Laces : An Asylum Bully Romance (Boys of Hawthorne Asylum)
Page 1
Laces
A Boys of Hawthorne Asylum Novel (#1)
Tempi Lark
Contents
Mailing List
Author’s Note
Playlist
Prologue
1. Gambrielle
2. Laces
3. Gambrielle
4. Laces
5. Gambrielle
6. Laces
7. Gambrielle
8. Gambrielle
9. Gambrielle
10. Laces
11. Gambrielle
12. Gambrielle
13. Laces
14. Gambrielle
15. Laces
16. Gambrielle
17. Gambrielle
18. Gambrielle
Stalk Tempi
About Tempi
Acknowledgments
Copyright © Tempi Lark 2021
All Rights Reserved. This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, 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.
No copyright infringement intended. No claims have been made over songs and/or lyrics written. All credit goes to the original owner.
Edited by: Sara Miller, Pretty Little Book Promotions
Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations
www.tempilark.com
Mailing List
To keep up to date with Tempi’s writing and more, sign up for her newsletter.
Click the link below to sign up.
https://bit.ly/3iTJsba
Author’s Note
I contracted Covid-19 TWICE while writing Laces, which lead to sickness and physical weakness (and other things, but we won’t go into that lol). I would like to thank my editor, PR team, Street Team, and readers for being patient with me during my recovery.
Disclaimer
Laces was originally intended to be a standalone, but was later changed to a series to lessen my stress during the illness. Laces contains strong language/cursing, sexual and physical abuse, and other triggering scenes that might not be suitable for everybody. There are Reverse Harem themes at play throughout the series. This book is an angsty slow burn that builds toward intimate scenes as the series progresses, and is not intended for readers under 17. *Laces is book one in the Boys of Hawthorne Asylum series*
Playlist
Praying - Kesha
Sweet but Psycho – Ava Max
Lights – Elle Goulding
Seein’ Red - Unwritten Law
Broken – LovelyTheBand
My Kind of Love – Leon Else
Always Hate Me – James Blunt
Wakey Wakey – NCT 127
Whatever It Takes – Imagine Dragons
Confessions of a Broken Heart – Lindsay Lohan
If You Could See Me Now – The Script
Like a Stone – Audioslave
Secret Love Song – Little Mix, feat. Jason Derulo
Dusk Till Dawn – ZAYN, feat. Sia
Make It Right – BTS, feat. Lauv
Desert Rose – Sting
I’m Alive – Celine Dion
Sound of Your Heart – Shawn Hook
Independent Love Song – Scarlett
Husavik – Will Ferrell, My Marianne
Find the playlist that inspired Laces on Spotify!
Dedication
For anyone who has ever been abandoned.
This one’s for you.
“Love is my religion—I could die for it.”
-John Keats-
Prologue
DA’s daughter declared legally insane; will join the Legendary Three at Hawthorne Asylum.
By Samantha Malley, The Weekly Enquirer.
Gambrielle Evans, the stepdaughter of Charlotte District Attorney, Joseph Evans, was declared by a judge to be mentally unstable Thursday morning. The nineteen-year-old was taken into custody shortly after ten a.m. and hauled away in a police cruiser while a crowd of fifty or so looked on from the courthouse. This news comes exactly one day after a grand jury dismissed murder charges against the district attorney, in the death of his stepdaughter, Elizabeth Evans, who was found in bed, unresponsive, at the family’s Charlotte estate six months earlier.
“Regardless of the fact if Gambrielle was telling the truth about what she saw that night, or if it was something her mind conjured up to deal with the traumatic loss, we might never know what really happened. What we do know is the statement she provided to the prosecution does not match up with the evidence.” Sheriff Thompson said at a news briefing. When asked by a reporter to elaborate upon the last part of his statement, Sheriff Thompson didn’t hold back, “The evidence doesn’t lie. People do.”
Ms. Evans initially claimed that she was hiding in her sister’s closet during the murder, but later retracted her statement when her mother told prosecutors that they were together that day visiting a close friend. Sources say the close friend even validated the claim, which didn’t aid the prosecution when the time came to get an indictment.
Joseph Evans’ attorney, Thomas Newman, issued this statement today:
Attorney Joseph Evans is an upstanding, valuable member of our community here in Charlotte. He has gone above and beyond during his twenty years of public service, and the accusations that were brought against him in no way reflect who he is, or the work he has performed for the community. He is eager to get back to work and return to some normalcy. He would like to thank everyone for their support during this trying time and asks that you respect his family’s privacy as they try and move forward in the next stages of healing.
Though it hasn’t been confirmed by Charlotte officials, sources closely connected with the case say Ms. Evans will be admitted to Hawthorne Asylum in the coming days. The mental hospital is well known for housing notorious high-profile patients, such as the Legendary Three, and has often been criticized for its unorthodox treatment methods.
