Speak (The Voice trilogy Book 2)

by Noelle Bodhaine

  Speak

  noelle bodhaine

  Copyright © Noelle Bodhaine 2014

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US

  Copyright Act of 1976, no part may be reproduced, distributed,

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, stored in a database,

  retrieval system, without prior written permission of the

  publisher.

  Authors Note: All events and people described in this

  story are fictional and a product of the writer’s imagination. This

  is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or

  dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  Naughty Nellies Pervy Press

  ISBN-13: 978-0692352939 (Custom)

  ISBN-10: 0692352937

  Gratitude:

  Thank you to Colleen!

  Without you none of this would have come to fruition, I truly believe that. You are like my guardian angel, my own personal cheerleader, my moral compass and anchor in reality! I could not have pulled this together without you. So much happens behind just the writing of a book and thank God I found someone who is willing, nay enthusiastic to do all of those things! Every word I write, you read ten times over, every question I have, you find the

  answer. You are my right hand and I would not want to do this without you!

  Thank you to my street team Nellie’s Naughty Nymphs!

  Without the support of such amazing women, I would have no visibility. It is their unwavering support, their stellar reviews, relentless pimping, killer teasers and wicked humor that has kept me sane and writing, and for it all I am eternally grateful.

  Being an independent author is not easy and can be a lonely place. I have had the great fortune of meeting some amazing, talented people through this journey and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to tell you all about a few of them. I am honored to share my pages with three very talented individuals that I urge you to watch for.

  Thank You to the Poet Darcy for contributing two beautiful poems that fit Rhys and Sophie just so perfectly.

  Thank you to JL Sins for sharing an excerpt from her upcoming book Saving Alexia

  Thank you to Alexandria Sure for sharing an excerpt from her upcoming release Before Him Comes Me

  I have been so humbled by the response to Whisper and look

  forward to sharing Speak with you. Please enjoy as Sophie finds her voice and Rhys begins to speak.

  Contributors:

  Edited by Colleen LeHew Lee

  Formatted by Noelle Bodhaine and Colleen LeHew Lee

  Cover Design by Noelle Bodhaine and C & S Lee

  SPEAK

  noelle bodhaine

  You

  If you trust in me – my devotion to you

  I could then reach in – to the heart of you

  Find the shards – that left scars in you

  Kiss them hard – they’d be rid of you

  Then that’s a love – so worthy of you

  ~ Darcy

  ~ Darcy

  Prologue

  Three weeks ago I allowed my heart to get broken. I will not make the mistake again. I knew better. But I let myself get swept away, in a moment that lasted too long. I saw only what I wanted, blinded myself to the reality of my place in his world. I was swept up in the force of nature that is Rhys Slate.

  Note to self: a society wedding is no place to begin a relationship. There is a reason why the thought of the best man and a bridesmaid is such a cliché, because it is just that, a terrible cliché. How I convinced myself that it could have been anything else is beyond me. I was possessed and defenseless. The way Rhys so effortlessly swept me off of my feet. I think I forgot what it felt like to walk on solid ground, terra firma. I was floating high above it all, wrapped in his strong arms, hypnotized by his sweet words. Ugh. The thought makes me cringe. How easily I folded, how easily he fooled me. But my feet are firmly planted now. Yet even as the numbing anger settles over me, I can still be rocked by tremors that ring from his fingerprints. They are tattooed all over my body, little reminders of how amazing he could make me feel. How thoroughly he rocked my foundations, and how he branded me with his body.

  ***

  “Sophie, are you alright?” I am pulled from my shock by the strained note in Mary’s voice. I snap my neck up and look her dead in the eyes, willing myself not to crack. “Should I not have shown you that?” she asks meekly, trying to pry the photo from my white knuckled grip.

