going to upset Anya, please.” Avery didn’t need hearing to know that the puppy gave it his all with each yelp. His thick black mane stood on end, tail jetting outward.
“Sheriff, if you do not shut it, I’m going to tell Junior that you ran away. You’ll find yourself adopted by a nice, caring family, somewhere far, far away.” She tried on a smile, but it shook off all too easily. As Avery reached down to scoop him up, the puppy darted out of her hands, fleeing past the antique chaise and through the door.
“Dammit.”
Avery was in pursuit, but Sheriff had already made it down the long hallway. Eight-year-old Donavan Junior held a frisky six-month-old Anya in his arms. The baby’s creamy colored skin was reddened, her cheeks rosy from crying. Avery took her daughter and thanked her son by kissing the top of his sandy wavy hair.
“Oh, baby.” Avery chatted with her daughter, who often cooed and gave a toothless laugh while carrying on a conversation. But Anya’s lips were set in frown, sensing her mother’s sorrow.
Junior signed, “Mom, I have to get Sheriff.”
She nodded, then spoke each word slowly. “If he went through the doggy door, Junior, then come get me. You are not to go outside alone. The storm is getting bad. I’ll be in Anya’s room, putting her down. We all know how she gets if she hasn’t had her nap.”
Avery headed toward the room closest to her own, which had not been refurbished to reflect the estate’s grandeur in its prime like all the other Baudelaire bedrooms. It was an eclectic nursery with modern bright blue walls, painted elephants, and antique furniture.
Avery breathed in the mild scent of Anya, almost calming, until her gaze landed on the pink oleander flowers on the cherrywood stand outside of Anya’s bedroom. Ice flushed through her veins. Those weren’t her favorite flowers. And Donavan was in too much heat to mend it with bunches of lavender.
Hunter has been in my house? He put these flowers here!
The anger took root in her stomach, kneading tiny knots.
Holding Anya as close as possible, Avery started toward the stairs. The staircase opened at the opposite end of the long hall. Junior’s back was to her. There was no use screaming or shouting; he wouldn’t hear a single word, but . . . Avery hadn’t noticed it before . . . behind Junior on an accent table was another vase of pink oleanders.
Avery’s breath hitched as Junior turned slightly in her direction. She chopped her left hand through the air, but he didn’t look up while meandering down. He was mid-step, shouting for Sheriff,
when he noticed her. She waved him back up, her finger to her lips.
“But Mom . . .”
Gaze darkening, she waved at him again, and he hustled up the stairs.
Though Junior was almost as good at lip reading as she’d been as a child, Avery handed him the baby and signed the words, “Take Anya, go in your room. Lock the door—”
He mouthed, “But mom, Sherriff! He always listens when I call him.”
“Now. Please,” she growled. Avery ran along the hall, grabbing the wooden banister to stop herself from moving so quickly. She turned and flew down the stairs. Her bare feet hit the second landing with a thud as she gripped the railing to rush down toward the double doors. She stopped short.
The doors were wide open! Though the wind was driving hard outside, Avery knew the chill creeping down her spine came from fear.
Readjusting her focus, Avery gasped. A man stood at the foot of the stairs. Hunter’s dark eyes, which once held a note of sanity, were now narrowed. He placed his hand along the intricately carved banister and started up. He wore a black windbreaker and black khakis. His thin lips were virtually nonexistent as he ascended the steps slowly. His broad shoulders almost as wide as the lofty staircase.
“Now, why would our son do that?”
Her bones trembled. Their son? She’d never—
Hunter sneered. “Run and hide? Hide from whom, AC!”
“You can’t call me that.” Avery knew her voice was all but a croak. Had the words even been audible? Pressing her way back up the stairs, fire shot through Avery’s heel as it hit the back of the cedarwood steps. Her eyes stayed glued on Hunter’s lips though.
“Do you know that, when we first met, I thought about squeezing your neck until blood burst out your eyes?” He measured each word. “You were under this enchantment.”
His statement made no sense, and Avery was confused. But one thing she was sure of was that Hunter was crazier than she herself had been when she’d lost her mind at Sunnymead Resort.
When she spoke, her tone was level and confident. “I apologize for hurting your feelings.” Avery wasn’t the type to run or hide, and not even the devil himself could stop her from fighting for her children. “But I do need you to leave my house.”
“That’s Donavan talking for you, AC. That’s not you.” He shook his head, disappointment unmistakable. “See, you love me, Avery. You wouldn’t say—”
She stopped staring at his lips. Something more sinister than his delusional words caught her attention. “Blood,” she murmured, lips trembling. “There’s blood on your boots.” Her hands quivered as the worst slammed through her mind. The crimson splashes on his boots were fresh. She looked back up at Hunter’s face.
“I got rid of Donavan for us.”
Eyes in a daze, Avery was momentarily woozy. In an instant, the space between them no longer existed. Hunter pressed so close that she startled. Bracing herself, Avery fell back onto the steps. The ridges of each step digging into her spine. Hunter’s steel frame hovered above her.
Avery held her ground. Lips taut, chin up, she again made her demand. “Leave.”
His breath was rancid. He was too close. She made out the movements of his now untensed, peaceful mouth, understanding what he was saying. “Donavan can’t come between us anymore.”
