Sex changes everything.
And love can turn into an enemy…
Mitch Abrams, the bassist for the popular rock band Generation Rejects, has been in love with Gracie Cook for years. But Gracie, a complicated girl with a lot of baggage, was too blind to see how she felt about the man who had always stood by her.
Until one night of passion brought them closer than they had ever been before.
Feeling off balance and out of control, Gracie does the only thing a girl with self-destructive tendencies can do: end things with Mitch before they can really begin.
So Mitch moves on. With his band, his friends, and a new girlfriend.
Yet he can’t seem to forget about the girl who threw his heart away.
Gracie, who is still struggling to build a life after crashing to the bottom, finds it hard to forget about her one night with Mitch. And even as she tries to convince herself it was only sex, her heart knows differently.
But life is full of chances and desperate moments. And when Mitch and Gracie are thrown back into each other’s lives, will they seize at the opportunity to do things right?
Or will the rock star and the less than ordinary girl crash and burn?
For Matt…
One year ago
“I want to touch you. Will you let me?”
His voice was like hot chocolate slipping and sliding over my skin. I giggled nervously. Partly because I was slightly embarrassed and mostly over the top excited.
Mitch watched me closely, looking for me to back away. Waiting for me to tell him no.
I had made sure to always keep that separation between friends and “more.”
I knew he wanted something else. I knew he loved me and I enjoyed the feeling of being wanted. It was nice. After all the shit I had dealt with in the past few years, I reveled in the way Mitch Abrams worshipped me.
But I wasn’t good with giving into temptation. It had landed me in rehab.
Yet, I couldn’t look away from his dark eyes. They were so intense. So needy.
“Yes,” I breathed, hardly able to believe what I was saying.
Mitch’s eyes widened in shock. Then they heated. They simmered. They boiled over.
Oh fuck…
“Close your eyes,” he commanded and I liked this suddenly domineering side to his otherwise affable personality.
I did as I was told.
“Lay down,” he instructed.
I giggled again, feeling lightheaded and overwhelmed. But I couldn’t blame it on being drunk. That wasn’t me anymore. I had given all that up.
No. I was just drunk on him.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea…
“Oh my god!” I groaned as he ran his hand up the inside of my leg, moving my drenched panties to the side and teasing me with his finger.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to see you like this, Gracie? Desperate only for me.” His voice hitched and I had to look away. The emotion on his face threatened to suffocate me.
My god, this was a mistake.
I felt suddenly panicked. I was lying on the bed, my pants around my ankles, with Mitch’s hand in my underwear.
Mitch Abrams.
One of my very best friends.
A man I swore I didn’t feel “that way” about.
Shit!
I had always been really good at lying to myself.
I stiffened even as the pulsing waves of pleasure thrummed through my body. Mitch pushed his finger inside of me and I fought against the urge to arch my back just to get closer.
I reached down between my legs and grabbed a hold of his wrist, keeping him still.
“Wait a minute, Mitch. We need to think about this.” Was that me that sounded so breathless?
Mitch leaned down, his dark brown hair falling into his face, his eyes intense and warm. His finger was still inside me. I squirmed a little.
“Why did you come here tonight, Gracie?” he asked me, his voice soft.
He brought his other hand up to cup my face, his thumb running along the curve of my cheek. The sneaky bastard slipped another finger inside of me and I couldn’t help but groan. My body was a total traitor.
“I…uh…well…I just wanted to hang out,” I said in a rush as his hand started to move. My fingers still encircled his wrist but I wasn’t trying to stop him anymore.
Mitch gently kissed my mouth, his tongue teasing the seam of my lips. “Liar,” he murmured, kissing me harder. Urgently.
“Stop fighting what’s always been between us, Gracie. You want this. I want this. It’s meant to be.”
Was he right? Were we meant to be?
My head was so muddled. I wasn’t thinking straight. I mean, how could I with his fingers doing glorious things between my legs?
“You’re my friend, Mitch,” I argued half-heartedly.
Mitch pulled out his fingers and then wrapped me in his arms, holding me as closely as he could. We were lying together on the hotel bed, nose to nose. Our legs tangled together. Breathing heavily.
“You’re not just my friend,” Mitch began, smoothing my hair back from my face. His brown eyes implored me to listen. To hear him out.
“Mitch—” I began, but he cut me off by kissing me again.
This was such a bad, bad idea…
He pulled back, his heart in his eyes.
“You’re not just my friend, damn it!” His voice cracked and broke, along with what was left of my resolve.
“Gracie, you’re everything!”
A tear slipped down his cheek and fell onto my skin. I was branded. Burned.
I was going to hurt him.
I didn’t trust myself not to.
I had one last chance to end this before it got out of control.
“I can’t be who you need me to be, Mitch.” I turned my face away, staring at the wall. I couldn’t look at him. It would be my undoing.
“I only need you to be exactly who you are, G. That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” Mitch whispered and I closed my eyes trying to stop the tears.
