by Holt, Leah
CHAINED
A BAD BOY ROMANCE
Leah Holt
USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Nora Flite
Copyright © 2015 Leah Holt & Nora Flite
All rights reserved. CHAINED: A BAD BOY ROMANCE is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Chained: A Bad Boy Romance
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Connect with Leah!
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A Preview of my Future
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
Epilogue
About Leah Holt
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Last of the Bad Boys
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A Preview of my Future
I didn't get one more step past the table before his left hand circled around my wrist.
He pulled me in towards him, our eyes locking on each other. Not a word was uttered between us, he wrapped his arm around my waist. I'm so close to him, I can smell his scent. His hand is warmer and softer than I expected.
Oh god, I've wanted this so badly.
I knew it was wrong, that I should pull away, but I didn't want to stop him.
His body shifted slightly in his chair, he was still restrained by the chains. My stomach filled with knots, my arms hung lifeless, unsure of what to do.
Without clear thought I stepped over the chain that divided our bodies. I broke the barrier that shielded us.
I stood between him and the table, our gaze fixated on each other. His right hand slid from below my knee and up my thigh. Firmly, he grabbed my ass then proceeded up. He continued to follow the curves of my body over my hips. A finger traced the outline of my breast and stopped at my neck.
Keep going, don't stop.
I became malleable in his hands. I wanted this more than I had realized. It felt right, a desire worth fulfilling. I couldn't stop myself anymore.
His forearms were strong, I could see the detail of his tattoos; a colorful image of a large grandfather clock with elegant curved edges across the top, the gold in the hands appeared to glimmer under the light. There was script that wrapped around the sides and across the front that read, “Time heals everything.” It was beautiful.
I continued to touch his muscular arms, my fingers gripped them firmly as our breathing became heavier. He stared into my eyes while his hand stretched as far as it could go with the chains.
With force he entangled his fingers in my hair and pulled me down onto his lap. Our foreheads touched while neither of us released a blink.
The intensity of his stare sent goosebumps across my skin. His hand rested around my waist, the other gripped my hair tighter, pulling our faces closer together. The warmth of his breath spread across my cheeks.
My heart raced as his lips parted, not saying a single word.
Chapter One
Charlie
I could feel his eyes trolling every curve of my breasts down to my hips. Those eyes were black, piercing; darker in person than when I'd watched his trial on television.
A killer before me about to be set free, it made me shiver inside.
Intimidated. That was not a word I was used to feeling, but his presence went beyond just his physical being sitting in the worn chair across from me. He could be felt, a certain intensity filled the air.
Owen Jenkins had entered the prison system at the tender age of eighteen. Now, ten years later, he was about to cross back into the real world.
And I was supposed to help him.
His hands were shackled to the table, two feet of chain was all the range he had. My eyes followed the muscular structure of his arms, each curve flowed seamlessly to the next. Ink sheathed the flesh of his forearms, and I wondered to myself if he'd come in with the tattoos, or if they were gained during his time here.
I noticed how even beyond the orange jumpsuit his chest was slightly distended, a common habit for people behind bars. This was a way of saying “I'm in charge.” My experiences at the women's correctional facility down south had taught me this was a tactic for survival.
Without it, you'd be eaten alive.
I'd expected the confidence he displayed; his head held high, his shoulders drawn back as if being pulled by imaginary strings, a marionette to the world he lived in.
I felt mesmerized for a moment, unable to look away. He had an alluring magnetism that caused flutters deep inside me.
I wanted to look away, to scan the concrete walls surrounding us, but I knew as his therapist I had to maintain control of myself. I didn't want him to think he was smelling fear. I needed to dig into my training, use my years of experience to read him and figure out what he was thinking.
That was why warden Lynch had requested me. My notoriety for rehabilitating others had brought me here. But beyond that, I'd felt compelled to take this case; it was a challenge, and that's one thing I love.
I always ask myself before I dive into a new patient:
What happened in your life that made you choose wrong instead of right?
There was always a reason and now, in arms reach of a killer, this question plagued me more than ever.
I was entranced by him. That olive tone skin and strong jaw line, hair as black as his pupils that fell weightlessly across his forehead. He brought a hand up and brushed it away from his eyes.
He's so handsome, I can't stop staring at him.
Get a grip, he's a patient, Charlie.
I watched his eyes flutter from side to side, but they never looked away from me. He seemed to be trying to figure me out. I was sure he wanted to know what I would ask him.
