by Jessica Wood
DAMIAN
The Heartbreaker Series - Book One
The man, the legend, the heartbreaker
by
JESSICA WOOD
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Jessica Wood
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
ERH Press
ISBN-13 978-1-940285-02-3
First Edition: December 2013
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Damian is, without doubt, my favorite book that I have written thus far. Many aspects of getting this book published have been challenging, while many other aspects of getting this book published have been immensely rewarding. This book is the product of many late nights, many tears, and many cups of vanilla latte as I conducted my “cafe circuit” around San Francisco.
There are so many people I must thank that helped me along the way. Without your support and encouragement, Damian “Cocky” Castillo would never have gotten his own book.
To my betas: thank you so much for always dealing with my crazy hours. While I did not share the entire story with you before I published this book, your comments to the first part of the story greatly helped me shape the rest. I value your opinions and time. You are my third eye, and I would be a little more lost without you guiding the way.
To my street team: you guys seriously rock and I love you! Thank you for dealing with my ever-changing schedule. I know I can often be a broken record. Thank you for being my cheerleaders through my ups and downs. I do not usually share my downs with you, but trust me, there are many and you guys were there to help me through many of them, even if you didn’t realize it at the time. A special thank you to Retta Rusaw and Kathy Corbett-Shreve for making so many graphics for me! I may not always get the chance to thank you each and every time, but I do appreciate them.
Huge thanks goes out to Louisa Maggio for the countless hours and nights you’ve slaved away in order to help me with my book covers, swag graphics, banners, and advice on blog tours and blitzes. I know my emails could be detailed and demanding at times and you have always gone above and beyond what I’ve asked without expecting anything back in return. I owe you my deepest gratitude!
And as always, thanks goes out to J.S. Cooper for the many days and nights of writing, chatting, and mental support. While we may drive each other crazy at times, we have also kept each other sane.
To my family. You guys are my rock and I am nothing without your support. <3
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Acknowledgement
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Author’s Note
Other Books
About the Author
PROLOGUE
“The sweetest of all sounds is that of the voice of the woman we love.”
Jean de la Bruyere
Damian
I WAS WIPING DOWN THE bar when a group of girls walked in.
5.5, 7, 6, I thought to myself as I automatically rated each of them in my head and surveyed them from head to toe.
It was a force of habit for me, like second nature. And in all honesty, this was true for most guys. If any guy said that he didn’t mentally rate a girl when he first saw her, he’d be a fucking liar.
Or gay.
It was a male reflex, something instinctively done without much thought—much like breathing.
The three girls headed over to the bar and sat down right in front of me.
“Hey, girls. What can I get you?” I gave them a dazzling, wicked smile. I usually received the most tips from groups of girls, so I always made it a point to throw on the charm with them.
They all gave me—what they believed to be—their most seductive smiles. 5.5 and 7 proceeded to play with their hair while 6 bit her lip. I knew they were each hoping to stand out a little more so than their friends. I saw the way their eyes slowly moved from my eyes to my face to my body, as if their eyes were their fingers and lips, taking their sweet time as they took me all in, inch by inch.
And if truth be told, I enjoyed the attention. I mean, what was not to enjoy?
“Hi there,” said 7 as her lips curled into a fuck-me-now smile. “Let me guess, you’re Damian, right?” 5.5 and 6 giggled.
I could smell the sweet, floral scent of 7’s perfume as she leaned up against the bar, letting her loose, blond waves fall forward toward me as she positioned herself so that her cleavage was spilling out over the bar table.
My eyes lingered over the delicate flesh of her full breasts, and for a second, I wondered how they’d taste in my mouth.
I gave her my signature smile, knowing the type of things she must have heard about me. “I see my reputation precedes me.”
7 seductively licked her lower lip with her tongue and bit it purposefully. “We heard you make some amazing drinks.” She drew out the word “amazing,” and it was clear from the way her eyes seemed to devour me that she wasn’t talking about drinks.
I flexed my arms against the edge of the bar counter, displaying my arm-length tattoo that ran down my left arm, and leaned toward them.
“Anything for a pretty face,” I flirted back with a wink.
I surveyed the three girls again. They were all attractive enough, but 7 was hotter than the others, and normally, if a hot girl played her cards right, she’d walk away with my number by the end of the night—the winning lottery ticket where a fucktastic night of no-strings-attached sex and fun were just a phone call away.
Okay, so I was cocky. But in my defense, I had good reason to be.
I was Damian Castillo, the self-proclaimed man-whore that made women wet with just a look and a smile.
I knew the effect I had on women. I saw the way they looked at me, the way they bit their lips as they eyed me, the way they seductively sipped the drinks I made for them, the way they grinned at me in a come-hither way, inviting me to notice them, inviting me to have my way with them in some dark corner of my bar. It was hard not to be cocky when you received this much attention every single day.
