Last: A Copperslane Romance Novel

by Garnet Christie

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Note from the Author

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Coming Soon!

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  LAST, A Copperslane Romance Novel

  Copyright © 2021 Garnet Christie

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or a used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, or actual evens is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotation in book reviews. For more information address garnetchristie@garnetchristie.com

  Cover Design: Cat Imb - TRC Designs

  Formatting: Cat Imb - TRC Designs

  Photographer: Michelle Lancaster

  Model: Morgan Waterhouse

  Editing: Salt and Sage Editing

  ISBN Print 978-0-578-89158-3

  Kindle ASIN B08X36HHRT

  Note from the Author

  LAST is a full-length, interconnected stand alone that features strong, frequent language, mature scenarios, graphic sexual scenes, and mentions of abuse, alcoholism, and suicide. Reader Discretion is advised, and this book is intended for readers 18+

  I had the idea for Last in mid 2020, and honestly I didn’t think much of it at the time. I’d written a few books already, and when the idea for the first chapter popped into my head, I thought it would be a fun “next project” to pass the deary year. Little did I know that this would be my debut novel, and that Brett and Bianca would take me places I never thought I would go. I’ve truly enjoyed writing them. I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, I’ve been frustrated, but I wouldn’t change one step of this journey. My hope is that each and every one of you enjoy them as much as I have.

  Dedication

  To the crushed and broken who think their wings have turned to ash––you will rise again, and you will soar.

  Chapter 1

  The moment I close the door behind me, dread shoots down my limbs. I already want to leave.

  It’s a packed house tonight, and I think the whole town is crammed inside this quaint cottage-style home. I duck through the crowd, smiling at the faces familiar to me on this Friday night. I’m at the precipice of the kitchen when I hear a familiar voice.

  ”Bianca, hi. You’re here.” My friend Lizzie greets me over the crowd. She raises to her toes and waves from the kitchen island. “Could you please go down to the basement and grab some Cabernet? This one’s about gone.”

  “Sure thing.” I wave back, ignoring the fact I haven’t been here for ten minutes and she’s already begging for help. Poor thing.

  But I still love her, even if she does end up saying yes to too many folks because she can’t turn them away. Saying no is hard for her.

  Looking toward the basement door, I sigh. It’s inconveniently located at the back of the kitchen. It’s a smallish area where throngs of folks are gathered.

  I make the swim and say a few “pardon me’s” while passing through, loathing the way my head pounds at my temples. Tonight’s pain could be from the noise or it could be my ongoing headaches. They’ve been the norm. At the moment, I can’t tell which is the cause of this one—all I know is that it’s especially strong.

  My eyes bounce around the room with its glaring fluorescent lights and I draw my conclusion. Yeah. It’s the crowd. And for an understandable reason.

  Lizzie’s gatherings are chaotic. There’s always too many bodies per sane capita in her house. A wince pinches my face tight when a shrill cackle hits the air. I walk faster.

  Now I’ll do anything to reach that door. Even mash on a few toes if that’s the toll. Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that and I reach my destination after a few more “excuse me’s.”

  I push out a sigh of relief when the door to the basement latches shut. The lively crowd from behind dwindles out, and the damp, cool atmosphere hugs me. It’s inviting after getting slapped in the face from the warmth I felt when walking in. The entire house is hot, heated by the excessive amount of bodies present.

  I’d like to stay in here forever, but I can’t. If I’m gone too long, Lizzie will notice. A rule she has while hosting is to never run out of drinks.

  ”Right.” My shoulders hunker down with a hard exhale. I almost forgot why I was here. “The wine.”

  “Get them happy enough on wine and they won’t notice the food ran out.”

  That’s Lizzie’s philosophy. Not that she ever runs out of food though. She’s a personal chef, and always prepares a smorgasbord capable of sustaining a small country.

  I take my sweet time going down the steps. Her lavish finished basement is what I could call a writer’s wet dream.

  It’s quiet, contained, and the couch alone is spacious enough where I could write for hours in endless positions.

  I frown. Not that anyone wants my books. None of my romance novels have made a dent in the market for some time now and the fact my agent still believes in me makes me question her grip on reality. By all accounts, I’m a “has been.”

  A sliver of hurt pokes at my heart. Admitting I’ve been a failure for the past several years isn’t fun. Dad always told me I wouldn’t last. He was right. I’m simply glad he didn’t live long enough to see it. He would have laughed in my face, all while slurring over his words.

  Yeah, thank God he’s not around to see me now.

  While that thought needles away, I round the corner and go into an enclosed room.

  Judging by the venting on one side of the concrete wall, I think this was a laundry room or was supposed to be. Lizzie’s turned it into an impromptu wine cellar.

  Bending down, I look at the racks, asking why she sent a non-drinker like me to fetch a bottle. In my mind, it’s like sending a monk to Vegas. I have no clue what to do here. My ears perk when I hear a noise. It sounds like the door, but I’m not certain. Most things are muffled in this tucked away area. Tilting my head back, I use my voice. “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  One more time. “Hello?”

