Forever (Eternity #1)

by Allyson Young

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2014 Allyson Young

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-716-1

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: Laurie Temple

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To my beta readers and authors Lynn Rae and Jennifer Simpkins, both true romantics in their own right, for their tireless support and edits. And to Joyce McGregor, Roberta Graham and Zennia Snider who gave me the pure reader’s perspective. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

  And finally, sincere thanks to my editor Laurie Temple, who held my feet to the fire in the nicest possible way, and used her talents to help create the final labour of love: Forever.

  FOREVER

  Eternity, 1

  Allyson Young

  Copyright © 2014

  Chapter One

  “Check out that amazing man! Hell, check out all those amazing men! Except for the dweeb on the end.” At least Lorraine attempted to add the latter sotto voce. “Do you suppose somebody wrote a list titled Hot Guys, with some specific parameters, and shouted it out? And they all came here? Like a gorgeous guy convention?”

  Amy Copeland smiled behind her hand at the other woman’s enthusiastic appraisal. The half dozen men sitting around the big table in the corner were certainly worthy of both the hot and the gorgeous guy labels. Especially the man at the head of the table, the one all the other men deferred to. Not that she’d been looking. Much. He was big for sure, and the time he’d gone to the men’s room established he was taller than average too, maybe six-three or four to her five-foot-ten, and he had an easy way of moving—that long limbed stride so many big cats affected. Thick, dark hair with just enough curl, pale eyes, difficult to tell the color in the dim light, but she hadn’t missed the hard planes of his handsome face. Or that mouth. Sculpted and sensuous with a hint of cruelty. Sigh.

  “Which one?”

  “Excuse me?” She turned away from another covert look at the mouth-watering group to stare at Lorraine.

  “Pick one. You get first dibs, it being your birthday and all.”

  Julie, Noreen and even Sandra giggled loudly, giddiness fueled by too many margaritas, and Lorraine tossed back her heavy mane of black hair, a pout twisting her full, carmine lips.

  “Amy should get first dibs,” she insisted, loudly. “Birthday girl deserves a hot gift and those boys are haawwt.”

  “Keep your voice down.” Amy whispered her plea.

  “Why? They’re like the best presents ever!”

  Jeez. Lorraine’s proclamations had attracted the attention of the “presents” and all of them were looking. Amy had just enough to drink to stare back challengingly, while wrestling with a sense of embarrassment. She wasn’t interested in a casual hookup. Didn’t matter how incredibly hot and sexy Mr. Tall and Muscular was or the way his right eyebrow quirked in such a way as to make her belly hitch when he looked directly into her eyes. She wrenched her gaze away, snatching up her bag. “Potty break.”

  Giggles erupted behind her as she hustled to the restrooms, an ideal distance from her table and the collection of hunks. Maybe they’d be gone by the time she got back. Lorraine had the attention span of a gnat so at least she will have moved on. Hopefully.

  The bathroom pretty much reflected the appearance of the rest of the club—basic. No fancy marble-tiled backsplash or stainless sinks. The stained porcelain bowls featured dripping taps, although the hot water was plentiful, and the overhead lighting was dim and tended to throw shadows across the already silvering mirrors. But the drinks were cheap, the music not country, and the bar a marked contrast to the fancy places she’d frequented in Vegas. Sacramento was different, or at least it felt different, and Amy didn’t want fancy or the memories similar venues stirred up.

  Quickly using the facilities, she washed her hands and pushed her hair off her face, lifting the mass to drop it behind her shoulders. Checked her lip gloss and applied a little more, squinting to compensate for the poor reflective qualities of the mirror. Twenty-seven years old. Footloose and fancy free. Alone in this world, except for Sandra, and wasn’t that fucking depressing?

  Swivelling on her flats to check the fit of her dark jeans, relieved they hadn’t stretched and bagged over her ass, she smoothed the silky stuff of her shirt and straightened the fall of her necklace, centering it over the V of her cleavage. Her index finger lingered on the tiny stylized C. C for change, a gift from Sandra when Amy was released from the hospital. A private, meaningful message. A reminder. Amy stroked it like the talisman it was and reminded herself that hot men, any hot men, were off limits. Meeting men in places like this ended in one night stands and she wasn’t doing that anymore.

  Hopefully, her girls were ready to pack it in. She had no particular place to go, no one to see, but the buzz was gone. Tomorrow would be another day, like yesterday, and while money wasn’t so much of an issue anymore, Amy was feeling restless, ready to move on. She’d miss Sandra, a lot. But there was nothing to hold her here, and maybe there would be someplace else. Someone else. Maybe Sandra would want to come with, although her friend really liked the hospital where she now worked.

  Exiting into the hall, footsteps deadened by the worn carpet and heavily panelled walls, she checked in her purse for her phone and ran into a wall of warm, solid male. Big, strong hands gripped her shoulders as she rocked back with the impact.

  “Easy, sweetheart.”

  Holy shit. Holy shit. Tall, muscular guy from the hunky crowd. Her pulse kicked up and her face suffused with heat. He was even better looking close up, eyes a darker shade of the silver dollars the tourists fed the slots in Vegas. And as hard. He got her juices flowing, and she struggled against the attraction. So not fitting in with her C for change.