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t some asshole that took advantage of women and broke their hearts. Well, at least not intentionally. The girls I’d fucked knew very well what they were getting themselves into: a night of fuck-your-brains-out sex where sleep was the last thing on our minds and the last thing we would be getting. That and nothing else.
And all I asked for in return: never mention the big C.
Commitment. The minute I heard that word from a girl, she was automatically blacklisted from my little—okay, big—black book. From where I stood, when a guy opened the door on commitment, in also came jealousy, emotions, and intimacy—all of which were not in my vocabulary. I wouldn’t commit for any girl, and I wouldn’t say any I-love-yous. That was my motto.
Well, that was until recently, before everythin
g changed.
That was until a few months ago on a slow Friday afternoon when this girl literally stumbled into my life.
I looked over at her—a 10, if you were curious—sitting at the far end of the bar, watching me flirt with these three girls as she nursed her Sex on the Beach. She gave me a wide grin and I felt my stomach flip in a way I’d never felt before with any other girl.
I smiled back at her—not my signature smile I usually gave, but a warm smile that meant something more. I knew she was here to spend time with me, and as much as I hated to admit it, I enjoyed her company. A lot. More so than any other woman I knew or had ever known.
So how could I have let this happen to me? How could I have turned into a guy who actually thought about a future—a future with someone else in it? How could I have turned into someone who, for the first time in his life, wasn’t cringing at the idea of commitment? How could I have gotten to this point—this point of no return?
Her name was Alexis.
CHAPTER ONE
Alexis
“HERE YOU ARE,” SAID THE airport shuttle driver as he pulled up in front of my new apartment building.
I grinned widely and felt a thrill of anticipation run through me as I looked up at the building that would be my new home.
“I’m here,” I whispered softly to myself as my eyes took in the beautifully aged, cream Victorian-style building. The first floor of the building was a bar called Damian’s, and above the bar were six stories, each with three bay windows jetting out at the front.
I smiled when my eyes landed on the windows. That was the one requirement I’d had for my new studio: bay windows. It would remind me of my mom. I remembered her telling me once that her studio apartment when she lived in San Francisco years ago had bay windows.
I sighed and felt a jolt of emotion wash over me. It had been ten years since I lost my mom, and yet, every time I thought of her, it was just as painful now as it had been ten years ago.
“Just these two suitcases?” asked the driver, interrupting my thoughts as he pointed to two large suitcases in the back of the van.
“Yes, just those two.”
“Damn, these are heavy,” he exclaimed as he pulled the two suitcases out of the trunk. “Are you sure you don’t need any help with these?” He looked at me doubtfully and eyed the packed tote that was already weighing down my shoulder.
“Yeah, I think I can manage,” I reassured him.
Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I could manage, but for some reason, I didn’t want the driver to linger around. I wanted this moment to be mine. I wanted my first day in front of my new apartment in this completely new city to be all my own. I wanted to take in the first few moments of my brand new life alone.
“Okay, hun. Welcome to San Francisco,” the driver said as he closed the door to the trunk.
“Thanks.” I smiled and gave him a tip for his help.
As I watched the van drive down the street and disappear around the corner, I was consumed with a new sense of fear and excitement.
I turned my attention back to my new building and a cool breeze blew past. I shivered. It was a late summer afternoon and I was shivering. You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy, I thought sarcastically.
I wasn’t.
I was in a new city. I was starting a new life. And for the first time in as long as I could remember, I was going to have a life without my past weighing me down. And at that moment, I felt so much hope in front of me. I felt like anything could happen and everything was a possibility for me. In that moment, I felt like maybe this could be the place where I would find my happiness—where I would find the happiness that would fill the deep holes of sorrow in my heart.
I thought back to how quickly things had changed for me and how I was now standing in front of this building in the Mission District of San Francisco. It was only two months ago when I ended a relationship with a man who didn’t deserve my love. It was only two months ago that I decided to move away from the only place I’d known for my entire life—the small city of Cedar Rapids, Iowa. It was only two weeks ago that San Francisco became my destination, the city in which I was determined to find a new life for myself—a life where I wouldn’t be known as “that girl who became an orphan overnight at the age of thirteen.” I would be in a city where I wouldn’t get those looks of pity or sympathy I had been all too familiar with during the last ten years.
I walked through the lobby area of my building. Straight ahead of me was the staircase leading up to the apartment units. A couple of rows of small mailboxes lined the wall to the right of the stairs, and on the other end, to my far right, was a door leading to the bar, Damian’s.