He knew how desperate I was to hear that. He knew how shattered I was. How I was hanging on by such a thin thread.
“Let me be what you need. Please,” Mitch pleaded.
And I was lost.
I had no will power.
It was a failing of mine. I could never say no to the thing that could destroy me.
So I took off my best friend’s clothes.
I kissed him as fervently as he kissed me.
I opened my legs, and for a brief time, I opened my heart.
And in the morning, I left before Mitch woke up.
I had ruined everything.
“You’re too thin, Grace. Have you lost more weight? I thought you were working on your food issues,” my mother scolded, putting down a plate in front of me. I sipped on my coffee so I didn’t scream. Dealing with my mother took a special form of self-control that I had mastered in the last year and a half.
“I’m eating, Mom. Three regular meals a day. I promise,” I said tiredly, feeling the telltale signs of a migraine in the center of my forehead.
A migraine that was spelled M-O-M.
My mother smoothed her hair, the same shade of blonde as my own, and repositioned her silk blouse. She was a relentless primper, particularly when she was feeling annoyed, or being annoying, it really didn’t matter.
“Sit up straight, you slouch too much. You’ll become a hunchback,” she instructed, smacking the back of my hand. I didn’t flinch at the sudden sting. I was used to her casual abuse. It was as normal as apple pie.
I wanted to roll my eyes, but I knew better. So I bit my tongue and put my shoulders back, making my spine as straight as a steel rod. She’d get nothing fro
m me. No reason to pick and pull apart. I was stronger than that and I’d never give her an inch.
Though the truth was I was a twenty-four-year-old woman who was more than a little scared of her mother.
My mom narrowed her eyes, taking in my neat and tidy appearance. I had dressed conservatively in khakis and a button down shirt. My long, blonde hair was held back in a clip and I wore minimal makeup. It was a far cry from the dolled up college girl I used to be. But I was a far cry from the dolled up college girl I used to be. And I was thankful for that. Because Gracie Cook of four years ago was rather annoying.
And for me, it was important to not look like a recovering alcoholic and anorexic, for whatever that was worth. I wanted to appear competent and capable. It made it easier to believe that I actually was.
“You’re not drinking again, are you? Do I need to have you take a breathalyzer every time you enter my house?” she demanded, her eyes hard, her mouth pinched into an expression I was used to.
Disapproval.
Of course Sarah Cook would look at pressed trousers and brown loafers and see “drunk.” Her perception was beyond skewed.
Be cool, Gracie. Don’t throw the sandwich in her face. She means well. Well, maybe not, but it’s not worth getting pissed. Remember all those great techniques you learned in therapy.
My mental pep talk worked and I was able to give Mom a dazzling smile full of white teeth and full lips. A smile that meant business. “I’m sober as a priest, Mom. I promise.”
She frowned, clearly not appreciating my euphemism. She reached across the kitchen table and carefully cut my sandwich into quarters as she had done since I was five. She arranged the pieces on my plate and pointed at it. “Eat,” she commanded.
I wasn’t hungry. Something about my mother made me instantly lose my appetite.
But dutifully, I picked up my sandwich and took a bite. It tasted perfect. Of course it did. My mother would never settle for anything less. Crisp lettuce and tasty ham on thick white bread with the crusts cut off. It could have been on a goddamned magazine cover.
I spent the next fifteen minutes swallowing my pride along with my food as my mother fussed over me like I was still a child. Our relationship had seriously regressed in the last couple of years to the point that I was no longer viewed as an adult who had graduated from college and had been living on her own for years. And no matter how many strides I made in the right direction it didn’t matter. Because I had messed up. I had embarrassed them. I had proven that I wasn’t deserving of any sort of trust they could have had in me.
I knew they had only been waiting for me to screw up. So when the moment came, they pounced. They swooped in, taking me home, tucking me into my childhood bed, cooking me my childhood meals, and treating me like I was incapable of doing anything for myself.
I had been one giant mess and they loved making all of my decisions for me.
After all, I was an alcoholic who, in my parents’ eyes, was always in danger of falling off the wagon. And some days I agreed with them.
Even though I had worked hard to get myself together, it wasn’t quite enough. I was working part time at Southern Garden Magazine freelancing for their weekly feature section. It wasn’t my dream of working at a big time magazine like Time or People, but I’d take it. I also started working a few shifts a week at the local library to round out the rest of my income. Sure, it wasn’t the best arrangement, but it was better than slinging coffee and feeling sorry for myself, as I had been doing before that. They may only be a couple of part time gigs, but they were totally respectable jobs where I got to dress like a grown up, pack my lunches, and carry coffee in a silver thermos.
I was still the girl who had almost drunk herself into an early grave.
But I had grown tired of the label. And I was gearing up to put my foot down, and god help us all when I finally did.
I hated to think about who I used to be before. Gracie Cook—sorority girl, life of the party.
Back when the most important things in my life had been what color lip-gloss I should wear with my cute, pink skirt. I had been shallow and a bit on the vapid side. I thought I was happy, but I had been living a great, big lie.