Comments (2,513)
MattAtYou
Damn. O_O Judge Wexler threw the book at her. Ruthless.
Pumpkin_bliss
Nothing to see here. Just another rich girl screaming for attention.
XJordanSkiesX
Housed with The Legendary Three? You act like that’s a real punishment. US WOMEN KNOW BETTER! ROTFLMAO.
Marie7210
I volunteer to be locked up with Laces!
Gemma_Light12
Laces is so fuckin hot!
Marie7210
Yes he is! I would sleep with all three. IDGAF.
DarwinB89
Strange what women find attractive these days…
KellyDCloveX
Do they provide condoms in the nuthouse? Asking for a friend…
Marie7210
THIS.
One
Gambrielle
I always thought the first time I stripped would be for a man. Nothing big. A little decoration here and there, a pair of sexy underwear, and Usher’s sweet voice to drive it home.
“Jeans. Shirt. Flats. Everything has to go.” Nurse Kline said, sounding unmoved as she peeked over her tablet. Shell-shocked, I was still standing in the same corner of the small room—shoulders slumped, bug-eyed, mouth hinged open. Has it really come to this? “Did you hear me, Evans?”
Her mouth, I could see it moving—the angry expression spreading across her pores, but I still couldn’t
make sense of it all.
She wants you to strip.
Yes.
Take everything off.
What for?
On any other day, I would’ve been able to connect the dots.
When I didn’t immediately obey her command, Nurse Kline tucked the tablet under her arm and cocked her head to the side. Examining me from head-to-toe, she said, “You are Gambrielle Evans, correct?”
I didn’t answer.
The tablet was back in her hand so fast, and she was scrolling down to the bottom, “You know what, this would go a lot smoother if you would at least acknowledge my questions.” She took a quick glance at me. “You are Gambrielle Evans correct? You were ordered here by Judge Wexler until the doctors on staff deem you are no longer a threat to society.”
All I could do was nod. Yep.
Her eyes were back on her tablet as she mouthed, ohhh-kay. Pointing at an empty plastic tote near the door, she said, “Put your clothes and shoes in there.”
Excuse me???
My stepfather, Joe, was probably cracking jokes at that very moment, proudly reminiscing about my takedown with all of his lawyer buddies. The image of him toasting and taking a swig of his whiskey with the rich bastards that had aided in my inevitable downfall was almost too much to fathom—“Evans?”
—you don’t belong here.
“EVANS?”
Pursing my lips, I tore my eyes away from the tablet and looked straight into Nurse Kline’s watchful gaze. I knew deep down that my current dilemma wasn’t her fault, but that didn’t stop the thoughts running through my head. She was admitting me to Hell and therefore was a part of the problem. “He did it.” I finally said with conviction. Whether or not she knew what I was referring to, I didn’t know or care. I needed to speak my peace on the matter.
Ignoring me, she jerked her chin toward the tote again. “Put all of your stuff in there.”
With a heavy sigh, I bent over and started to remove one of my flats, but stilled when I saw Nurse Kline slapping on a pair of white latex gloves. Oh no… my brows drew in. I could hear my heart pounding through my ears, feel my hands trembling in midair. Only when she proceeded to grab the KY jelly did I finally speak up. “Wait, wait-wait—what are you doing? Wh-h-hat do you need that for?” I already knew, but was holding on to hope that maybe I would be the exception.
“It’s protocol. No one enters Hawthorne Asylum without passing inspection.” Like toothpaste, she poured a generous amount of the clear liquid on two bony fingers and smirked at me. “It’ll be quick.”
I didn’t think.
I didn’t speak.
I just acted.
One second I was standing in front of Nurse Kline contemplating the integrity of my nether region—and the next I was a football star, faking to the left and right, snaking around her small frame and darting for the wooden door. “Calm down, Evans! Relax!”
But it was too late. I’d already flung the door open and was racing down the sterile, white hallway, arms pumping back and forth, my years of running track being put to the ultimate test.
The intercom sounded right as I raced past what appeared to be the nurse’s station. “Code red, Floor B.” Three orderlies scrambled to get out of their leather chairs as their leader shouted off rapid-fire instructions in his radio, “Get a tranq!”
Everything was glaringly white: the floor, walls, ceiling, desks… The smell of ammonia slammed into my lungs, briefly catching me off guard, but I forged ahead like a wild animal, zig-zagging through the long hallway.
“Code red, Floor B.”
“She is not sticking those sausages in my butt!” I roared at the ceiling, hoping if there was a camera whoever was behind it would see. ”She. Will. Not. Violate. Meeee!” It was a bit melodramatic, I’ll admit, but my ass was on the line. Literally.