I looked up at the steep staircase and groaned. I may need a few drinks after moving these suitcases up these steps, I thought.
I readjusted my large tote over my shoulder and started to lug the two large suitcases up the steps to my studio. “Unit 205. I’m on the second floor. I can totally do this,” I said out loud, trying to encourage myself as I felt the strain against my fingertips as I heaved my suitcases up the steps, one in each hand, one step at a time.
Halfway up the first flight of stairs, I heard two people coming up the stairs from behind me.
Shit, I’m blocking their way, I thought as I realized how unbelievably awkward and stupid I must look with two large suitcases and an overfilled tote balanced between my two hands.
“Ooo. Emm. Gee. She’s, like, going to take forever,” I heard a girl whisper to the person she was with, deliberately loud enough for me to hear.
Fucking bitch, I thought. I knew instantly that I would hate her.
I stopped and tried to turn towards them as best as I could as my suitcases and tote weighed down on my hands and arm.
“Ooo. Emm. Gee. Like, thanks so much for your patience,” I said sarcastically, mimicking her Valley Girl accent.
To my surprise, I heard the other person—a guy—snicker.
“Hey!” the girl scorned at the guy. Then I heard a slap, which I assumed was her hitting him against the chest.
“What? That was funny,” the guy said with a chuckle. He seemed completely undisturbed that the girl was upset.
I smiled to myself. There was something in the smoothness of his rich, deep voice that drew me in. I tried to move the suitcase that blocked my view of him so that I could see his face. But the only thing I could see was an intricate arm-length tattoo down the guy’s left arm.
He’s one of those guys, I thought to myself somewhat judgmentally as I automatically painted a picture in my head of what kind of guy he would be: a cocky guy who was nothing but trouble.
Now my curiosity had gotten the best of me. What did he look like? I wondered.
I cranked my head farther downward toward where he stood on the staircase, trying my best to be subtle.
Suddenly, I knew it was about to happen before it did. The strap to my tote began to give way to the amount of items I had stuffed in it. I watched in horror as several items from my tote, including a large, green Nalgene water bottle, fell out of my tote and down toward them.
“Ouch! What the fuck?” exclaimed the girl as the half-full Nalgene bottle hit her shin.
“Oops, sorry about that,” I said, trying to sound sincere. I felt bad for her, but a part of me instantly thought, that’s karma.
“Yeah right,” the girl huffed. Clearly, we were on the same page about how we felt towards one another.
“Here, let me help you,” offered the guy. I heard the girl give an exasperated sigh as the guy moved up the staircase.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” I insisted, a part of me still determined to keep this move-in experience all to myself.
But then, as one of my suitcases lifted out of my sore hand, I immediately felt relieved for the help.
As he lowered the suitcase down to where he stood on the stairs, I drew in a sharp intake of breath as I saw him for the first time.
He’s fucking gorgeous.
He
was an image of perfection, the most attractive man I’d ever seen in my life—in real life or on any glossy magazine. Everything about this man oozed sex. Not the missionary crap, but the dirty, earth-shattering type of sex that left you a completely different person afterwards. In fact, I was pretty sure that if I were to look up “sex” in the dictionary, a picture of him would be there—his hard, chiseled body, that arm-length tattoo that ran down his arm, those piercing blue eyes that had sent my heart to my throat when our eyes met.
My heart skipped a beat and I forced myself to blink, unable to hold his gaze any longer. I immediately felt self-conscious. Ugh. I look like shit, I thought. I knew I probably still had some sweat on my face from heaving up the suitcases up these steps.
I should have listened to my best friend, Deb. She said to always look your best when traveling because you never knew who you’d bump into—at the airport or once you’ve reached your destination. I had brushed off Deb’s advice. This was my first time traveling on a plane—I hadn’t been lying when I said I’d lived in Cedar Rapids all my life—and six hours of flying, with a layover in O’Hare International Airport in Chicago, made me extremely nervous.
So comfort was the only thing I had in mind today—well, comfort and not dying, that was. So naturally, the one time I’d decided to not listen to Deb’s advice I happened to bump into the most gorgeous man alive. Typical. Here I was, a Midwest girl with mousy brown hair in a University of Iowa sweatshirt and baggy jeans, lugging two suitcases that were each larger than my body up these stairs. What made matters worse was that there was a large, faded yellow mustard stain on the sweatshirt, smacked right in the middle of my chest. I knew I should have gotten rid of the sweatshirt after failing to clean out the stain, but I just couldn’t seem to part with it. As odd as it may have been, I found comfort in that sweatshirt. It was worn down and loose at just the right spots. And a lot of great college memories involved that sweatshirt. So for me, it was like a grown-up version of a security blanket. It was comforting and I loved wearing it.