  Dead silence.

  I shrug and return to the selection in front of me. When I find a Cabernet, I slide it out, cradling it. I’m moving to the door when I stop.

  Another noise rings out and I realize it wasn’t my imagination. A shuffle, a moan, and hushed voices. The first one, manly and gruff. Aching is a word I use in my books, and I always roll my eyes when typing it. Effective, but stupid. However, when I hear his voice, I do ache.

  “On your knees. Back to the wall.”

  It’s dark and commanding, sweeter than sin, and more beckoning than the idea of going to heaven.

  Breath holds in my lungs and my ear strains to hear mor
e.

  “Whatever you say.”

  This voice is soft, flowery, and even familiar, but I can’t place my finger on it.

  The chime of a belt buckle and the drag of a zipper echo through the cavernous basement. Then a smack. Not like a spanking sound of skin to skin, but of wetness. My eyes widen. A moan from the sin man comes next and when he talks, my knees sway.

  “Fuck, yeah. Now, look at me.”

  I close my eyes and shake my head, trying to force away the intoxicating effects of such a voice. I need to get out of here.

  My lips pinch together while I scan my surroundings. I have no idea where they are, but if I don’t leave, Lizzie will come down here. I’m sure they don’t want that. I try to peer around the door, and there’s nothing.

  Chances are, this couple is further away, and their voices are echoing. The stairs to the kitchen are pretty much a straight shot after taking a hard left. I decide to test my luck and go for it, even though my pulse resounds in my ears. I float on my toes and hunch my shoulders, staying in the shadows if I can.

  Several steps in I think so far, so good. There’s nothing popping up in my field of vision. Only the sounds of a very obvious blow job breaks the silence. Each second the moans grow in heat, and that makes me want to leave quicker. I’m no prude, but sex sounds are awkward when you’re not a participant.

  I’m almost to the steps when I stop.

  The couple . . . well, one half is in view. The man. He’s standing close, facing the edge of a wall. I’ve never seen him before. And holy shit. If he’s not hotter than melted steel then I don’t know what he is.

  The red and black flannel button-up, the rolled sleeves showing off corded forearms and swirling tats, the combed back dark hair and smattering of jaw stubble—his look is a sexual hazard . . . and he’s getting a blow job. His pants are pulled down, hugging and straining around his thick thighs. He’s also thrusting—causing the woman’s head to thud against the wall.

  He hasn’t spotted me because his eyes are closed. My pulse takes flight when he hisses. It’s so indecent to watch, but I can’t stop. The sight of his pleasure—his head tossed back while deep moans echo in the air—is my pleasure. My core throbs and my fingers are snaking down toward the button of my jeans. Shit. I realize what I’m doing and stop myself.

  Unwelcomed jealousy stings my sternum because like writing, I’m not that lucky in love, or lust. Maybe being green with envy that I’m not on my knees sucking him off makes me dirty, but I really don’t care.

  I venture just beyond the steps to see who the lucky lady is.

  My hand covers my mouth and I softly gasp when seeing her.

  It’s an acquaintance, Monica. Married with three kids. Attractive. A vision really. I’m not bad looking, but I’ve always been envious of the long midnight hair that vines down her back. A total contrast to my golden locks.

  I hug the bottle tight into my chest and scowl. Why not me? I’m sure Monica’s husband keeps her happy. At least that’s what she’s told me. I’m also positive my need for action is higher than hers.

  Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. Then I look up and blood stops in my veins.

  He’s staring, right at me. Two black orbs flood with what looks like a combination of lust and anger. His dark groomed brows come together, and he holds my gaze, all while thrusting and pumping in Monica’s mouth—his hand on the crown of her head, forcing himself deeper. She struggles not to gag.

  My heart batters my ribcage and I skitter backward, careful not to make a sound on the concrete floor.

  Then, he scowls. It’s dark—fearsome—and there’s maliciousness pulling on his mouth. It takes over his face as he licks his lips and moans, all while staying fixated on me, sex and hatred swirling in his eyes.

  I gulp and my knees weaken. He’s a devil. And he knows he’s bad—so bad, I’m sure he keeps a pair of horns in his closet for special occasions.

  That’s my cue. With blood ringing in my ears, I back up and leave.

  Carefully, I go up the steps, confused, as need pulsates between my thighs. It’s mixing in and battling against the anger settling in my gut. Anger stemming from the fact that the douche had the balls to stare at me.

  I shake my head on the way up. After I make it upstairs, I go to the main kitchen counter, straight to Lizzie.

  “Here.” The glass bottle thunks down on the granite. My hold around it is weak. I swallow, hearing his moan in my ears as I try to act normal. “Hopefully I picked out a good one.”

  “Ha.” She smiles wide, her bleached teeth gleaming. “All I buy are good ones.” Her long lashes cast two shadows over her thin face. “Thanks, Bianca.”

