Praise for Sophie Jackson’s A Pound of Flesh Series
LOVE AND ALWAYS
“A quick, sweet, sexy, and heartfelt read.”
—Literati Literature Lovers
“The perfect continuation to what happens [in] A Pound of Flesh. This is a must-add to your Sophie Jackson collection!”
—The Novel Tease
A POUND OF FLESH
“Fantastic read!”
—Heroes and Heartbreakers
“Sophie Jackson created a story I will never forget.”
—The Literary Gossip
“Sophie Jackson is definitely an author to keep on your radar! Fantastic first novel!”
—Two Classy Chics
“For her debut novel Sophie hit it right out of the park. I loved this book. All of it, start to finish.”
—Naughty and Nice
“I love stories about forbidden romance, and this one completely pulled me in.”
—A Bookish Escape
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For you. Thank you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
What a ride this has been, and it wouldn’t have been at all possible without an amazing team behind me. To Micki and Louise and Simon & Schuster, and to Kate and Jo from Headline Eternal, I am forever in your debt. Thank you for all of your hard work and patience.
Special thanks to Lorella, the most amazing agent a girl could ask for. Thank you for your understanding, encouragement, and unending belief in me and my words. I’m not only a better writer but a better person because of you. Here’s to the next adventure!
Thank you to my family—I love you—my friends—your support is awesome—and everyone who has ever picked up one of my books. It means the world.
My heart is and always will be yours.
—Jane Austen
PROLOGUE
He was eight years old when he first saw her.
He stood, captivated, bicycle resting between his legs, as her family unloaded boxes from a U-Haul van outside a house down the street from his school. She twirled on the front lawn. Her blonde hair—sticking out from the sides of her head in pigtails—reached out like two helicopter blades as she whirled. She wore denim shorts, pink jelly shoes, and an even pinker T-shirt with a rainbow emblazoned on the front. She leaped and jumped, sang and laughed in the hot sun. She didn’t have a care in the world.
And she was just about the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.
Looking back, he was pretty sure he fell in love with her that day. She was light, brightly colored, exciting, and new. She was laughter on summer days and adventures after school. Even though his brothers teased him mercilessly, he and the girl became fast friends, riding together on their bikes. The girl even had a skateboard, which she showed him how to ride. She climbed trees, threw rocks at dilapidated buildings, and stole candy from a shop because he dared her to.
She was the coolest thing ever.
They grew up together, fell out together, made up together, and shared their first kiss together when they were fourteen, when he realized he liked her in ways that made his body feel funny. She wasn’t just his best friend anymore—she was something more, something he thought about when he was alone and his brother urged him to look at pictures in the magazines his mother had warned him about.
It was on her seventeenth birthday when he finally showed her just what she meant to him. In his truck bed filled with covers and pillows, he slipped into her under the stars, whispering his love for her, promising her that it would never stop. That he would always feel that way about her. That there would never be anyone else for him. She was all he needed, all he would ever want.
With their whole lives ahead of them, naked and panting in the summer air, clinging to one another, they had no idea that, despite their promises, life had other plans.
1
“Harder! Oh God, fuck me harder!”
Riley Moore grinned as he gripped the slim calves resting against his shoulders. “Not God.” He pounded into her just as she’d asked, hard and powerful. “Just me.”
Dammit, he needed this.
“Oh yes! Give it to me!”
Her hair splayed like a giant black puddle across his pillow as her back arched and she began clenching around him, milking him in such a way that with three more deep, solid thrusts, he came with a loud grunt. He collapsed onto her, panting and gasping into her neck and the sweat collected by her collarbone.
“Holy shit, Moore,” she gasped as her legs flopped back down to the bed. She placed a hand between her breasts and shook her head. “You need to call me more often, honey.” She patted him on the back of the head.
“Right back at ya,” Riley replied, lifting his head and removing himself from her body.
He pulled off the condom and threw it in the trash, before tossing a towel toward the breathless woman splayed across his bed. He watched her wipe her body down from her neck to between her legs. Carla was damned nice to look at and she gave head like a fucking vacuum, but that’s where their relationship ended. The sex-based arrangement they’d had for months worked for them both.
Riley smirked while he pissed into the toilet basin, the post-coital glow wrapping around him like a warm hug. He flushed the john, washed his hands, and walked his naked ass back into his room. He nodded in appreciation when he saw Carla was already half dressed, fastening her bra. The zero emotional hurdles between them pleased Riley no end. She pulled on her white blouse and checked her makeup in a small hand mirror, touching the red marks Riley’s rough whiskers had left on her neck.
She side-eyed him accusingly and he shrugged in reply. She loved it. Most of the women who came to his bed did. Some even asked him to mark them, which he did without thought. It was sexy as hell to see his lust etched across his lovers.
He picked up his jeans from where Carla had yanked them off at the bedroom door and slipped them on, leaving them unfastened. Fluffing up her hair as she meandered past him, Carla headed toward her purse sitting on his side table. She pulled out her cell and pressed a couple of buttons, frowning.
