LIKE YOU
PERFECTLY FLAWED - BOOK ONE
BY RACHEL DUNNING
Copyright © 2013 Rachel Dunning.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Cover Design Copyright © 2013 Rachel Dunning.
Cover Photo Copyright © 2013 Rock and Wasp.
Obtained from Shutterstock and used with permission.
Smashwords Edition
ISBN: 9781310986246
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
By Rachel Dunning:
Know Me, #1 Truthful Lies
Find Me, #2 Truthful Lies
Finding North, #1 Naïve Mistakes Trilogy
East Rising, #2 Naïve Mistakes Trilogy
West-End Boys, #3 Naïve Mistakes Trilogy
Like You, #1 Perfectly Flawed Series
Christmas Comfort, #1 Hot Holidays Series
Girl-Nerds Like it Harder, #1 Girl-Nerd Series
Girl Nerds Like it Faster, #2 Girl-Nerd Series
Girl-Nerds Like it Deeper, #3 Girl-Nerd Series
Girl-Nerds Like it Longer, #4 Girl-Nerd Series
For news of upcoming releases, visit:
http://racheldunningauthor.blogspot.com
Table of Contents
FOREWORD
PROLOGUE
PART I
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
PART II
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
PART III
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
WHAT'S REAL. WHAT'S NOT.
OTHER TITLES
PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR
FOREWORD
I make things up for a living. Keep that in mind when you read this story.
At the end of the book there are some quick notes about some of the made-up stuff to save you some googling time if you're interested.
PROLOGUE
Have you ever met that perfect love with the perfect ass and the perfect chin, and who kissed perfectly and rocked you perfectly and smelled perfect? Was his tongue perfect, his touch perfect, his hair perfect? Were his hands and feet...perfect?
Most of all, was his heart perfect?
And, if you're a man, what about the girl? Did you meet the one where her breasts were perfect? Her butt cheeks, her lips, her smell, her skin, her ears, her legs?
Was her heart perfect?
And did you meet the one that had everything perfect? All of the above?
Maybe you have. Or maybe you will.
Maybe the person you've met, or will still meet, is perfect, simply because he's a little...imperfect.
Like you are.
PART I
CHAPTER 1
-1-
Axle Rhodes
Nov. 9, 2013 — Saturday Night
The beer ain't numbing shit. I ask for two whiskeys. Neat. The bartender brings them over and I down them. I feel like my throat's being ripped from inside me but at least it takes my mind off this anniversary for more than a second.
Just a little more.
I ask for another one.
I can see the disgust in punk-ass bartender's fluffy-haired face. When did he start shaving, a week ago? Nonetheless, he pours me one. That's right, bub, keep 'em coming.
I see the blonde on my left. She's dressed for a screw. Her calves are hard as steel, her ass so round I can practically feel my hand caressing it and bringing her into me, into my cock. Yeah. That's what I need. A good, hard fuck.
Blondie looks like she needs it too.
She's swaying. No, I'm swaying. No, the chair is swaying.
"Bartender," I say, raising my empty glass at him. He brings over the Bourbon, pours it. I nod for some arcane reason and down the fucker.
Damn, that burns. I smack my lips.
Before I know it, the blonde is next to me. Of course she is. Because I'm hard as frickin concrete and this babe just wants a good freaking lay.
Suits me just fine. That's what I want as well.
Of course, she talks to me in German. We're in a goddamn pub called Austin Meatpackers but not a soul here speaks English. Why would they? It's Frankfurt.
Frankfurt. Frankfurt. Frankfurt...
My minds starts fading. I think of her again. The car crash. The accident. The blood.
Damn it.
"Oh, you're married," says the blonde, looking at my ring. Her left hand's on the counter and her other is trickling down my back.
"Divorced," I say.
It's just easier to say.
"And you still wear your ring?"
I nod, smack my lips, look at the empty glass in my hand and try not to faze out into the memories again. "It was recent."
I turn to her, put my hands around her waist and bring her to me.
She smiles. I knew she wanted it. That's all she wanted. This frickin broad wouldn't even give a hoot if I was married. I reply in English. "I don't think you came over here to check if I was married, now did you?"
She makes herself look coy, seductive. Yes, that works. That works well. That and the booze. It works good.
She puts her fingers on my shoulders. I can almost see the drool come down her lips. "You're very well built."
Yip, haven't heard that one before.
I can practically hear her dripping on the ground.
The memories are fading. The blonde's red dress is all I can think of now. I'm holding onto her waist to stop the swaying, but I've sobered up somewhat since she's come by.
