The Other P-Word
Page 1
Table of Contents
Legal Page
Title Page
Book Description
Dedication
Trademarks Acknowledgement
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
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Epilogue
New Excerpt
About the Author
Publisher Page
A Totally Bound Publication
The Other P-Word
ISBN # 978-1-78430-598-7
©Copyright MK Schiller 2015
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright May 2015
Edited by Rebecca Douglas
Totally Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2015 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Burning and a Sexometer of 2.
In Other Words
THE OTHER P-WORD
MK Schiller
Book three in the In Other Words series
Suffering from a dark past, he lives his life with passion but no purpose. She planned everything…except him.
Billie Price has always had a plan for her life. On the surface, it all appears on track. But there has always been something missing. Even though she has a purpose, there is no passion to fuel it. Then she meets a mysterious stranger with a dark past. Except Evan Wright is all kinds of wrong—the tattoo-clad, guitar-strumming, Harley-riding modern day drifter is definitely not the right man for her. Yet she finds herself drawn to him and The Lost Souls’ Club—the eclectic bar where he works. As all her carefully strung plans unravel, Evan is there to comfort her. As their attraction grows, Billie can’t resist the temptation, even though Evan will leave in the fall. At least they have all summer together, not to mention the man knows how to narrate the perfect sex scene for the book she’s writing. But as she crashes into Evan’s world, Billie has to ask herself—can passion prevail when there is no purpose?
Dedication
I owe a special thanks to the readers for becoming a part of this family. I hope Billie’s story brings you hearty laughs, a few blushes and a need to reach for your significant other. Thank you to my other family at Totally Bound who have always believed in my work, especially my editor Rebecca Douglas. To my writing group who threw me a life vest when I couldn’t tread water anymore—Shelly, Sage, Heather, Aliza—you’re all kinds of beautiful. To my own family who lived with my chaos—Nix, Pat, Justin—you are the best. To my beta readers—thanks for making Billie and Evan real. A special thanks to Susan who sent me chocolate-covered mangos when I needed them most. To all the people who’ve left reviews—good or bad—thanks for taking the time to do that!
To everyone who has supported my dream…thank you for reminding me to never go gentle into that good night.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Drops of Jupiter: Train, Patrick Monahan
Harley: Harley-Davidson Inc.
Best Day of My Life: Aaron Accetta, Zachary Barnett, Shep Goodman, David Rublin, Matthew Sanchez, James Shelley
Gulliver: Jonathan Swift
Kryptonite: DC Comics
Louis Vuitton: Louis Vuitton Malletier
The Devil Wears Prada: Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation
Chicago Bears: Chicago Bears, NFL
Louboutin: Christian Louboutin
Google: Google, Inc.
About a Girl: Kurt Cobain
Grey Goose: Bacardi
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light: Dylan Thomas
Bad Day: Daniel Powter
BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke AG
Hot in Herre: Cornell Haynes, Jr., Pharrell Williams, Chad Hugo, Charles L. Brown
Werewolves of London: LeRoy Marinell, Waddy Wachtel, Warren Zevon
My Shit’s Fucked Up: Warren Zevon
Closing Time: Semisonic, Dan Wilson
Bye Bye Bye: Kristian Lundin, Jake Schulze, Andreas Carlsson
House Beautiful: Hearst Corporation
Ben & Jerry’s: Ben & Jerry’s Homemade Holdings, Inc.
Domino: New Line Cinema/Metropolitan Filmexport
I Think of You: Rodriguez
MCAT: American Association of Medical Colleges
Body and Soul: Edward Heyman, Robert Sour, Frank Eyton, Johnny Green
Extraordinary Girl: Billie Joe Armstrong
Amstel Light: Heineken International
Netflix: Netflix, Inc.
ESPN: ESPN, Inc.
Abercrombie: Abercrombie & Fitch
Botox: Botox
Three Little Birds: Bob Marley
Chuck Taylor: Nike, Inc.
Superman: DC Comics
Fifty Shades of Grey: E.L. James
Party in the USA: Jessica Cornish, Lukasz Gottwald, Claude Kelly
Bob the Builder: Keith Chapman
A Prayer for Owen Meany: John Irving
The Godfather: Mario Puzo/Paramount Pictures
The Notebook: Nicholas Sparks
The Velveteen Rabbit: Margery Williams
Spanish Fly: Eddie Van Halen
Sunshine of Your Love: Jack Bruce, Pete Brown, Eric Clapton
Born to Run: Bruce Springsteen
Whistle: Tramar Dillard, David Glass, Marcus Killian, Justin Franks, Breyan Isaac, Antonio Mobley
We Owned the Night: Charle
s Kelley, Dave Haywood, Dallas Davidson
The Sex is Good: Jared Weeks, Jason Null, Skidd Mills
Guess Who: Columbia Pictures
Pulp Fiction: Miramax Films
Seventeen Years Locust: Rob Zombie, John 5, Scott Humphrey
New Kid in Town: Don Henley, Glenn Frey, J.D. Souther
Touch of Grey: Jerry Garcia, Robert Hunter
iPod: Apple, Inc.