“Oh god!” She sobbed. She looked toward heaven. All hope was gone, but she didn’t have time to mourn, instead another dose of ice traveled through her core. On the landing she saw her son, gripping the railing.
Junior’s honey brown eyes expanded in fear. His mouth was tight in anger for his mother’s sake.
Why hadn’t he locked himself in the room with the baby? When Hunter rubbed the silk of her jaw, Avery slapped at his hand. He gripped her cheeks, short nails biting down deep.
“I just knew Hardy ruined my life, left me in my own hell.” He tapped a hand against his leg. “Flaws and all. You taught me to embrace those flaws, AC. So stop letting that motherfucker control your mind! It’s you, me, and our children now!”
Spittle sprayed her face. He was looking away. Avery followed his gaze.
Her hand.
The sting of his fingernails in her cheek disappeared. He rubbed at the pained area. “You-you aren’t wearing your engagement ring.”
“I . . .” She thumbed her bare ring finger.
“Good. I’m glad you’re seeing things my way.” The psychotic mask disappeared from Hunter’s face. This move she’d made by removing her engagement ring pleased him—immensely.
1
Donavan
Six Months Ago . . .
Valentine’s Day
“Whiskey, double. No make that a triple,” Donavan said, slapping his hand onto the scuffed wood countertop. He’d snuck shots as a kid, and a double hadn’t done shit for him by the time he hit twenty. Dressed in jeans and a V-neck that clung to his burly build, he sat down on a stool in a bar that had seen better days. The place was virtually empty, and happy hour wouldn’t do much to liven it up once it began.
The bartender, who was straightening a row of liquor, began to turn around, asking, “What’s your fancy? Crown Royal, Dark—”
Donavan cut him off before he mentioned one of the best and most expensive whiskey distilleries in all the Carolinas—hell the world even. “Top shelf. Gutter shit. I don’t care if it ain’t nothing but rubbing alcohol at this point.” He shoved a hand through his wavy, dirty-blond hair, raking the waves from his forehead. When his honey gaze landed on the bartender again, the bartender’s eyes were wide orbs.
“You . . .” he stuttered. The creases around his eyes and mouth became more profound as he recognized Donavan. He instinctively took a step back, striking his spine against the counter behind him. A bottle of Skyy vodka hit the floor with a crash. Indigo shards danced in all directions.
Donavan’s eyes narrowed just so. “Willie?”
Before he could crack a smile, the old man stammered, “L-listen here, you little shit—”
“Calm the fuck down, Willie.” Donavan gritted out. Just a few moments ago, his mind was consumed by what mattered most in his world, making Avery Castle happy. He was so distracted that he hadn’t noticed which bar he’d walked into. Donavan glanced around. There was the same raggedy ass jukebox, just begging to liven up the place, which had been here all the times in the past when he came to rough up Willie. There was not another patron around. “Just calm down. I ain’t here for you.”
“Hell, nnn-no.” Willie rubbed the center of his back and argued, “I reckon Palmer and I are squared away now. Have been since before the holidays. So I would rather not see the likes of you. But—”
“I’m not here to . . .” Donavan’s voice faltered as he watched the bartender hastily move, grabbing not only a bottle of whiskey but the best the seedy place had to offer.
“On the house. Then you can take your ass right back out the door. Coming in all extra early. It’s the middle of the got-damn day here, and I won’t be bullied!”
Though Donavan hadn’t come in to shake up Willie, he took the glass that had a generous helping of whiskey in it. Donavan sighed. In the eyes of a gambling addict like Willie, Donavan would always be a small-town goon.
Did Donavan give a damn?
He let the whiskey splash down his throat like smooth fire. Shaking his head, he gave a hard laugh. He cared.
He had a reason to now. That reason depended on him every morning, when he got his son ready for school and kissed his soon-to-be wife good morning, and every night, when he helped his son with his homework—with a little tutoring from YouTube videos. Then he ended the day with cocoa butter and the pleasantly round belly of the woman who nabbed his heart.
The glass clattered down onto the counter. Donavan sat back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his beefy forearm. There wasn’t much space left with all the colorful tattoos. Each one held a memory, but he’d be adding more to it. The really important stuff.
Willie reluctantly spoke, “Doesn�
��t look like you’re enjoying your day.”
“I am.” Donavan offered, mind muddled with thoughts of Avery’s face and the fresh cut lavender bouquet he had given her this morning. She deserved better!
“Well, most folks don’t want to leave this place come closing time. You, on the other hand, arrive a couple minutes after we open up.”
Donavan changed the subject. “What did you get the old lady today? I’m assuming she’s the reason you straightened the fuck up, right?”
Willie stalked over, whiskey bottle in hand, and gave a nod of agreement. He poured Donavan a copious amount and grabbed another glass, pouring a shot for himself as well. “Darla, hell, she’s the daggon reason I don’t owe Palmer a dime. I haven’t laid eyes on a horse since—since I promised her—I could act my age.” He gave a sly grin. “I can.”
“Your brother must be happy?” Donavan recalled the last time he came into this very bar to shake up Willie for Elroy Palmer. His brother had been very disappointed.
Willie’s eyes widened.
“Yeah, I remember. He owns this joint. So, what did you get Darla for Valentine’s?”