by S. R. Grey
Farren laughs and rolls to his back. Staring up at the ceiling, still chuckling, he says, “No, Essa. I didn’t have to hurt him. He was easy to persuade.”
“Well, for the record,” I begin softly, “I’m glad he’s out of Oakwood. For Haven’s sake, if she does decide to return. But also for the other girls he took advantage of.”
“Hmm…” Farren murmurs.
I don’t ask him for specifics of how he “persuaded” the prick to quit. It doesn’t matter. Some things are best left unknown.
Farren peers over at me, and, after a minute, I say, “What?”
“Just wondering what your decision is going to be.” Brushing a swatch of my blond locks over my shoulder, he continues. “Are you going back to Oakwood in the fall, or are you staying here?”
Farren already informed me that with a few phone calls—from him and, not surprisingly, his influential father—I can attend Columbia this fall if I want. Farren doesn’t know that I made my decision on this subject a while ago. Without further ado, I tell him my decision. “I’m staying, Farren.”
Farren scoops me up and settles me on top of his hard body. He winds his hand through my hair and brings my face close to his. “Kiss me, Essa,” he demands huskily.
I kiss him with fervor, and he kisses me back with even more intensity. He kisses me with heart, soul, and finesse, making me gasp when we stop. I take a breath, and then say, “Wow. Guess you like that decision.”
“You think?” he teases in a sultry tone.
His hands travel down my back till he’s cupping my ass. I wiggle into place, straddling him. As always, he’s up and ready.
When I mention this to him, he laughs. “I am a soldier, Essa. I’m always prepared for action on a moment’s notice.”
“Hey…” I smack his shoulder. “You’re supposed to say you’re always like this”—I press my core to his sex—“because of me.”
More serious now, he says, “It is because of you, Essa.”
“I love you,” I tell him.
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
I start to rub back and forth on him, but he stills me with a hand on my hip. “Wait,” he says.
I feel him throbbing—as am I—so I ask, “What’s wrong?”
He chuckles, and I know from the timbre that he just wants control. Sure enough, he slides into me unrepentantly, eliciting a throaty moan from me.
“Nothing is wrong, Essa. Everything”—he thrusts up into me and I moan—“is just perfect.”
Yeah, everything is perfect. Our love is solid.
The following day, I meet with a career-services counselor at Columbia. She hammers out a schedule guaranteeing that I graduate in three semesters. It puts me a little behind schedule, but I’ll end up with a major in journalism and a minor in business.
When I return to the apartment, anxious to share the news with Farren, I find him whipping up dinner in the kitchen. He’s hot and adorable in dark dress pants, a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and an apron with a rooster on the front. The printed message below the rooster reads, “Kiss the Cock.”
“I don’t think Haven will appreciate your humor,” I say, nodding to the apron.
“What?” He looks down, all innocent. “It means the chicken.”
“Yeah,” I reply, laughing, “sure it does.”
He looks over at the clock on the wall. “Damn,” he mutters.
“What?”
“Haven will be home soon. I was thinking if we had more time, you could show me what you think the message on the apron means.”
He looks so delicious that I definitely would not mind showing him. But it’s true that Haven will be back soon. I sigh and raise a brow. “Later?”
“Most definitely later,” he replies with a smile that melts me. He adjusts himself discreetly and then returns to chopping up some green peppers. “So,” he begins, “how’d it go today at Columbia?”
“Surprisingly well.” I give him the details, and then say, “I think the business minor will keep my parents happy.”
Chuckling, he asks, “Yeah, but what do you think they’ll say about your living arrangements?”
I plan on staying at the apartment. “I’m twenty-two,” I state, “an adult. I can live wherever the hell I want.”
With an assessing look, Farren says slowly, “You’ve changed a lot, Essa.”
“I have,” I agree.
A little while later, I discover my parents have changed a little as well. When I resolutely declare my intentions for my future—living arrangements, change of school, and all—they are surprisingly accepting. The newly assertive me can be persuasive, I suppose. They don’t even cut me off financially.
Still, if I’m going to be an adult, it’s time to start earning some of my own money. I resolve to find a job for the summer. Haven is signed up for an acting workshop that meets every weekday morning, and Farren has frequent meetings with his father. I need something to do, too. There’s still no sign of Dawson, but I know it’s only a matter of time. A job will keep me occupied, and it will keep me busy when Farren has to leave. So, on one particularly bright and sunny summer afternoon, I apply at the coffee shop around the corner from the apartment.
“I’m not crazy about you working there,” Farren’s says, later in the day, when I tell him of my new employment.
“Why?” I inquire, baffled.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t have a specific reason.” Sighing, he then admits, “I guess I just want to keep you protected at all times.” Farren is not immune to worrying about me, same as I worry for him.
I wrap my arms around him. “I like when you’re protective,” I assure him. “But trust me, I’ll be fine.” When he huffs, I remind him, “The coffee shop is, like, two minutes from here.”
“I know.” He nestles me close to his strong body. “Just be careful, Essa. Don’t trust anyone.”