Everything played out in slow motion. I could see myself running—see the patients shooting me curious glances, a mixture of interest and fear entering their eyes as they realized what direction I was heading toward: the cracked door at the end of the hall. I’d pegged it as my safe place the second I saw all three orderlies hot on my tail.
“Shit, she’s going to Laces!” I heard one of the orderlies shout right as my black flats slid across the marble floor. Thrusting my arm forward, I grabbed the doorknob, stumbling on shaky knees as I attempted to regain my balance—“Hey no! You don’t want to do that! Listen to me—”
—and get two fingers shoved up my ass? Hard pass. The choice was a no-brainer for me. Once I caught my bearings, I lunged into the room and slammed the door behind me, my back sliding down the cold metal as my knees slowly collapsed. My hands tented over my nose. “Shhh…breathe…you’re mommy’s little bumblebee…you’re a bumblebee, yes you are. You’re a bumblebee to the stars. You’re a bumblebee, yes you are. You’re mommy’s little bumblebee.” I hummed the song at least three or four times while imagining the secret closet in my old basement. Safe. Secluded. Whenever my nerves got the best of me, that small room hidden behind a wine cellar became my refuge from any and all chaos. It had seen me through some dark days.
You shouldn’t be here.
No.
I repeated the same chorus a couple more times, until my heart found a steady rhythm, and then opened my eyes. Orderlies were pounding on the door, the vibrations of their fists slamming into my back as Nurse Kline begged for me to come out—but I barely heard anything because of him. He was lying back on his twin bed in the furthest corner, his attentive blue eyes peeking over the sketchpad in his hand. I’d seen a lot of men in my lifetime, a lot of attractive men…the guy sitting on that bed was not a man. No. The very word seemed offensive for someone of his caliber. He looked like a model that had just stepped off of the runway in Paris—long, silky black strands falling into his eyes, thick lips, and a taut, lean body. His arms were well defined, each muscle curving smoothly into the next…he was a vision, like one of the men on my grandma’s favorite romance novels.
And I’d like to say that I played it cool, that I rose to my feet and put my best southern manners forward and extended my hand and introduced myself as the newest patient of Asheville’s most notorious asylum for troubled youth.
But my eyes started to wander—and the sketches hung around the room suddenly came into view. Dead women…dead women everywhere. My throat constricted. Oh God…my eyes flew every which way, taking in the scene before me, all of the Hannibal-Lecter-like sketches proudly displayed around the small confined space.
Oops…
I had picked the wrong room.
Clearly…
Suddenly I felt dizzy and hot.
Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Hannibal Sketcher as he rose from his bed. The shadow of his six-foot frame towered over me as I scrambled to find the doorknob behind me. No, no, no…The word “help” was on the tip of my tongue, but it never made it out. My heart was in a new state of panic, my breathing ragged…my eyes rolled back and my body suddenly turned limp. The last thing I saw before the darkness overtook me was the floor rushing up to greet me.
Two
Laces
She looked like a scared kitten that had just escaped a potential downpour. Her wide, brown eyes were blazing with fear, her arms and legs shaking as she tried to process everything. I’d seen that kind of fear before, the—my life is over, what’s the point in trying—fear that seemed to fill the air when no bright light could be found at the end of the tunnel. For four years I’d watched it suck the life out of my mother, watched her die right before my eyes, and though I knew it was useless, I’d fought tooth and nail to bring just an ounce of her light back.
That was what drew me to her in the first place.
The need to protect her, to guide her through this hell, seemed to overpower the walls that I’d built around myself to keep my human instincts at bay. The urge to reach out and touch her, to ask—no, demand—what was wrong, paralyzed me. In the two years leading up to her arrival, I’d made peace with
my situation; It wasn’t the life I’d pictured for myself, but was definitely better than the life I had grown up in and been forced to accept.
The tip of my pencil had punctured my sketchpad, creating a small hole in the arm of my latest sketch, resembling a mole, but I didn’t give a damn. Not today, anyway. Her eyes roamed over my body, stopping at the pencil pressed deep against my forefinger. I wondered if she would start singing again—or breakout in prayer—which was customary for newbies. Both seemed plausible. But instead her eyes slowly drifted to the wall, to a land of death and despair, and what fear she had entered my domain with escalated to catastrophic proportions.
Fuck.
Lifting my palms, I carefully rose from the bed, my sketchpad and pencil clattering to the floor with a deafening echo. My mouth opened, the word “easy” was poised on the tip of my tongue, but before it could pass through my lips her eyes rolled back and her lifeless body fell to the floor.
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” I muttered under my breath. Normally women were throwing themselves at me—proposing fuckin’ marriage—but not this one. This stray had cowered away and completely shut down.