  “Um…” I am lost, trapped in my head for a moment that drags. Pondering, creating, grasping for any good reason why he would have been with her and not said anything. Thursday, my first night home. He sent me flowers, gardenias. Bile rises in the back of my throat, but I push it back, determined to make it out of here with my dignity and emotions intact. I smile at Mary, as genuinely as I can muster, but she is no fool.

  “I’m sorry, Sweetie.” She pats my hands, pity welling in her dull blue eyes.

  “It’s fine,” I lie. “It was a few days, right? It’s not a big deal. I haven’t even seen him since then anyhow.” Why was I lying? Self-preservation maybe, I don’t know. I just wanted to get out as fast as I could. I needed to be home so I could sort the details and play it all out. I needed to get away from Mary and the pity party she was preparing in my honor. “I am going to finish up at home, OK? Can I take a rain check on lunch?” I ask, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. I missed the mark totally, by the look on her face. I feel frantic, packing up my things, but I cannot get out of here fast enough. I stop, take a deep breath, smooth my skirt and take Mary’s hands in mine. “I am fine, really. It is no big deal. I am just so tired, I had a long night. I really want to go home.” She takes me at face value, at least it seems that way. “Send me the link to that article and I will work on it at home.” I hug her; grab my purse and turn to go, repeating, “Send me that link.”

  Moving through shadows in my apartment, I make a beeline to my bedroom. I promised him I wouldn’t come back here. But promises mean nothing. I don’t know why, but I shut the door behind me, as if to hide some secret, my secretly breaking heart perhaps. I check the window, making sure it is still locked. Climbing on the bed, I fold my legs beneath me and lean heavily on the pillows at my back. This is going to hurt. I open the waiting message from Mary. There it is, the link to my truth. The truth that I have known all along, yet I allowed myself to subscribe to the lie. I am a lie junkie.

  Maybe I am overreacting. I slide my finger over the link, and their picture springs to life, practically leaping off the extra large screen, Nadja and Rhys. She stares back at me, her dark eyes and perfect pout mocking every inch of my averageness. And he looks so carefree, so happy, like he does in all the pictures I have seen of him, pictures with other women. What made me think that I mattered to him? Maybe the fact that he said I did. He showed up here, like a white knight. He rescued me from my ex, who was out for blood. He did that. He saved me from Collin, if he and Charlie hadn’t showed…. I cannot even fully form the thought. The terrifying thought of what might have happened if he hadn’t come. Come unannounced and uninvited. Of course, he wasn’t here to rescue me. He was here for a fuck. The thought stings in my head, but rings true. That is what this has always been. Sex. I stare down at the picture until it blurs and swirls in a deluge of uninvited tears. I swipe them away violently, pulling at the delicate skin around my eyes. I tug, and rub, willing the tears to stop when my phone comes to life, the bell tolling for me, a message from Rhys.

  I have been thinking about you all day…

  I stare at the words and they are hollow. Every second that passes makes those words a bigger
lie and a massive insult. The slow simmering anger and sense of betrayal bubbles until it boils over. Deafening white noise roars in my ears, humming over any rational thoughts that may be fighting for supremacy. I am livid, devastated, sad. Livid feels good, the anger fits like a warm coat I can wrap around myself, protection against a cold snap. I choose to focus on the anger, anger at being deceived again, anger at being used again, anger at myself for surrendering so easily. I look down on the words again, but this time all I see is a lie, a lie from a skilled liar. I forward the link to Rhys, no message, no bait.

  Watching the ticker swirl until the message has been sent, I stare at the phone. A simple piece of technology, a gift from Rhys, a bridge, he built that flimsy bridge so he could stay in my life. A line to another woman he could use for his own end. Well, I am not that submissive fool that he had, time and time again in Miami. And he has himself to thank for that. I will not be lied to or made a fool of. I am stronger, smarter and out for myself. He has created a monster that he just turned on himself. I stare at the phone, at the message that mocks me. He held me, told me I was better than that. Why did I trust him? Because I was blinded, that’s why, by his prowess, his silky words, his body.