  “Sure thing.” I’m watching her undo the cork, debating if I should say anything about the sight downstairs.

  When I think of Monica and how she’s betraying her husband, I want to say something . . . but when I envision her kids, the words tangle up in my throat.

  Those poor babies.

  My big mouth could ruin their whole lives. Every time I see them at the store or church, they look happy—like really happy. Bright giggles are abundant, and toothy smiles are always latched onto their faces, and they hug to Monica’s side at all times.

  I frown. I had none of that. Not even the smiles. For that reason, I’m leaving this alone. I’ll hate myself forever if those kids lose everything because of me.

  I drop all my thoughts, observing the way Lizzie decants the wine. Part of me gets lost in the process.

  “Hey.” Lizzie’s voice commands my focus. My eyes lift and her brows are sewn together. “You look pale. Are you getting another headache?”

  “Eh.” I hug my arms around my middle. “I’ve had one for a while.”

  Deep blue eyes widen and she sets down the bottle. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry.” Coming around the counter, she rubs my arm. “Why didn’t you say something? I wouldn’t have asked you to come.”

  My stomach flips at the sympathy. This is exactly why I stopped mentioning my headaches to begin with. I hate it when people make a fuss. My shoulders lift then flop back down. “It’s not a big deal—”

  “No, don’t say that.” She frowns. “It’s a huge deal. I know how awful they can be for you.” Propping her elbows on the counter, she looks deep into my eyes. “Have you made that appointment yet?”

  “No. No, I haven’t, Lizzie.”

  She sighs. I can barely hear it over the crowd, but it’s there. “Bianca. Really. I don’t want to push, but this is serious. You need to find out what’s happening.”

  “I know what’s happening.” My voice and gut bristle with irritation. “I can’t sell anything and I’m stressed. Once I stop being a failure and make sales again, I’ll be fine.”

  “Whatever you say.” I see the disappointment brewing in her tight gaze. “But if these headaches don’t leave after your next book is a smash hit, I’m taking you to a specialist myself.”

  “Fair enough.” Not really. However, arguing with my friend during her party isn’t what I came for. I can refuse her help later. In private.

  “Go home.” Her words are soft. “You look exhausted. I’ll feel better if you go home and rest.”

  I shake my head, my spine stiffening in defiance. “I’m fine. I––”

  Out of nowhere, I catch the basement door opening. Crap. My heart trombones to my throat when Sin walks out.

  I must have been too disoriented to notice before, but he’s tall—a good head or two above the crowd, doing anything except blending in. His eyes narrow, and dart around. They land on me and he pushes through the crowd, looking at me like he’s plotting my death.

  Crap. No. Talking to him right now would be too much, too soon, and he doesn’t seem pleased with me. I turn my back toward him and quickly slink past Lizzie. “I think you’re right. Good night.” I try to smile. “Thanks for having me.”

  “Anytime. Feel better.”

  Departing the opposite way he’s walking, I don’t respond. Thank goodn
ess this is an open kitchen with multiple routes. It’s my saving grace tonight.

  I leave, dodging what I feel is a bombshell of disaster.

  When I get home, bed is my destination.

  But I don’t sleep.

  Alone, and bothered with the need for sex roiling in my blood, I slip my hand under the waistband of my silk night shorts and pleasure myself.

  I pleasure myself to him. To Sin.

  The night is spent fantasizing about two dark eyes and the melody of a gruff voice. When I release, I’m frightened by the danger I saw in him, but also yearning to experience it for myself.

  I’d never admit it to anyone, but for once, I’d like a bad boy to own me. I just don’t want him to keep me.

  Chapter 2

  “Eh, I don’t know.” Retrieving my mug, I recline into my chair at Tanka’s Tea and Coffee.

  My friends, Lizzie and Cora, are here too, per usual.

  I love them both. They couldn’t look any different from each other. Lizzie dons the soft look of an angel, everything about her light and refined. It contrasts with Cora’s dark goth look. Black clothing from head to toe with a short bob sporting an undercut. Outward differences aside, these girls are my tribe and together they form a special type of super glue. It bonds the cracks in my soul. I’d be nothing without them. We’ve been meeting up every Saturday morning for tea and coffee for as long as I can remember.

  “Don’t shut out the idea, Bianca.” Lizzie circles one of her long nails across the table top. “I think it will be good for you. You deserve a break.”

  I look at Lizzie and can’t help but smile. She’s always thinking of me. All those posts about women helping women, adjusting their crooked crowns without telling the world? That’s Eliza Morgan.

  We met at the grocery store when I came to Copperslane, Washington ten years ago.

  Copperslane is the biggest small town I’ve ever graced. It sprawls itself large, but you’d never know this is a decent sized town thanks to the serious side of cozy it dishes up. I visited because of its picture book aesthetics, I stayed because of people like Lizzie.