  “Excuse me. Sorry.” Oh, good one, Amy. Sophisticated. Couldn’t turn on a little attitude about him blocking the hallway with his awesomeness, a barrier just waiting for an unsuspecting woman to walk right into. She’d become a wuss since leaving Vegas, losing her thin veneer of sophistication. Pasting on a vague smile she made to slip past him, but he shifted, too. She deked the other way. Blocked again. So they weren’t doing the supermarket aisle dance, each moving in the same direction while trying to avoid the other. She dared another look at his face and met that quirked brow again, those cruel, sexy lips twitching with apparent amusement. Her eyes dropped down his body in self-preservation. Mistake.

  His worn jeans fit him admirably, tightly stretched across his thighs, the solid metal piece of his belt buckle drawing attention to the taut fabric molding his—she swallowed the mouth-watering sensation and pretended to examine the dark material of his shirt while she searched for something to say to conclude the chance meeting.

  “What?” Another conversational gem.

  “Happy Birthday, Amy.”

  They hadn’t… They had. Her girls actually told this man… Goddamn it. She took a step back and tried another smile. “Thanks.”

  “Your loud friend—Lorraine—announced the gift idea. I decided who you’d choose.”

  Can you say arrogant? Confident? Insufferable? Amy knew all her adjectives applied, but damned if he couldn’t carry them off. Cautiously, she said, “You thought I’d choose you?”
/>   “Didn’t say that. Said I was making your choice.”

  Okay. She didn’t know quite what to make of that. Truthfully, she hadn’t really scrutinized the other men at his table, except to note they were mostly all of a type— tall, built, and good looking. She’d really looked at him.

  “Who are you?” Was that wise? Did she really want to know? She did.

  “Dean Chambray. Those guys—we work together.”

  “They work for you.”

  His eyes narrowed and the sterling in the silver intensified, set off by thick, dark lashes. “Now why would you say that?”

  Shrugging, she answered. “They paid attention to you, deferred to you.” Probably she hadn’t needed to share. Men preferred big, dumb blondes, not ones who obviously paid attention. But she wasn’t slipping back into that role again.

  He reached out and hooked a piece of her hair, a strand right at that sensitive juncture where neck meets shoulder, pulling it gently until she followed its insistent tugging, moving right back into his space. “Beautiful and smart.”

  Her brain went to mush, the scent of sandalwood and hot male washing over her, the very heat of him tangible. She tipped her head back in order to read his face. “What?”

  “You’re observant, and interpret what you see accurately. Smart.”

  Smart. Amy was vigilant and read people and situations out of dire necessity. She’d lived on the edge nearly all her life in a variety of foster homes and one memorable, not in a good way, juvie unit, before being absorbed into the Vegas street life at the tender age of sixteen. Surviving state foster care was a major feat in itself, and to make it off the street and into the high-roller lifestyle, albeit as a bit player … well, good instincts rated right up there with intelligence. Higher. But she possessed her share of the latter, if her history sometimes dumbed it down, made her make poor choices. Her history, and how she confused hot sex with love and affection, was psychology one-oh-one. She mentally thanked Sandra, for the C for change.

  Her silence elicited another measured look. “Modest, too. What would you like for your birthday?”

  “What? I mean, excuse me?” Another scintillating conversational gambit. Modest? Her? Well, her current job didn’t require face-to-face communication, and chatting wasn’t high on the list of her past position. Discouraged, actually.

  “What’d you wish for?”

  “Oh. I didn’t have a cake or blow out any candles. So no wish.”

  “What would you like, Amy?” Less patience, more insistence.

  Imagining his face if she came right out with it, laid it on him, she felt her lips twitch and fought a derisive snicker, knowing she laughed to cover her wistfulness. I want a man who’ll respect me and trust me, love me and not try to change me, yet take care of me. Someone who won’t use me, but will make babies with me and live by my side forever and ever.

  “Nothing, actually.” It was true—she wanted the impossible.

  “Well, then I’ll choose that for you, too. Consider this the bow on top.” Dean cradled the back of her head with one big hand, holding her steady with the other placed in the small of her back. He leaned down to take her lips. Startled, she parted them to protest and his tongue instantly surged inside to duel with her own, exploring the recesses of her mouth. Sculpted, sensuous, she’d add sublimely talented to describe those lips. Her eyes closed and she gave herself up to the myriad of sensations. So much for the psych lesson.

  Knees weakening, she reached up to push her fingers through Dean’s thick hair, holding him close, sealing their mouths ever tighter. The hard bulge at his crotch pressed heatedly into her abdomen and her pussy liquefied, preparing for when this man lifted her so she could wrap her legs around his waist and—holy mother. This was insane! A moan of protest replaced the whimpering sound of her surrender, and he released her lips, although not his grip on her waist or her head. Pulling back, Amy extricated her fingers, awkwardly patting at his hair, fluttering her hands down to attempt to insert them between their bodies. His eyes were mesmerizing, slate grey over silver, churning with arousal. And he was far too close for her to think with anything other than what her weeping pussy wanted.