  Everything changed when he showed up and beat the shit out of Collin. A fundamental shift, a fling turned something more. I told him things I wanted nobody to know. Things I would deny until my dying day, things that paint my soul with the brush of shame and self-loathing. Anger grows deep in my chest, blooming into a thorny, blood-red rose. I will not be a toy. I am going to burn that bridge to the ground! Taking a page from Rhys’ book, I dismantle the phone that he gave me, tearing the battery from the back and drop the pieces of his burning bridge onto the bed.

  I watch the now quiet, broken technology lay lifeless on the duvet and know that one day I will thank him. Thank him for showing me things about myself I may never have known. But mostly for showing his true colors before my heart got too tangled to escape. What a difference a day makes. This morning, I woke with a glow, feeling safe and hopeful. Tonight I lay alone, in an empty bed, a dark pit growing in my belly, a pit where I will put him and never let him out. I drop the two empty pieces of the phone into my night stand and sit in self-imposed silence, in a purgatory of my own making.

  The haste of a broken phone leaves a sour taste in my mouth. But I cannot talk to him, cannot give him a chance to lie his way out of this picture, the write up. My stomach lurches into my throat. The write up, Powerhouse couple…Society fixture….Wedding Bells…. The words play over in my head, a haunting ticker that keeps coming back around. What was I thinking? How could I have believed that I belonged with him? Belonged, or had even earned a pass into his world, his life. Clearly I was never a part of his life. I was a toy, easily discarded as soon as the shine wore off. Who am I kidding? It was four days in Miami. Four sex-filled days with a man I hardly knew. How did I convince myself that it was anything other than that? I knew when Nadja showed up at the house on Biscayne that something wasn’t right. But I pushed it down. I didn’t listen to myself. It was all supposed to be so casual.

  Anger shifts from Rhys to me. I turn it on myself and the rock solidifies in my gut immediately. I am to blame. I opened the cage. I knew he was trouble from moment one, knew he was out of my league. He is a powerful, wild, rare tiger, with an insatiable appetite. I am an average little field mouse. I opened the cage and walked right in, locked the door behind me, offered myself up on a silver platter, a sweet little meal that he didn’t even have to work for, a small forgettable morsel.

  Chapter 1

  “God Damn It!”

  “What is it, Son? Must be serious to call upon God.”

  “Sorry, Da, just a complication. Have you looked over the financials for Viktor? I am anxious to get this done. Nadja is becoming something of a liability.”

  “I have, Son, I trust your instincts. If you need to pass it on to your team to wrap it up, then by all means, do so. We have done all we can for him. He dug himself this hole. You owe Viktor nothing.” He runs his finger along the rim of his scotch, a habit he has fostered since I can remember. He is waiting, waiting for me to volunteer more information. Tossing back the last finger of scotch, he eyes me with a growing curiosity. “Does your complication have a name?” His fatherly stare shoots straight through me, like only he can. “Come now, Son, I know that look. I have worn that look, more times than I care to remember. Only a woman can provoke a look like that.” He is shrewd and dead on. “A man’s eyes can only be made hollow by a woman who has stolen his heart.” The burn of the scotch reaches my nostrils and I choke at his sentiment.

  “It’s not as serious as that.”

  “Isn’t it now?” He smirks and raises a knowing eyebrow. Clearing his throat, he motions to the petite waitress who stands at the end of the bar with her eyes fixed on our table. “Son, I will leave you to sort your…..complication. I have an early meeting and then I am off to Philadelphia. Check your calendar. I had Nina add a few functions, fundraisers that you and I must attend over the next month. I will see you in a few days.” He stands and commands the room, like he always has. Distinguished, handsome, rich and charismatic, my father is the only man I have ever looked up to. Even the youngest women in the room cannot help but sneak a peek at the legendary and solitary Michael Slate.