"Thank you," I say. Because what else is there to say to that? And I know what's coming next. Wait for it... Wait for it...
"You're English?"
Bam!
I'm American, but it's all the same to these Germans. "Yes."
She smiles again. Drip. Drip. Drip.
"Let's get out of here," I command.
I stumble slightly as I get off the stool, throw forty Euros on the counter. The blonde's a little taller than me. But my height is not what's attracted her to me.
The frosty wind outside sobers me up faster than being hit by a train. I don't like it. I'm gonna need this woman to make me hot. I slam her against the rock wall outside and kiss her neck like a lion to a gazelle. Her whimpers make me ha
rd but the memories are hitting back at me.
Crash!
Her scent is so familiar...
Crash!
She lifts her leg and I ease my hand up her sheer stockings, down into her panties. She's soaking. I hear the slight nervousness in her whimper, the kind that says, You're not planning on doing me right here, are you?
I kiss her shoulder like my life depends on it. Because right now, it feels like it does.
My cock is so hard. Good. That's another type of booze. Another drug. I need booze this time of year. And I need women. I've needed both for five years on the dot today.
Five years. I was twenty-five then. Now it feels like I'm fifty.
But I've got booze at home anyway. We'll drink it up all night and fuck til dawn. Yes, and then it'll be November tenth, not the ninth. And the tenth is better than the ninth.
So much better.
I get the woman to my place. She tells me her name and I'm sorry but I don't quite catch it: Catherine? Lila? Mauve?
Shit, who knows.
I tell her my name is Axle, Axle Rhodes. She says she likes it. "Sounds like that singer from that heavy metal band."
Haven't heard that one before either.
But it's not heavy metal babe, it's hard rock. And his name is nowhere near the same as mine.
I throw her on the bed of my studio apartment. Her legs open wide.
"I like rough man," she says in her heavily accented English.
"Good."
I undo my belt buckle, let my pants drop. I see her eyes bulge at my figure, my ink.
Been there, done that.
"You not take ring off?"
Damn, that almost made my cock fall flat. "Is it a problem?" I face her, nude, ready to take her.
She moves back on the bed. "No."
"Good."
"I'm on the pill by the way. And I'm clean."
I learned a long time ago that a woman willing to screw a man with a ring on his finger is about as trustworthy as George Dubya giving a speech about "the greater good."
Nonetheless, I'm so drunk I can't even think clearly about what she's saying. The room is spinning, her legs are spinning, her breasts are spinning.
She's clean? Hell, great!
I get on top of her. She yelps as I enter her, scratches her nails into my back and I close my eyes, easing my forehead to her neck as I ride her.
She's there already, man. I can hear it. I can feel it in the way she tries to ride me in return from below, squeezing my cock this way and that with her vag so that I almost come.
What is that scent? It smells so familiar...
My mind drifts.
The bed slamming against the wall as I do her brings me back.
I fuck her harder. The bed clangs and squeaks. I can't drift. I can't think about...
Crash!
I slam her!
Her yelp brings me here, brings me to this room, this bed. She scratches. That's good. A little pain is good, a little pain keeps me in the moment.
We're caught in the groans and the bed bangs the wall again and I feel the sweat of our skins and the heat on our necks...
And there's that aroma. Apple? Cherry?
Zoey.
Damn it. This is so not going according to plan.
This needs to end.
So I fuck her! Fast!
She yelps and screams and moans. Her orgasm carries on for several moments longer than I'd hoped. I still haven't come but only seconds later it all escapes me and I bellow deeply. That scent gets into every part of me while I convulse. Into my muscles, my lungs, my hair. "Oh, Zoey!" I roar.
But Zoey is not this girl's name.
That much I know.
Because I would remember if her name were Zoey.
It's a name I'll never forget.
I bury my head in the blonde's shoulder. She strokes my hair. Her breathing settles.
"You're not divorced, are you?" the blonde asks.
I lift myself up so she sees me. I shake my head. That I'm not divorced doesn't mean I'm married. But she doesn't need to know that. The mood's been dampened enough by me screaming out the wrong name as it is.
She looks down at my tat, traces her finger from the top of it, at my chest, to my abs. "Well, your wife is not here, and I am."
That's right, babe. "I know, so should we continue? Or do you want to keep talking about her?"
She starts grinding me.
Yip, that's what I thought. That's why I picked you, honey.
