JAMES: A Night Of The Kings Novel

by Shayne Ford

  JAMES

  A Night Of The Kings Novel

  Shayne Ford

  Contents

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Prologue

  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

  Also by Shayne Ford

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by Shayne Ford

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, organizations and incidents 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.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features mentioned in this book are the property of their respective owners and have been used without permission and in an editorial fashion only, with no implied endorsement.

  The publication/use of these trademarks is not associated with, approved of or sponsored by the trademarks owners.

  This book is for entertainment purposes only. The author and publisher disclaim any and all responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly in relation to this book.

  This book is intended for mature audiences only.

  Written by Shayne Ford

  www.shayneford.com

  Twitter:@ShayneFordBooks

  Cover design by Shayne Ford

  The image on the cover is a licensed stock photo, and it is used for illustrative purposes, any person who may be depicted on, is a model.

  Created with Vellum

  Introduction

  SERIES SYNOPSIS

  * * *

  LUST. POWER. BAD BOYS. LOVE. BETRAYAL.

  This series has it all.

  This is a story about love, taming hearts, growing up and changing.

  It is about a good girl corrupting a bad boy, who turns her into a bad girl. And then it’s about a bad girl, who brings the bad boy to his knees.

  Rain meets James for the first time, fresh out of high school. Fascinated by him, she wants him to be her first man, someone she can never forget. At twenty-five, James is a ruthless, powerful, wealthy man, who’s never had feelings for a woman and wants to keep things that way.

  He has two handsome best friends who are also his business partners.

  This is NOT a conventional, linear romance. Expect a bit of a mess, dirty bits, other people, cliffhangers and twists of situations.

  * * *

  This is a New Adult Erotic Romance. 18+ Only.

  Prologue

  NIGHT OF THE KINGS

  “To me, you were that special woman.

  I loved you from the moment I laid my eyes on you. And I loved you despite all the people who came between us.

  I was angry as hell because you chose to do what you did, but I knew I wasn’t any better, so my moral outrage was hardly justified.”

  James

  1

  RAIN

  * * *

  Nobody knows where they come from.

  Some people say they travel from the other side of the hills, where the wealthiest estates of the county share the beautiful scenery of Aspen and the well-guarded privacy of big money, but they could drive from farther away.

  They come with the first whispers of the fall when the days are still warm, and the light looks like golden honey pouring slowly in a jar of glass. When the nights grow cold, and the leaves flutter in the wind under the vault of the cerulean sky. When homes like mine and Eve’s smell like cinnamon and apple pies, and smoke drifts from the piles of leaves burning outside.

  They drive through town like ghosts while we spend our evenings tucked under the blankets, sipping tea and eating cookies, spinning stories like this.

  But some people swear they see them all year round. Mostly at night, and almost never during the day, and that’s why it’s so hard to believe.

  As they sweep through town, the whispers become murmurs before they turn into gossip, the stories, old and new, resurfacing, revived, spurring restlessness amongst the youngsters and skepticism amongst the older.

  Men brush the idea off, huffing and puffing and grumping, turning a deaf ear to the women’s ramblings.

  People spot their cars or bikes, but not that many get the chance to see them. Certainly not us, who are barely out of high school.

  Women are the ones who spread the rumors, and their stories should be taken with a grain of salt.

  Regardless, the tales and the mysteries abound.

  Eve and I love the legend, but unlike her, I’m not willing to admit.

  Some say they head west, right outside of town, where the old estates sprawl on big pieces of land, guarded by majestic forest in the background.

  That’s where the road ends and the Dark House sits next to a large, shimmering lake, the mansion shrouded in a lot mystery just like them.

  Surrounded by old trees, wrought iron benches, flowering shrubs and a brick wall covered with wild roses, the property–– if we are to believe the story, belongs to them.

  Footpaths criss-cross the land, an old tale saying there’s an abandoned tunnel hidden in the thick forest stretching behind the house.

  Other people spotted them downtown at Red’s, the building with charcoal gray walls, red painted stairs, and black tinted windows. The playground of the richest, most powerful men in town, perhaps the county. The place where besides wheeling and dealing, they indulge in guilty pleasures away from their spouses’ eyes.

  Throughout the years, the space we grew up in, has become a portal between old and new, truth and secret, pure and sin, stories like this making the town feel so alive.

  “Wait for me,” Eve shouts as I dart away from her, the wind blowing in my hair, the sun kissing my cheeks.

  “I’ll meet you down there,” I say, pointing at the bottom of the slope.

  Holding my hands up in the air, I let the bicycle glide down, feeding on the rush. I gain speed, and quickly grab the handles, moments later, pulling swiftly to a halt.