Three days into my new employment, Mr. Barnes asks Farren to accompany him on a business trip to a third-world country. His father wants him there as protection but also as a consultant. I’m beginning to get the impression Farren’s father fully intends to leave his empire to his remaining children at some point. I think that’s why he keeps trying to connect with Haven as well.
Before Farren leaves, it’s my turn to ask him to be careful. And then I add in a sad voice, “I’m going to miss you so much.”
“I’ll only be gone two weeks,” he replies in a conciliatory tone.
“Still…” I trail off.
He knows this will be hard because we’ve been together almost every day for more than two months solid. Enfolding me in his arms, he softly murmurs, “I’ll miss you, too, Essalin.”
And then he leaves.
With Farren gone, I decide to fully immerse myself in my coffee-shop job. I spend time getting to know the other employees. I ask them about their kids, their spouses, their lives. I get to know all the regular customers, too, and most of them are pretty cool.
One particular guy catches my eye. Not in a romantic way, of course. It’s just that my heart goes out to him. He’s around my age, a college student. At least, that’s what I assume, since he trundles in every morning with a passel of textbooks. The guy is kind of cute, in a nerdy, klutzy kind of way. He wears glasses and has a mop of reddish hair, but it works for him. He gets noticed by women in the shop, but he only talks to me. I guess that’s because I am infinitely patient with him. Like, when his books slip from his grasp, I help him adjust them before they fall. When he drops his money on the counter, I pick it up for him. And when he almost knocks over his usual order—iced coffee—I always catch it before it topples.
Our conversations are a series of him saying, “I’m so sorry…Oh, let me get that…Shit.”
My responses are “Don’t worry about it…I got it…You’re good.”
One morning, before walking away after paying, he squints at my name tag. “Essa,” he says. Looking up at me with soulful brown
eyes hidden behind glasses, he adds, “I’m Justin, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Justin,” I say, and then I shake his hand.
And so it goes.
On the day Farren is set to return from his trip, I wrap up my morning shift early. Klutzy, red-haired Justin is walking to the door just as I am. I notice he’s completely distracted, peering down at a paperback in one hand, wrapped up in reading. His iced coffee is in his other hand, way out in front of him, almost like he’s unintentionally clearing the way. Customers step left and right, avoiding him. But it’s too late for me. Justin wrecks right into me, and iced coffee spills down the front of my green work shirt.
Looking aghast, he says, “Oh, hell, I didn’t see you there.” He puts his paperback down on a table and starts reaching for napkins nearby. “I’m so sorry, Essa.”
I take the napkins from him and start dabbing. But they’re no match for the soaking I’ve received. When it’s clear the napkins are not helping, I say, “I better go clean up in the ladies’ room.”
“Wait,” Justin says, his voice urgent. “My car is around the corner. I have some auto-detailing towels in there. They’re very absorbent.”
I shrug. “Okay, sure.”
As we’re walking to his car, I attempt to make conversation. “So, you keep a car in New York City. That’s crazy.”
“I know, right.” He laughs. “It would be. But I don’t live in the city.”
“Oh, where do you live?” I ask as we turn into an alley.
“Jersey,” he says.
We reach his car. It’s just a simple brown Toyota, a typical student car. Justin reaches for the passenger-door handle.
I take a step closer to the car and notice there’s someone seated in the passenger seat.
“Oh…” I start backing up, but Justin gets behind me, his moves suddenly swift and sure. “What the hell?” I mumble.
“Not so fast,” he says in my ear. His voice is smooth, confident. No more uncertain, nerdy college guy. Who is this Justin? Clearly, he’s not who I thought he was.
My heart begins to pound frantically as he nudges me closer and closer to his car. Within seconds I am trapped between the Toyota and Justin’s body. I have no choice but to look inside.
When I see who’s sitting casually in the passenger seat, I gasp, “Shit. Dawson.”
I try to spin around so I can flee, but Justin holds me in place. No one is around. I am so screwed.
Dawson pops open the door. The man I hoped to never lay eyes on again leans forward.
Pinning me with his cold, hard eyes, he says coldly, “Ah, we meet again, young Essalin. I think I’d like to spend some time with you. Perhaps you should get in the car.”
The story continues in Inevitable Circumstances (Inevitability #2), the second and final book of the Inevitability duology ~ Spring 2015.
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This is always the hardest part. I never want to leave anyone out. So, let’s give this a try. First, so much gratitude and appreciation goes out to the readers and fans of my novels. Thank you for your continued support. Next, I must express my thanks to the bloggers who work so hard to get my name and novels out to the world. Every time I see a post regarding my books on a blog—or anywhere in social media—I am humbled. Thank you to every single one of you. Your efforts are amazing. Additionally, a huge, heartfelt thanks goes out to my amazing street team—Team S.R. Grey. You ladies are more than a street team to me, you are my dream team. Also, a special thank you goes to author J.B. Morgan (Jenn) for helping me craft a concise and compelling blurb. We sure had fun with those back and forth emails and PMs, didn’t we? And thank you to Ari for a cover that matches my vision of Farren perfectly. You rock, girl!
Finally, love and thanks to Tom.
.