All of my clients try to imagine what questions will come their way. Picture yourself before a test, not sure what's on it and if you know the right answer. This was the same; except here, there was no right answer.
It didn't matter what I wanted to hear, all that mattered was what was said.
I rested the cold metal of my pen against my lips, trying to push my nerves deep down so I could understand how to approach him.
“Mr. Jenkins, I'm Charlie Laroche...” The words had hardly left my lips when he interrupted.
&
nbsp; “I know who you are,” he said.
The deep, ominous tone of his voice hit my body, sending chills over my spine.
Shake it off. Control, get control of yourself.
Immediately, I knew I had to be assertive with him. “Then you know why you're here. That saves me some trouble.” I was not going to let him think he could intimidate me. I leaned back in my chair, trying to appear relaxed and unnerved.
He may be the first male prisoner I've ever worked with, but this wasn't my first rodeo.
Owen sat with closed fists, his breathing slightly heavy. Our eyes were locked on each other, and yet I felt as though he was looking through me, his mind wandering, avoiding any real connection.
Then he turned his head up and inhaled deeply, his lip curled slightly up on one side.
My pulse jumped.
Am I the first the woman he's laid eyes on in years? Can he smell my perfume? The thought gave me goosebumps. I shifted uncomfortably, my muscles twinging from the thrills.
The energy emitted from him was enough to fill the silence. The light from above gleamed across his brow and I could see small beads of sweat forming.
He's nervous too. Why? Is it me? Do I make him uneasy? I needed to get back to why we were here. I released a slow, subtle breath to try and ground myself. Finally, I said, “I'm sure you know that I read your file. Pretty soon you'll be walking free, that must make you excited. So, let's make our time here worth while. You're part of the new rehabilitation program here for young adults. How do you feel things have gone for you?”
I wanted to know what he felt and thought. I searched his blank expression for something, anything, to guide our conversation towards. You can't hit the tough questions first, always start off light. Too much too soon can close a patient off completely.
Owen sat so utterly still. I looked for a twitch, a double blink, anything.
Years of incarceration will either break you or numb you. A prisoner from my old workplace once told me that. Owen was going to be either damaged or shut off. Maintaining some sort of sanity in this environment took strength.
Had Owen been strong enough?
“Well,” I asked again, prodding him. “How do you feel?”
His voice was tight. “It's been a long time coming, I deserve my freedom. How do you think I feel?”
He wanted control, to ask and not be asked. His answer, though short, gave me a little insight. He was ready to leave and expected to be set free.
A caged animal released into the public can be a dangerous thing.
That's why I'm here.
“If I were you,” I said, “I'd be excited and antsy. You must have more to say about it than that. I'm listening, so, talk to me.”
Owen jerked his hands slightly. On reflex, my insides jumped. His head tilted to the right and his words muffled out. “Yes, I'm ready for this. I need this. I deserve this. I did my time and completed all their programs and shit, this is the end to a long nightmare.” His fingers opened as he spoke, the lines across his forehead lifting. I could see his shoulders slump, a mere trickle of exhaustion setting in.
Finally, I thought with relief, Some answers. Talking to this guy is like pulling teeth.
If my report was going to help with his freedom, I needed to get him to trust me and open up. This was a start. “You say you're ready for this, what makes you feel that way?” I asked.
“I don't know, I just feel ready.” He broke the bond between our eyes, glancing around rapidly.
Oddly, now that I wasn't the target of his gaze, I wanted it back. A piece of me wanted to tell him this. Luckily, I'm not crazy. But why the hell was I thinking like this?
He's a convict, a killer! Was that it? The allure of danger? I'd never meet a man like Owen just anywhere. I tried to picture him doing normal things, like grocery shopping, and had to smother a smile.
Shaking off my distraction, I said, “The prison helped you learn a trade skill, tell me what you picked. What grasped your interest?”
“Automotive.” His stare flashed back to me, turning my blood warm. His voice was clear and distinct.
Mechanics, a smart decision. There are always places willing to hire a convict for the extra tax break that comes with it. “Good choice. What caught your eye about that one?” I was trying to form an actual conversation with him. That was part of my job, it helped me understand the man.
But... my desire to learn more about him went even deeper. It was starting to make me nervous. How was this guy pulling me in so fast?
“Why are you asking me this? Isn't all that in my file you have sitting there?” he asked, gesturing with his fingers. I watched his massive hands as they moved, wondering if they would feel rough against my skin.