  “Good night, Da.” I look down on the page six clipping that Sophie has forwarded me and anger, deep, dark, hot anger pools in my gut. I dial Sophie and it goes straight to her voicemail.

  ***

  Quick and cold, just like that I cut him off. I cannot, will not go back. I will never again be the girl that I once was. I deserve respect. He showed me that. Now he will eat his words. As if he really cares. I suspect that he doesn’t. It was all a game to him. Hours become a day and nothing. The days stretch into a week with no sign from him in the slightest. And I know that it is over. A cold ending to something that never really was, now it never will be. Like a common thief, he stole from me, leaving nothing behind but his indelible fingerprints to haunt my memories.

  Scotch and water, scotch and water. Sleep. I have developed a taste for the rich man’s drink. One night blends into the next. One week becomes two. I pick up a second job to fill my time, cocktail duty for a high end catering outfit. And before I know it, a month has passed and I am comfortably numb. So much so that even the occasional specter of Rhys’ scent or touch doesn’t burn as it once did. At least, not to my core like it used to. Of course, it is easier to see him alone. He has been conspicuously single in every tabloid rag and paparazzi print. Ever the masochist, I find myself searching for images, a taste, a reminder. Another hit to keep the pain just below the surface, a dull niggle that I can just live with.

  His body and his lips are tattooed upon my mind, but my body has almost forgotten. Forgotten how sinfully perfect we fit together. How he could make my blood hum with the slightest brush of his fingers. Almost forgotten, I will keep telling myself that.

  Another night, another black tie event. A five thousand dollar per plate dinner and auction for Children’s Hospital. The work is tedious at best, but the tips can be ridiculously high. A sea of faceless penguin suits, glittering arm candy and more money than any reasonable person would know what to do with. I work a rich room, and my savings benefit immensely. I line my tray with crystal champagne flutes, and fill each with sparkling, golden Cristal. I have gotten good at the mindless ritual of handing out hundred dollar glasses of champagne to unaffected party goers. Able to glide through a room with casual ease, twelve glasses of bubbly excess propped upon my shoulder, roughly a thousand dollars of champagne per tray. Last weekend, I watched two bored, exquisitely beautiful young women slug down the equivalent of a monthly mortgage in champagne.

  “Sophie!” A shrill boom pulls me from my internal reverie. “Hello? Ms. Noelle, are you here?” James, in his too tight, white dinner jacket and pale gray slacks motions for my attention, snapping his pudgy fingers in front of my face. My b
oss aspires to be polished and professional, but falls short with his flaming cheeks and the shrill rupture of his voice when he gets upset. But he is a shrewd judge of a room, and a domineering brute, for such a short man. “The guests have begun to arrive. Please line up. And whatever is clouding your head, leave it at home, please.” He motions to the rest of the cocktail staff to fall in line before his boring speech about how these people are VIPs and we are to treat them as such, no fraternizing or addressing the guests, always keep your tray stocked and be receptive to any special requests. He walks down the line straightening any askew waistcoats, checking for flaws, before he sends us out into the fray. Like a well-oiled machine, we pour slowly into the ballroom in a single-file line and quickly take our cues to go left, right or center, covering every inch of the opulent room, filling every empty hand.

  In and out of the kitchen, tray after tray of champagne, I keep their hands and glasses full, never once seeing any of their faces.

  “Excuse me, young lady.” A silky voice pulls my eyes from the ground. I look upon the chiseled face of an older man, mid-fifties, maybe, very handsome, with kind green eyes. Shining silver curls top his head, faint lines around his eyes betray his obvious penchant for smiling. A slight crooked grin pulls at his full lips. He is familiar, but I know I have never seen him before. I would remember such a glaring example of a distinguished older man. He is polished, refined, yet his eyes are kinder than any others in the room. His eye contact is exact, penetrating but gentle. “Could I bother you for a scotch?” His green eyes twinkle in the dim light of the ballroom, gold flecks picking up the light of the crystal chandeliers that hang above.