I Will Follow You Into the Dark: Ben Gibbard
Free Bird: Allen Collins, Ronnie Van Zant
Sex and Candy: John Wozniak
Killian’s: Molson Coors/Heineken
We Are Young: Nate Ruess, Andrew Dost, Jack Antonoff, Jeffrey Bhasker
Packers: Packers, NFL
Girl Scouts: Girl Scouts of America
Heisman Trophy: Heisman Memorial Trophy Award
Buick: General Motors Company
Stetson: John B. Stetson Company
Candy Shop: Curtis Jackson
Sweet Home Alabama: Ed King, Gary Rossington, Ronnie Van Zant
Counting Stars: Tim Pagnotta
Bittersweet Symphony: Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Richard Ashcroft
Disney World: The Walt Disney Company
Porsche 911: Porsche AG
Keep Me in Your Heart for a While: Warren Zevon
Kool-Aid: Kraft Foods
The Three Stooges: The Three Stooges
We Can’t Stop: Mike L. Williams II, Pierre Ramon Slaughter, Timothy Thomas, Theron Thomas, Miley Cyrus, Douglas Davis, Ricky Walters
You Found Me: Isaac Slade, Joe King
Single Ladies: Christopher ‘Tricky’ Stewart, Terius ‘The-Dream’ Nash, Thaddis Harrell, Beyoncé Knowles
We Are Family: Nile Rodgers, Bernard Edwards
WhatsApp: Facebook, Inc.
Joe Dirt: Columbia Pictures
Chapter One
I first laid eyes on him in a cemetery and if that wasn’t an ominous sign, I don’t know what is. My stalking, leering, checking out—whatever it was—disturbed me. But not enough to stop searching for him among the granite markers rising from the earth. I usually found him. Either we were on the same schedule or he visited so often it was unavoidable.
He wore a gray hoodie, dark jeans with rips at the knees and what looked like a vintage bomber jacket. His hair, thick and disheveled, covered his neck and curled at the ends, its color somewhere between sand and sun. Broad shoulders and a confident stride made watching him walk dangerously enticing. He paused for a brief moment. My skin prickled as his head turned my way with a stare that lingered a second too long to be coincidental. I dropped my head, rearranging the baby pink roses on Lorraine’s plot, sure they resembled the color on my cheeks. I gripped the stems, ashamed to be caught by Tall, Blond and Brooding, and at such an inappropriate place.
“Well, Lorraine, I got another rejection today.” I fished the crumpled letter from my jacket. I came to see her every time I got a letter—a habit I desperately wanted to break. “This one is personalized, at least, but it still tore my heart. ‘Dear Miss Price, While your work is enjoyable, I didn’t connect to your characters. I felt an overall lack of passion in your writing. As I’m sure you know, passion is the measure of a good romance’.”
I smoothed the paper with my hand before folding it into a neat square. “Then there are some other things about this being a subjective industry and all. How could she say I’m not passionate? And worse, is it true? A writer who isn’t passionate is like the cobbler with no shoes, or the dentist with no teeth.” I stared at the etched letters chiseled into the steely granite headstone. “I once read you wrote eighty stories that were rejected before your first break. I don’t know how you did it.”
The roar of a motorcycle interrupted the solitude. I allowed myself another glance toward the gravel road where he was speeding off into the horizon.
A few moments later, I stood, wiping the dirt from my jeans then taking the sufficiently decayed peach-colored flowers from last week’s visit.
“Until next time, Lorraine.”
I headed down the path myself as clouds curtained the sky, drowning out the sun with shades of bleak.
I made it to the Third Street stop, preparing myself for the three-hour bus ride that would take only an hour by automobile. I didn’t mind the public transportation, though. People carved out time as if it was made of boundless clay, filling every second until no white space remained. The time to think had become a peculiar pastime made for odd people like myself. That was what I did during the long commutes to visit Lorraine. The first drops of rain flicked against me, mocking my good intentions.
It wasn’t so bad. I turned my face toward it and closed my eyes in appreciation of the light mist. Unfortunately, the sky opened and doused me in retaliation.