“I gotta go,” she said, casually throwing the phone back into the depths of her bag. “Work beckons.”
Riley nodded, checking out her legs wrapped in a knee-length pencil skirt. Lord, she had great legs. The rest of her attire was all dull business. Riley wondered fleetingly how many other men had experienced the wild woman who lurked underneath the conservative outfit. Who knew accountants could be so much fun? Carla turned to Riley, who was leaning nonchalantly against the wall behind her, and let her index finger sneak down the center of his still-damp chest.
“Thanks again, Handsome,” she purred before kissing the side of his mouth. “Best lunch date I’ve had for a while. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”
“I’m sure you will,” he replied with a wink. She smiled and, with one last flick of her hair, she left. Riley chuckled to himself before going back to the bathroom to wash off the scent of sex that covered every inch of his skin.
Within a half hour, he was back at O’Hare’s Body Shop working under a sweet 1965 Ford Galaxie, basking in the loud banging rock music of Guns N’ Roses and the contentment he always felt when he worked. He loved working with the vehicles that came into the shop—he always had since he was introduced to his first engine at the age of ten by his father. He’d learned everything there was to know about cars from his dad, who’d made his trade buyi
ng classics, tuning them up, and reselling them. Riley was the only one of Park Moore’s four boys who’d ever showed any interest in the business and Park did his best to prime him to take it over, including paying for Riley’s business degree at NYU.
Not that that shit had worked out.
Riley sighed and picked up a socket wrench, refusing to allow his tenuous relationship with his father to piss on his parade. Besides, he had only his own dumb ass to blame for it. Fifth-degree criminal possession of stolen property and a sentence of eighteen months inside Arthur Kill Correctional Facility killed all of Park’s hopes for Riley’s business future. That rap sheet wasn’t gonna go anywhere fast.
“Yo, Moore, you under there?”
Riley smiled at the frantic sound of Max O’Hare’s voice. “Yeah, man, what you want?”
A pair of boots appeared by the side of the car at Riley’s ankles. “Need you to go through these receipts with me, dude. I’m about to go fucking cross-eyed.”
Riley laughed and stopped what he was doing, using his feet to move the roller board out from under the car. Blinking at the bright lights above him, he looked up at Max, who appeared totally frazzled.
“Math isn’t my thing,” Max grumbled, wafting a handful of papers at Riley’s nose. “Help.”
Riley snorted and pushed himself to his feet, taking the papers from his friend. “Sure thing.”
Max had inherited O’Hare’s after his father died. Running the business had worked for a while, but a little over a year and a half ago, Max was admitted into rehab for his drug addiction. It had been a bleak-ass time, but while Max was getting healthy, Riley, along with financial help from their good friend Carter, had taken the helm of O’Hare’s, making sure the place continued to make money.
He and Max had been friends for almost a decade, and helping his buddy was the least Riley could do. After Max came home, the two men decided to combine their business and vehicular knowledge and go into that shit together, with Carter eager to invest financially. Before his stretch inside, having been a graduate of NYU for less than two years, Riley had owned his own small but thriving auto shop business on the other side of the city. Understandably, he’d lost a lot of clientele after his time at Arthur Kill, forcing him to make the decision to close up and sell. He’d used the money to pay off his apartment and all his outstanding debts—not least of all the one owed to his father, who’d footed his hundred-thousand-dollar college fee. It had killed Riley to give up his business like that, but he’d been left with little choice.
He was desperate to get back into the game, and partnering with Max was the perfect solution.
Max was of the same mind, but now that he divided his time between West Virginia and New York, he’d given over most of the administrative responsibilities to Riley, which Riley was more than happy to take over. People often regarded him as nothing more than a tattooed, muscle-headed womanizer—which was partly true. But despite outward appearances, Riley was smart, and the only thing he loved more than women and engines was numbers.
“You ready for tonight?” he asked Max as they entered the office.
“Paintballing?” Max said, shutting the door behind him. “Baby, I was born fucking ready.” He cracked his knuckles. “Prepare to get your ass handed to you.”
Riley laughed and dropped into the seat behind the large wooden desk. “You do know my brother is bringing three of his old Marine buddies, right? I’m not sure it’ll be just my ass.”
Max waved him off. “Whatever, man. As long as they aim the hell away from my junk, I’m good.”
Riley cocked an eyebrow. “They’re Marines. They only ever shoot for the balls.”
They both chuckled. It warmed Riley to see Max so relaxed and happy. It hadn’t always been that way. Max worked hard every day to stay clean and sober, but his woman, Grace, had given him a new lease on life. And Riley couldn’t be happier for them. Of all his friends, Riley had always believed it was Max who deserved happiness the most.
Shit, the past year had brought some major changes to the group of friends with whom Riley surrounded himself. Carter had been married for almost twelve months and, despite a couple of shaky moments at the beginning of the marriage, he seemed more loved up than ever. Then there was Max all content and shit, and the guys in the shop who constantly talked about their women and kids.