Focus, you need to focus. I brushed the hair from my face and adjusted my folders, trying to settle the electricity inside. “It does, but it only tells me what you chose, not why. I want you to tell me why.”
“I just like cars, always have. It was an easy pick for me.” A light crinkle set across his forehead.
I knew he wouldn't be prepared for this, for me. They never are. No one expects to be asked 'why' to things that seem so minor.
It was a little trick I'd picked up over time. Most people won't open up to someone they don't know, but if you appear to care, they will.
Something that puts me a level up from others in my profession is that I really do care.
“Did you spend time when you were younger working with cars? With your dad, or maybe your older brother?” I'd looked into his history, so I knew about what little family he had. Brice was older than Owen, but beyond that, I didn't know anything about the man.
“I had a lot of older friends who had cars. I liked watching them work on their shit boxes, trying to make them faster or just plain start up at all,” he chuckled.
I sat quietly, not breaking the lock I had on his eyes. I wanted him to continue, to give me more detail. People can only sit in uncomfortable silence for so long before needing to say something.
But, Owen didn't look uneasy at all. I felt like I was the awkward one. He was so still, his body language unreadable. Before I was able to utter my next sentence he said, “I passed the class with flying colors, so if you ever need a good mechanic, I'll work on your engine.” He smirked a bit and gave me a wink.
A hot blush crept up my neck. I know what he's trying to do. It won't work, I won't let it. He isn't going to get in my head. I felt out of my element. I didn't expect him to throw an awful pick up line my way, it took all my might to cool the apples in my cheeks.
I sat up straight and crossed my right leg over. I wanted to maintain my professionalism. Quickly, I moved to the next question I could think of. “Do you have plans for when you're free? Any job placement in line for you? Several of my other patients have friends or family ready to help when they get out.”
I had been so wrapped up in his talking, I jolted in my chair as the buzzer went off. It signaled the end to our session, it seemed to be over so quick.
Owen chuckled under his breath. I was taken back by his laughter.
He knows I'm thrown off by him.
I was angry with myself for getting taken in by the man. The way he looked at me, the deep grit in his tone... how he made my thighs squeeze under the table.
This was not how I ran my appointments.
The door opened and the guard came in to remove Owen back to his cell. I stood quickly, hitting my knee on the corner of the table. The sound echoed through the room loudly, as did my gasp.
I caught Owen's smile from the corner of my eye as I leaned over to gently rub the injury. My heart, already at its limit, began to throb faster.
Then he was gone, his broad back facing me as he was guided out into the hall. The muscles flexed under his orange uniform, rippling in spite of the baggy material.
I rested against the door frame and watched him stroll away. He turned me into a nervous klutz, I thought with frustration. How did he do that?
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I shook my head and retreated back into my office. The solid gray of the walls surrounding me felt cold. I didn't like this place. It had no windows, no warmth.
I missed my old office, it was a much better environment for my work; inviting, full of color, a place of refuge for my patients. I'd had windows for light and pictures to observe. They all found the change of scenery relaxing.
It's amazing what a little sun can do for someone's mood.
But here I was, in a new prison that was over a hundred years old. It felt like it hadn't changed since it opened. Every wall showed how impenetrable it was.
Even I felt like a trapped animal.
I need a plant in here, or something. One single spot of color would make a huge difference.
As I sat at the partially broken desk supplied to me, I gazed at the table that had just held Owen. I imagined him still there, his large, strong hands fixed in front of me. I was revisiting his presence as if I could still feel him.
Our meeting had been only half an hour, a brief meet and greet. I had also wanted to know what he thought of the program that had basically been started around him.
It was proposed that with the right support, counseling, and education, a young adult on the wrong path could blossom into a functioning member of society.
Owen was the program's guinea pig.
Gathering up my purse to head home, I hesitated. Owen haunted me, his image too easy to call up in my head. He'd looked strong, forearms that were hard as steel. Would they feel that solid? I imagined my hand running over the inked surface.
I need to stop this. What am I doing?
I shook my head, trying to push him out of my thoughts. But after my first encounter with the notorious Owen Jenkins, I wanted more. I needed more.
There was something I had to remind myself of, though.
The handsome face that had graced me today encased the mind of a murderer.
Even if he'd been found guilty on a lesser charge of manslaughter, the fact remained: he'd taken the life of another man.
He's lucky that he even has the chance to see the light of day again. Why the hell does he seem so... selfish about it? He acts like the world owes him his freedom.