  “Can’t wait to unwrap the whole package.” His voice was rough and raspy.

  Wait—it was her birthday. She didn’t trust her voice but pushed against rock hard pecs.

  Letting her go, he still blocked her retreat, standing in place, waiting, patient again. Amy felt her whole body give a little shudder, actually felt the cathartic awareness of something bigger, different, more than any of her past experiences with the opposite sex. And it scared the ever-loving shit out of her.

  “I have to go.” Her voice sounded reed thin and plaintive.

  He quirked that brow. “I don’t play games, sweetheart. Now or never.”

  And there it was, spoiling that atavistic awareness. A hookup, a quick fuck, probably not quick and probably great, but she wasn’t doing that anymore, not that those hookups in the past had been particularly memorable in the face of what she felt for this man. Chemistry.

  The longer-term positions weren’t anything for her scrap book, either, and something Amy preferred not to think about. It was her birthday, and she supposed she was entitled to a nice present, but she wanted to hang onto it, wanted to keep this particular gift. That desire in itself surprised her, having just met him, but Dean Chambray not only aroused her to the utter max, something deep inside woke up and clamored to be heard, begged to connect with him. No sense in teasing herself. Or it. Because he wasn’t different. Wrong again.

  “Never, then. Thanks for the birthday kiss.”

  This time he stepped far enough aside to give her room to pass. His face was impassive although his eyes sparked. Thwarted desire or annoyance? Same thing. Amy forced herself to walk slowly back to the table, the age and disrepair of the club more apparent to her heightened senses. The floors dipped from the weight of thousands of feet, the walls marked by countless hands and the faint smell of mildew wasn’t totally masked by the crush of bodies emitting both natural and purchased scents. Don’t look back. Four feminine faces stared her way, three alight with anticipation, Sandra’s drawn with worry. Her friend could read her a mile off. Fuck it. It was her birthday. “Somebody order another pitcher!”

  “Atta girl! You miss the hardbody back there?” Lorraine was as irrepressible as ever and Amy wondered how Sandra had come to include her in the small circle of friends she’d cultivated since relocating. Sandra was a serious, reserved type. But Lorraine was also a nurse, and apparently blew off steam on a regular basis because of the often depressing things she saw on the neonatal unit. As for Julie and Noreen, ward clerks, both of them, and really nice women, they were always up for a party. Amy was just a hanger on. Until Sandra, she didn’t spend time with women at all, didn’t have girlfriends. But Sandra saved her life.

  She decided to answer Lorraine’s question with another. “You up for hitting Grand Masters after this?”

  “Oh, girl. Nasty. Grand Masters?” Lorraine shrieked it over the sound of the music, then winked comically, her face screwing up, both eyes shutting. She lowered her voice to a dull roar. “You have those kind of tendencies? Sure. What the hell? After the pitcher. Somebody order it.”

  Amy didn’t know if she really had those tendencies. But the parody of bondage and titillating sexual acts played out at Grand Masters were intriguing, and even though she’d only attended a few times the entire scene got her fantasies going. Sandra’s too, although her friend only grudgingly acknowledged it, saying she preferred her erotic novels. And as far as Amy knew, no man had graced her friend’s bed since Sandra’s ascent from hell.

  Noreen and Julie were game for anything, as always. The jug of margaritas arrived and Amy worked her way through her glass in record time, having resolutely ignored the return of Dean Chambray to his table and the subsequent exit of him and his men after a couple of bottles were drained and a few faint protests died away. It appeared his
companions weren’t ready to leave, but they kowtowed to him, reinforcing her impression he was very much in charge. The wistful feeling Amy harbored didn’t die away at all, and she felt her lips surreptitiously from time to time.

  “You okay?” Sandra blinked owlishly. Always a cheap drunk.

  “Uh huh. Just decided to live it up. Thirty’s just around the corner.”

  “Hardly. You’re not over the hill yet. But okay. You just looked kinda spooked, and I wondered…”

  “Nah. It’s all good. Drink up. We’re missing most of the shows as it is.” Amy didn’t want to get into a discussion about men with Sandra. That’s how they met, because of a man, and Amy knew how protective her friend was with her.

  They finished their drinks and her girls headed to the restrooms while Amy went out to find a cab for five intoxicated women, herself included. Guzzling another margarita on an empty stomach … and with no cake. A minivan taxi pulled up, the light on the roof flashing its availability, and she held it until the other women burst through the door, laughing and calling out. Piling inside, she told the driver their destination and sat back to enjoy the ride. She could easily background search Dean Chambray when she got home, or tomorrow even, but decided she wouldn’t. No point in tormenting herself.

  The crowded conditions of the cab, blended with the various perfumes they wore and the alcohol fumes, made the atmosphere close and she watched as the driver inhaled the intoxicating brew. He attempted to make conversation and Lorraine entertained him with speculation about his “romantic” abilities. God.

  ****

  “Grand Masters? You’re shitting me. Andrea’ll kick my ass.” Randy shook his head. “You’re on your own, boss. But take Enrico, and maybe a couple of the other guys’ll go.”