Riley supposed it was what happened when a man and his crew were knocking on the door of thirty—shit changed and people grew up. But Riley wasn’t convinced he would ever achieve the latter, no matter how old he was. Nevertheless, even with Riley happily throwing himself into work or calling his usual list of ass whenever he felt the need, more often than not, over the past year, he’d found himself wondering what it would be like to finally settle down.
His parents had been happily married for over thirty-five years, with four kids, so the idea of committing to someone wasn’t something that Riley shied away from. In fact, it was something he’d first thought about when he was eight years old . . .
“So what do you think?”
Riley looked up to see that Max had taken the seat on the other side of the desk, looking anxiously at the receipts Riley had been staring at but not paying any attention to. He didn’t have a fucking clue what they said. He rubbed a hand across his bearded chin and smiled anyway. “Things are good, man. Don’t worry.”
Max narrowed his eyes. “You sure?” He sat back. “You sure everything’s good?”
Riley recognized that tone. Every once in a while Max would pull it out and needle Riley with it. It was Riley’s own fault. He’d made some stupid comment a while back, when Max was pining for Grace, about losing love or some other bullshit and Max had, for whatever reason, gripped onto it.
It was only because his friend was worried, but Riley didn’t want to talk about his past, even though the dream he’d had the night before—detailing in delicious innocence the first time he’d seen her, all blonde pigtails and pink clothes—was still niggling at the back of his mind. It was weird. He hadn’t had a dream like that for a while, and it had been the catalyst for his calling Carla for a lunchtime quickie—a fleeting balm to the regret that still rippled through him.
He cleared his throat as images of that same beautiful blonde girl danced over the figures printed on the paper in his hands, coaxing out memories Riley tried his damnedest to keep locked away.
Lexie.
No, he silently chastised himself, that’s just what that shit was: the past. And there was no changing that fucker no matter how much Riley wished otherwise.
“Everything’s great,” Riley said, spreading out the receipts.
Riley wasn’t a liar. It was the truth. Everything was great. He was working hard. He had great friends and women to warm his bed every night if he wanted, all while living in a city he loved. What was there to be miserable about?
“Stop,” Riley commented, his gaze still on the papers. “I can hear your mind whirring from here.”
Max snorted and crossed his arms. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”
Riley glanced up. “I will.” He focused back on the receipts.
“So you were a little late back from lunch,” Max pointed out in a nonchalant tone, clearly trying a different tactic. “Who was she?”
Riley barked a laugh and shook his head. “What makes you think there was a she?”
“Because you’re like Obi-Wan Kenobi with women.”
“Dude,” Riley chastised with a frown, looking up. “Please. I’m Han Solo.”
“Whatever.” Max waved a hand. “So who was it?”
Riley sighed, resigned to the fact that he knew his friend too well to assume he would let it go. “Carla.”
Max’s eyebrows jumped. “The one with the legs? The accountant?”
Riley scratched the back of his neck with the end of the pen he’d picked up off the desk. “Yup.”
Max sat back in his seat. “Nice. She’s hot.”
Yes, she most definitely was. And a g
reat lay. But as good as it had been, the slight tension that had resided in his shoulders since he’d woken from that damned dream was still there. She twirled and laughed, colors whirling, blonde hair shining. Riley felt the beginnings of a smile pull at his lips with the memory of those godforsaken pink jelly shoes Lexie had worn that entire summer. Jesus. He rubbed a finger across his brow. They’d been eight years old, with no clue as to what life had in store for them.
And wasn’t that sad?
Riley didn’t even know where she lived or if she’d stayed in Michigan, where they’d met. At least that was the last place he’d seen her when he’d attended his parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary party five years ago.
Once he’d returned to New York, in honor of Lexie’s adamant request that he stay away and not speak to her ever again, he’d resorted to pumping old friends for information about her, but that shit had gotten old for them real fast. Since the night Riley had left her crying on her mother’s front porch, he had no right to wonder or worry about Lexie Pierce.
He’d burned those bridges, and Lord knew they were beyond rebuilding. Too much had been said and done. He’d fucked up too many times, made bad choices, and hurt those he loved most.
Besides, Riley scoffed under his breath, finally focusing on the numbers in front of him, the only time a guy won the woman he’d loved for twenty-one years was in those awful chick flicks his mother used to watch.
· · ·
“Jesus fucking Christ, I think you broke my rib!” Carter lifted his T-shirt for the hundredth time, showing off the circular deep black bruise that was growing nicely under his left nipple. “See what they did to me?” he exclaimed to the waitress pouring ice water into Tate’s glass. She laughed lightly and shook her head before leaving the table.
The bruise was a result of one of Riley’s leaping-through-the-air, Will-Smith-in-Bad-Boys–style shots from his paintball gun. It had been awesome, and Carter had been whining about it for nearly three hours. It looked painful as all hell. Riley was still laughing.
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