S.R. Grey is an Amazon and Barnes & Noble Top 100 Bestselling author. She is the author of popular New Adult novels I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #1) and Never Doubt Me (Judge Me Not #2). Her newest novel, Inevitable Detour (Inevitability #1), is a wild ride combining the New Adult genre with elements of Romantic Suspense. She is also the author of the Harbour Falls Mystery trilogy. Ms. Grey’s novels have appeared on Amazon and Barnes & Noble bestseller lists in multiple categories.
Ms. Grey resides in Pennsylvania. Her background is in business, but her true passion lies in writing. When not writing, Ms. Grey can be found reading, traveling, running, or cheering for her hometown sports teams.
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Read the prologue of I Stand Before You, the first novel in S.R. Grey’s other New Adult series Judge Me Not.
Chase
I lean my head back against the headrest, crank the passenger window down the rest of the way. The June night air rustles through my hair, reminding me I desperately need a trim. I run my fingers through the strands, chasing the path of the breeze.
My grandmother likes to lecture that I shouldn’t have hair sticking out at odd angles, strands curling at the nape of my neck.
“You’re such a handsome young man, Chase,” Grandma Gartner said just this morning, tsking when I sat down for breakfast. “You look so much like your father did when he was your age. But, you know, he always kept his hair short and tidy.” And then there was a pause, a long, dramatic sigh. She set down a plate of eggs—over easy—in front of me. “My poor Jack. God rest his soul.” My grandmother crossed herself.
Her poor Jack, my father with the short and tidy hair—dead and gone.
I thought: I am not my dad, Gram. He failed us, he gave up on us. But the words never passed my lips. And they never will. Hearing them would only hurt my grandmother’s feelings and she’s too good to hear the angry thoughts poisoning my polluted mind. So I keep all that shit locked deep inside.
This morning was no different. I kept things light, said something like, “The girls like my hair like this, Gram. Got to keep the ladies happy, ya know.”
Then I ducked and waited for the inevitable swat with the dish towel. But it never came. Instead, the lines in my grandmother’s face deepened.
“You don’t need to be concerning yourself with keeping ladies happy, young man. You’re only twenty. Messing with women at your age will only lead to trouble.”
I knew what she meant this morning, and I know it now too. She’s worried I’ll end up getting some girl pregnant. Then I’ll be fucked, well and good. But I’m always careful, take the necessary precautions. Besides, it isn’t my womanizing ways that’s becoming a problem. If only. No, unfortunately, it’s my ever-growing dependency on drugs—something my grandmother would never suspect—that has me worried these days.
These days… Yeah, right. More like these blurry, fucked-up segments of time.
Sighing, I roll the window up just enough to lean my head against the cool glass. What am I going to do? I silently ask myself.
What I really need to do is get the hell out of this tiny Ohio farm town I landed back in two years ago. I’m spinning my wheels here in Harmony Creek, hanging with a bad crowd. Problem is I have no plan, no money either. Drugs are my escape and have been for quite a while. My priorities are all fucked up. My life, it’s upside down. Every day it seems like getting high—and staying that way—is my only goal. I want to stop—believe me I do—but I don’t think I know how to anymore.
A lump forms in my throat at this thought, but I swallow it down. “Hey,” I say to Tate, who is driving. “Let’s get out of this town.”
Tate Cody, my friend…and my partner in crime in everything wild and crazy these days—women, drugs, drinking, fighting—you name it, we do it. And if we’re not doing it nowadays, chances are we’ve done it at least once over the past couple of years. We’ve yet to slow down; we l
ive on the edge.
I sometimes wonder when we’ll fall.
“What do you think we’re doing, Chase, my man?”
I take in and process Tate’s reply, while he lifts a bottle of cheap gin to his lips and hits the gas. And for this one long, tortuous drawn-out second, I can’t make a distinction between what I asked Tate and what I was only thinking. I panic, assuming my partner in crime’s response is to let me know it’s finally happening, we’re really falling.
But then Tate adds, “I’m getting us out of here as fast as I can,” and I breathe a little easier. He just means we’re leaving Harmony Creek. Not falling, after all. Shit, I need to ease up on the drugs.
I glance out the window, and though it’s dark I can see we’re heading east, nearing the state line. Soon we’ll be out of Ohio completely, and in the neighboring state of Pennsylvania. That’s where we’re supposed to hook up with two girls tonight. They’re from New Castle, and we’re meeting at a lake across the state line.
I don’t really care about all that, though. What I’d really rather do is keep on going. Hop on Interstate 80 and clock the miles to Jersey. Better yet, Tate and I could go farther. We could drive our asses straight into New York-fucking-City. Now that would be sweet.
So while Tate barrels down a back road the police rarely patrol—until you get into Pennsylvania, that is—I pretend we’re leaving Harmony Creek for good. No looking back, no regrets, just flying the fuck out of this lame-ass small town.
And speaking of flying, I’m flying a bit now too, feeling fine, baby, fine. I close my eyes so I can savor the s-l-o-w creep of numbness that cocoons me like a warm and fuzzy blanket.
I feel nothing, yet I feel everything.
My skin tingles a little, but when I touch my hand to my face it feels detached, like these parts of my body belong to two different people, neither of them me. That thought makes me happy, escape is exactly what I crave.