We fuck twice more. I'm too sobered up so I pull out the Jack from a cupboard and take a deep swig, then give it to her. Before I know it she's laughing and giggling and stumbling to the bathroom.
The room spins like something out of that movie Gravity.
She comes back, blows me on the ground. A drunken blow where she bites a bit too much and giggles too hard. I laugh and groan as well. Then I come. Again. Unromantically. Some of my juice gets onto her cheek. She licks it off seductively.
Later we do other things, none of them romantic, all of them bad. All of them nothing but a good solid screw with someone you don't know and don't want to know.
I guess we fall asleep sometime because soon I hear the babe hurling in the bathroom. More romance.
I close my eyes, try and ignore the sledgehammer currently being applied to my cranium. I feel blondie get back in bed. She rests a warm hand on my arm.
Too close. Too human.
I get up, let her sleep it off. I pass out on the couch after a few more sips of heavy liquor.
When I next open my eyes, it's morning. She's in front of me, dressed as she was last night, although her stockings are too torn to be put back on and her hair probably needs to be re-grown or re-permed or whatever it is that women do to make their hair look good.
She bends her beautifully long figure down to me and kisses me passionately on the lips. I see she brushed her teeth, a real pro.
"Do it again sometime?" she asks. I admit that her thick accent turns me on. But the flesh is spent now. I file the offer away. This babe was pretty good. No questions asked. I like girls who don't ask questions and who accept simple answers.
I shrug, too blinded by my hangover to say much of anything else.
Before she walks out the door she says, sarcastically, "Say hello to Zoey for me."
That's the problem, babe. I wish I could.
And if not hello, at least goodbye.
CHAPTER 2
-1-
Genevieve Katz
Nov. 10, 2013 — Early Sunday Morning
The key doesn't fit, until I realize it's my hand shaking. I steady it, remind myself I'm not in the states, that he's not after me, that I haven't just woken up in a hospital.
I breathe.
The air is cold in Frankfurt. But the cold wakes me as I take a deep breath of it. I breathe in again, close my eyes, tilt my head back.
There, better.
I open my eyes, look at the nondescript door to the Galerie Nouveau and stick the key back in. Slowly. It fits. I unlock it. I'm in.
I haul my single suitcase over the two steps and through the entrance. Although I left in a rush and packed hardly anything, after lugging it from JFK to Lisbon, Lisbon to Madrid, Madrid to France and then from France to here, has left me more than exhausted. That, and the laptop strapped over my shoulder, has made the suitcase feel like it's filled with gold bars.
I wish.
I've been travelling for thirty-six hours.
The room smells of oil paints. Of course it would. There's one cluttered desk to the right. On its left is a wall partition which is made of some type of ugly brown felt material. In the middle of the desk's clutter is a fancy computer and a high quality printer.
Paintings of things I don't understand line the walls. Brooke probably knows every minute meaning and nuance of what each artist put into each painting. Me? I just see splotches.
There are, however, two or three photos on the wall. Photos is something
I do understand. These are black and white shots. The photographer was clearly professional, but they're missing...heart. Anyway, not my business. And that's not why I'm here.
The gallery is small—only a few yards wide either way. Brooke hadn't been kidding when she told me she had little space to put me up.
I see the pink envelope with my name on it as she promised. I open it.
Hey babe,
If you're reading this, I guess you found the key!
How are you?
I figured you might need some cash until I get back so there's some enclosed.
I should be back in two weeks but my boss is pretty random with her itinerary so don't count on it. Make yourself at home. The kitchen's in the back. I bought some basic things in case you're famished and put them in the refrigerator.
I currently have no bed because mine broke and there wasn't enough time to get a new one before you arrived.
That's right. A twenty-four hour turnaround time on my part from decision to flight-time. And if I hadn't caught Brooke on the phone an hour before she left, I would have had nowhere to go. I've already pondered if that was some sign from the universe that things are changing for me. I decided it's not. I believe the universe gave up on me a long time ago. This is me telling the universe to shove it while I take control of my life.
Of course, I didn't tell Brooke all of the details why I left. The threatening letters, the phone calls, the emails...
My room's the small one upstairs with all the junk on the floor, as well as the mattress. I left in a hurry, so it's extra-messy.
I told The Hunter—that's my boss—you'll be staying here and that you respect art and she almost had a hissy fit but then she chilled out. So it's cool. She had no choice basically—likes me too much, even though she doesn't admit it. So just don't spill coffee on the abstracts or something. And if you do, do it in such a way that it can be sold as part of the painting.
Like You (Perfectly Flawed #1) Page 1