  My heart still drums in my chest as Eve parks next to me, her cheeks flushed.

  “That was fun,” she says, running her hand through a curtain of wavy hair.

  “Let’s go,” I say, pedaling up another slope.

  We follow the road through gently waving hills and green fields not yet tarnished by the colors of fall.

  A half hour later, we roll on the cobblestone streets of downtown, cruising past historic buildings, leaving behind a park, and lots of small shops.

  A delicious smell of grilled food drifts from inside the restaurants, chairs, and tables sitting on the sidewalk.

  The few cars driving through, slow down as here and there a pedestrian walks in and out the boutiques tucked behind colorful awnings. Not far from downtown, we swing by the Public Library and then the City Hall.

  We make a right, and seconds later, Red’s, the swanky club
of the affluent, comes into view.

  The building looks dull in the daylight, the parking lot completely deserted so early in the afternoon.

  We stop in front of the ice cream parlor.

  “I’ll get it,” Eve says, propping her bicycle against a small bench. “What would you like?”

  “Strawberry cream and crunchy hazelnut vanilla.”

  She vanishes inside the shop as I pull my phone out, take a few pictures and start playing with the filters.

  A door swings open with a bang as Eve bursts out of the shop.

  “They’re here. They’re fucking here,” she shouts at the top of her lungs, and I shush her, glancing around, embarrassed.

  Thank God, there’s no one to hear her.

  She hops on her bicycle.

  “Where’s the ice cream?” I ask, dryly, not at all enthused like her.

  “We’ll get it when we come back,” she says, her eyes burning with excitement. “Let’s go.”

  “How do you know it’s them?” I ask as she tucks her hair behind her ears.

  She shoves her phone in my face.

  “I know someone who knows someone who’s spotted them driving this way. We can catch them at the crossroads if we hurry.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we stop next to a run-down brick fence covered in weeds. Trees and shrubs pull a thick shadow over us.

  We lay the bicycles on the ground and perch ourselves on a wooden bench.

  Her eyes glint with anticipation.

  “I told you they’re real, Rain. You didn’t believe me.”

  “They may be real, but the story is bullshit made up by spinsters.”

  Her lips curve into a soft grin.

  “You and I may be virgins, but not everybody else is. Those women are not spinsters. Trust me. Quite the opposite.”

  “Whatever... I still don’t believe it. These women have nothing better to do than spin a yarn.”

  “Yarn or no yarn, they are real,” she says, enthralled.

  “Whatever…” I mumble again and wave her off, drawing pleasure from teasing her.

  Her eyes train on the road, washed with joy as if we’re about to witness a fucking miracle.

  Moments pass by, and no car shows up.

  She runs her hand over her shorts and smooths her plaid shirt. It doesn’t take long before her expression shifts, and her eyes start filtering sadness.

  “What’s the problem now?”

  She looks away. Oh, I know what the problem is. We’ve talked about it. Ad nauseam.

  “It’s not that bad,” I say patting her on her back.

  “We’re the last virgins in the County,” she says, venting her frustration.

  It sounds like a bad joke, but I know it’s serious business. At least for her, it is. I choose not to think about it.

  She places her elbows on her knees, props her chin on her hands and roots her eyes on the road. I lean back, my hands gripping the back of the bench.

  Melancholy rolls over her eyes.

  “Don’t worry. He’ll be back,” I say.

  “It’s the end of the summer. Do you see him back? He spent almost two months in Italy with his friends.”

  “So what?”

  “He didn’t even bother to call me.”

  “If you have to sleep with him to keep him interested in you then he doesn’t deserve you.”

  “We’re eighteen, Rain.”

  “So fucking what?”

  “People do that stuff. Way earlier.”

  “Well, it’s not as if we planned it that way. It just happened,” I say, not sounding very convincing. “I still don’t see why you’re so obsessed with it. Chances are, sooner or later, he would’ve left you anyway.”

  “It’s not only about him. I just don’t want to be a virgin forever.”

  I laugh softly.

  “You’re not going to be.”

  She cuts her eyes at me.

  “It’s easy for you to talk. You’re not even bothered by it.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel good?”

  She shrugs.

  “I don’t know. You don’t seem interested in men, anyway.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. Maybe you are, but Daria gets all the dick in your family.”

  I start chuckling.

  “Stop saying that. She’s my sister.”

  “It’s the truth,” she says, grinning.

  “She’s older. Of course, she gets it...” I say, offering an excuse.

  “That’s the problem with the older sisters. They get all the dick traffic,” she mutters.

  “She can have it. I’m not looking for dick...”

  My voice trails off as I look up the road.

  Trees line the path, their branches hugging in a canopy of leaves above the ground.