Shit! Here I was at one of the only bus stops that didn’t have a covered seating area. I held my knapsack above my head as I surveyed my surroundings. My salvation lay in the shop across the street that boasted pictures of whimsical cups on its door and checkered curtains. The aroma of whipped cream, strong coffee and fresh baked pastries beckoned me with each step. If I wasn’t running toward it, I might have floated like a loony cartoon character.
I wrung out my wet tresses, twisting my blonde hair into a tight bun as I waited in line. I blotted myself with napkins in a lame attempt to dry off while I waited for my order. The tables overflowed with people who, like me, sought shelter. Only one vacant seat remained.
Where he was.
His hair was damp, not drenched like mine. A helmet sat on the seat across from him. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and was flipping pages of a newspaper. For a moment I lost myself in him, until someone bumped my shoulder, nearly spilling my drink.
The large-mouthed cup complete with saucer chattered as I walked around the tight space.
“May I sit here?” I asked timidly.
He tilted his head and smiled, pushing the vacant chair out with his foot. Observing him at close range was worse than viewing him from afar. His eyes had the same luminosity as melting chocolate. A noticeable white scar on the chiseled planes of his jaw made him look dangerous. The boyish smile that elicited the slightest dimple disarmed me. But it was the natural tan he sported that invoked my curiosity. It wasn’t orange enough to be fake, but the weather in Chicago hadn’t reached tanning levels yet.
I set down my tray and picked up his helmet. It was heavier than I’d imagined. He took it from me.
“Thank you. The other seats are taken,” I explained. Although a mere glance could have confirmed my statement, he just nodded.
He snapped his fingers and pointed to me. “Graveyard girl,” he said, a trace of a southern twang coloring his words.
I tilted my head, trying to keep my smile from reaching ridiculous heights. “Is that what you call me?”
“In my head, but now that I say it out loud, it sounds creepy.”
“Yeah, it does.” I chuckled, holding out my hand. “Billie Price.”
He leaned over slightly. The scent of soap and peppermint was even more pleasing than the coffee. His smile held the lure of temptation—the kind of expression that made ordinary girls feel exceptional.
“Billie?”
“I know it’s a strange name for a girl.”
“I like it. It sounds southern. Pleased to meet you, Billie Price. The name’s Evan Wright.” He tightened his grip on my hand. I always thought my hands were awkwardly large, but in that moment, my right hand looked tiny, almost dainty, clasped against his powerful one. He flipped my wrist, kissing the underside of it, causing a shiver that travelled down my spine straight to my toes.
“That doesn’t happen to me every day.” My voice sounded unnaturally squeaky. Did they pump helium through the vents? “Maybe it should.”
His trailed his thumb across my wrist before he released our connection. I shrugged off my jacket. His gaze lowered slightly, causing my skin to tingle as if his eyes were touching me.
I gulped my coffee, wishin
g I’d ordered it iced, because despite the chill in the air, steam rose from my pores.
“May I ask where you’re from, Evan?”
“Everywhere. Anywhere.”
“That’s cryptic.”
He nodded, his grin stretching. “There’s no mystery here. Just truth.”
I doubted that.
“If you want specifics—I was born in Alabama, but we moved to Chicago my freshman year of high school. The accent never swayed.”
Thank goodness for that. My sisters and I often argued the merits of a good inflection on a man. Marley preferred the British sound while Stevie insisted that an Aussie accent did it for her. Personally, I’d always loved the slow, sexy drawl of a southern man, especially when it hit the notes of rich and smoky—slow poured honey over hard whiskey.
“I just got back into town.” He closed the paper, running his finger along its edges.
“From where?”
“Miami.”
Well, that explained the tan.
He took out a glinting copper coin, rolling it between his fingers. “What are you drinking?” he asked, staring at my cup.
“Grande, Quad, Non-fat, One-Pump, No-Whip Mocha.”
“What’s a quad?”
“Four shots of espresso.”
“Shit, you’re an addict.”
“Yes, I’m waiting for an appropriate twelve-step program.”
“The first step is admitting you’ve got a problem, so you’ve got that covered.”
“True. What are you drinking?”
“Coffee. Black. I try to limit my order to a single adjective.”
I hummed along to the instrumental version of Drops of Jupiter that echoed softly from the speakers, thankful for the distracting comfort of a melody. “I have very specific tastes.”
“A girl who knows what she wants.”
“Yes.”
“And what is that?”
His question took me by surprise. He was a stranger asking me something very personal. But then again, I was the one who’d left the door open, hoping he’d step inside.