The truth was that inside I was wallowing in misery.
But now…well now, I was figuring shit out. I was sorting out my head.
And my heart.
I was trying to get my life where I wanted it to be.
After all, my friends were all in good places in their lives. I was tired of trailing behind.
But working at Southern Gardens was a great start, in my opinion. It was one of the few passions I still held on to.
I had worried that the whole working at a newspaper thing would take a nosedive after I had almost died from alcohol poisoning. Because it was funny how a near death experience could really mess with getting a reference from your former employer. And for a while it didn’t look like I had a chance in hell of ever continuing the career I had planned for myself.
But then I had gone into rehab and started therapy. Which, led to support groups and more therapy.
And more therapy.
“How are you feeling” replaced “hello” in my daily conversations.
And slowly and surely I got better. Stronger. More together. I wasn’t drinking until I blacked out. I had stopped starving myself so that I could fit into a size zero dress. And most importantly I had stopped making really, really bad decisions.
“Why did you run out like that, Gracie?” Mitch demanded.
I couldn’t look at him without remembering the feel of him inside me.
I wanted it.
I wanted to run away from it.
But I knew one thing for certain.
Our friendship was over.
Even worse was that the second he walked away; I knew that I had lost something so much more.
I had lost my heart.
Until I had decided to sleep with my best friend and stomp all over our friendship. Just when I thought I was doing okay.
It seemed my self-destructive tendencies were never too far away.
“Grace Evelyn Cook, are you listening to me?”
I snapped out of my momentary trip down wretched memory lane and looked at my mother.
“I’m sorry, what?”
She blew out an exasperated breath. “Are you sure you’re telling me the truth about the drinking? Let me smell your breath,” Mom said, leaning forward, sniffing.
Oh my god, she was ridiculous.
My mom sat back in her chair and pointed again at my half eaten sandwich and I picked up another piece. I knew from experience that I wouldn’t be allowed to leave until I had finished the whole damn thing.
“I said your father and I were talking and we want you to move back home. Given the fact that you barely make enough at that job of yours to cover your rent, it just makes sense for you to live here until you’re own your feet.” Mom finished her coffee and then wiped her mouth with a napkin. Afterwards she pulled out her compact and reapplied her lipstick.
I sighed. This discussion was quickly become a regular occurrence. My parents seemed to think I would be unable to function unless I was under their thumb. Unless they were there to point me in the “right direction.”
“Mom, it’s not necessary. Viv and I split the bills and I’m fine—”
“You are not fine, Grace. Or have you forgotten that?” my mother snapped.
“As if you’d let me forget,” I muttered under my breath, but not low enough that she couldn’t hear me.
Mom closed her compact and put it on the table, then folded her hands in her lap as she regarded me levelly.
“We just worry about you. You put your father and me through a horrible ordeal and we want to make sure you’re okay.”
I clenched my fist and then forced myself to relax.
Don’t engage. Don’t rise to the bait.
“It was almost two years ago, Mom. I haven’t had a drop to drink since. I have a jo
b—”
“A part time job, Gracie. I’m not sure that even counts,” my mother cut in derisively.
“I also work at the library,” I reminded her, but it was as though I hadn’t even spoken.
“Please be reasonable, Gracie. You can’t survive that way.”
“I have an apartment. I have friends. I’m not going to let myself fall apart again,” I said emphatically, but I wasn’t sure she even heard me.
My mother heard what she wanted to hear.
“It will take a long time to earn back our trust, Grace,” she remarked sharply and I knew there was no point in arguing with her.
She had a way of beating me down until I didn’t want to get back up.
I pinned a smile to my face, trying to resurrect the perky girl I had once been. “I know, Mom. I’m trying though,” I said, my voice unnaturally high.
“Sometimes trying isn’t enough,” Mom intoned critically.
I was more than happy when I had stayed long enough that I could politely make my excuses to leave.
My weekly visits to the Cook house were akin to torture. I knew they were necessary but god, how I hated them.
“I told Vivian I’d go to the grocery store with her, so I’d better get going,” I lied, wishing I could run for the door.
My mom dug her wallet out of her purse and pulled some money out, handing it to me. “I’m sure you need this. I doubt you make enough at that magazine to live on, let alone go grocery shopping,” she said.
Not a question, just a statement. I didn’t want to take the money. I hated how she always assumed I couldn’t take care of myself. That I wasn’t even capable of paying for my own groceries. My part time job paid me more than enough to cover my rent and utilities and yes, even have some left over for food and other essentials. But I didn’t bother explaining any of that to my mother. Again.
So I took the money, with no intention of using it, and tucked it into my pocket. “Thanks, Mom,” I said, my smile fake and brittle.
“I really think it’s best if you move back here. Let’s plan for the end of the month, okay,” she said as I was leaving. She held the kitchen door open for me, letting in a blast of cold, January air. It looked like snow, which sucked majorly given the fact that my tires were on the bald side.
Desperate Chances Page 1