  “What are you looking for, then?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. Something different. Something that I will never forget,” I say, nostalgic, my mind drifting away.

  A few moments pass by before our eyes lock briefly, and I notice the melancholy harbored in her gaze as well.

  A rumbling sound rips through the air bringing everything back into focus. Our eyes shift back to the road.

  She claps her hands, ecstatic.

  We crane our necks out and glue our eyes on the meadow peeking through the trees. The road makes a soft turn there, and breathless, we wait for them to enter our line of sight as the distinctive sound of bikes permeates through the air.

  Our mouths pull agape.

  “Oh my fucking God...” she murmurs when the first couple of motorcycles makes a turn followed by a black Dodge Challenger with dark windows and another pair of bikers rolling in the back.

  Mesmerized, we stare, not caring one damn moment that we look like fools.

  As they edge closer, we zoom in on their faces.

  I register their impenetrable expressions, dark sunglasses, strong arms, jeans-clad thighs, biker boots, and snug T-shirts fitting tightly across their chests.

  The wind blows in their hair.

  Blonde, brown, dark, and blonde again.

  We slip off the bench and stand tall in front of them, lined up at the side of the road as if we witness a parade.

  The first pair of motorcycles passes by as the car rolls next. I glance at the tinted windows, unable to spot the slightest thing inside.

  “The return of the fucking kings...” Eve murmurs in a trance, her words drowning in the deafening roaring of the Harley-Davison bikes.

  Our eyes stay on them, and as they pull closer, the car slows down, and the back window slides open, the profile of a man filling my sight.

  Straight nose, chiseled jaw, fingers curled up into a fist, tucked beneath his chin, blonde bangs brushing his face.

  My focus shifts as I look inside, where buried in the darkness of the car glows the red-orange tip of a cigarette, a man’s lips curled into a crooked smile around it.

  A strange sensation flows through me as I get plundered by his eyes.

  “They look at us...” Eve mumbles, out of breath, and on the cusp of passing out.

  Our heads swivel as they pass by.

  The window rolls up, and moments later we stare at the backs of the last two riders as they vanish out of sight.

  Silence falls around us.

  “Yes, mom. Yes, we’re good. I don’t know where she goes,” I say, holding the phone close to my lips, my eyes flicking to the door.

  Dolled up in a set of lacy underwear sprinkled with rhinestones, Daria bats her fake lashes and runs her fingers through her chestnut hair while mouthing something to me from the doorway.

  “Georgia.”

  “Georgia’s...” I say, cocking my head, trying to read her lips. “Place... It’s her birthday,” I say, irritated that I have to lie for her.

  “Yes, mom... Joseph will take her there.”

  Frantic, she shakes her head and waggles her finger at me, desperate to draw my attention.

  “No... No
t Joseph. I... will... take... her... there...” I say, repeating her words slowly as she delivers the instructions to me.

  I clamp my hand over the phone.

  “Are you fucking crazy?!” I throw at her, still palming the phone. “Yes, mom. Yes... We’ll be careful. We’re not going to stay late. Sure... We’re all set. Don’t worry about us. Tell dad, we said hi. Yup. We’ll talk tomorrow,” I say and toss the phone on the bed.

  Daria twirls around, and dashes away.

  “Why do you have to be such an ass?” I burst out, storming into her room.

  Flashing a different attitude, she throws me a smug look. Smiling, she struts into her walk-in-closet and starts rifling through her dresses.

  I lean against the doorway and look around.

  “Why do you need all this crap, Daria?” I bark, pointing at the stack of gowns and summer dresses.

  “It’s not your damn business,” she says dryly.

  “You take them off anyway.”

  She spins around, her hands glued to her hips.

  “Jealous, much?”

  “Why would I be jealous? What’s so special about opening your legs for any random man who walks the face of the earth?”

  She waves me off and turns her back to me, starting to sift through her clothing again.

  “For your information, they are not just any men,” she says throwing me a scornful glance over her shoulder. “You wouldn’t know, anyway.”

  “Oh, yeah... You think that not being with a man makes me dumb? Being with a lot of them sure didn’t make you smarter. ”

  A staged, cold laughter fills the room.

  “Look who’s talking,” she mutters, sheer disdain spreading across her face. “Sure... Keep your pussy for yourself, little sister, so you can dust it off once in a while. I’m sure some nerd will eventually get it as a consolation prize.”

  Fury simmers in my blood, the emotions spilling on my face, fueling her laughter.

  Three years older than me, a couple of inches shorter, lean and not as toned as me, she’s banked on her pretty features to woo almost every pair of pants that has crossed her path, gaining quite a reputation in the process.