Taking Her

by R. R. Banks

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  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination. Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18.

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  Title Page

  Book Description

  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

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Claiming Her (Sample)

  About the Author

  Taking Her

  R.R. Banks

  To protect her, I had to take her.

  Once a Rock god, I lived life in the fast lane,

  Sex, drugs, and rock & roll.

  I was a king. I owned this world.

  Men wanted to be me.

  Women wanted to f*ck me.

  Life was one big party until my best friend died,

  And I left it all behind.

  I found success and kept my billions.

  I was untamable, cold, and incapable of love.

  Then a twist of fate brought me Zoe.

  A raven-haired beauty with virgin curves, and luscious lips.

  I claimed her innocence and she became my new addiction.

  But some arrogant bastard thinks he owns her.

  And he’ll do whatever it takes to steal her from me.

  When it comes to Zoe and our unborn child.

  I’ll do everything to keep my family safe.

  Even if that means taking her…

  If they try and stop me, I’ll make them pay!

  Chapter One

  Connor

  The funny thing about being an addict is that you can get addicted to just about anything you put your mind to. Trust me, I know. We don't even have to try all that hard. There are, of course, the usual suspects – the alcoholics, cokeheads, meth burners, and heroin slammers, not to mention the fans and devotees of a thousand other drugs.

  But, the fact is, you can get addicted to almost anything. Gambling is a popular one. People chasing that elusive high can sometimes get off on the thrill of a big bet. But, there are other addictions you'd never think of. Really bizarre and ridiculous ones. Exercising. Stamp collecting. Fishing. Golfing. Knitting. Extreme couponing.

  Fuck me sideways if I ever let myself get addicted to anything like golf or extreme goddamn couponing. If that happens, I'll pay good money to have someone put me down like a rabid dog. At the very least, I'll ask somebody for a good and thorough ass kicking – one I'd absolutely deserve for being such a wanker.

  Like a good drug, the rush I get from being with a woman is intense. It gives me a powerful release. But, once that high is gone, it's completely gone. And, like the addict I used to be – maybe still am – I'm off to find the next high. Or, in this case, the next woman to share my bed.

  Thank the good Lord above that I don't have a problem getting women. The faint Irish brogue that still colors my voice – something I play up when necessary – never fails to make the ladies swoon. And although I might not be Calvin Klein underwear model gorgeous, I'm a pretty good-looking guy, if I do say so myself.

  Add to that, the fact that I was pretty goddamn famous for a time. Maybe my band, FUBAR, wasn't on the same plane as Metallica, but we made a pretty big footprint in the music industry in our own right.

  And oh yeah, I'm hung like a mule.

  Throw that all into the pot, simmer, stir, and what you get is a goddamn walking, talking aphrodisiac. Catnip for the masses. All of that has ensured that I have a line of eager and willing women out the door.

  They say, when it comes to addicts, we're always looking to fill some hole inside of us. And we'll fill that void with anything we can. Anything that makes us feel good. Anything that takes our minds off our shitty lives for a while. And once we use that up, we move on to the next thing that fills us.

  Yeah, it took a lot of rehab and a lot of money spent on therapists for me to eventually come up with that little nugget of wisdom.

  And when I say that women are my addiction, I'm not being metaphorical. I feel the same kinds of cravings I got back when I was slamming heroin. Just like when I was using, when those cravings strike, I'm nearly powerless to stop them from consuming me. My mind hyperfocuses on it and getting laid is all I can think about.

  Basically, if I have any intention of functioning like a normal human being, I have to find a woman willing to sate me and curb that craving.

  Although I haven't been particularly relevant in the mainstream music world for about a decade now, that little brush with fame still sends women into a frenzy and keeps me knee-deep in panties.

  Believe me, it's something I still dine out on. Having a famous name – even if you haven't been in the spotlight for a while – is still pretty fuckin' great.

  I drop down into the chair in front of the mirror and stare at myself, somehow feeling a lot older than I look. I run a hand through the light brown hair that falls to my shoulders. My green eyes are sparkling like polished jade and there's color in my cheeks.

  There's a knock at the door that pulls me out of my thoughts. A second later, it opens and one of the club's production assistants – a kid who doesn't look old enough to even drink in this club – steps in and looks around sheepishly, as if he'd expected to find me in the middle of a wild orgy or something. Little does he know that it's been years since I did anything like that.

  “Five minutes, Mister Grigson,” he says, a slight tremor in his voice.

  “Connor,” I reply. “Just Connor.”

  “Connor,” he says and smiles nervously. “Can I just say how much your music means to me? Your work with FUBAR, I mean. It was basically the soundtrack to my youth and – I mean, not that your music now is bad or anything, that's not what I mean –”

  I laugh softly and shake my head. Christ on a fuckin' cracker, I'm thirty-eight years old and yet, the way this kid is talking, you'd think I was seventy-eight. The soundtrack of his youth? I know he means well, but shit, I don't need to be made to feel older than I already do.

  “I appreciate that –”

  “Damian,” he says quickly, as if he's dying for me to know his name and hear me say it.

  “I appreciate that, Damian,” I say. “That means a lot.”

  Damian beams and looks very pleased. Good for him. We look at each other for a moment, neither of us seemingly sure what to say. Finally, he clears his throat and checks his watch.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Four minutes.”

  “Thanks, mate.”

  Damian closes th
e door behind him when he leaves, giving me a few moments of peace before I go take the stage. Gone are the days of the sold-out stadium tours and all the chaos it entailed. Music is still a much-needed outlet for me. But now, I prefer playing small clubs and more intimate settings that isn't really compatible with my old style.

  My music with FUBAR was hard, loud, and aggressive. It was angry. I used it to lash out at anybody who'd pissed me off or whatever I perceived to be some slight or injustice. Today, I like to think that my music has a message. To me, it's more personal. I write my songs because I have something to say.

  Whether or not anyone actually understands what I'm saying isn't my concern. I hope they can. But, it's just as important for me to get those thoughts and feelings out there. Let people do with my words as they will. They usually do anyway.

  I check my watch and let out a breath, feeling the first fluttering of those old, familiar butterfly wings in my belly I get right before a performance. You'd think with how often I'd been on stage, it wouldn't bother me in the least. Even now though, after all those shows and all these years, I still get nerves.

  Back in the day, I would have smoked something or taken a shot to settle my nerves before I went on. These days, a beautiful woman usually does the trick. Though I'm not going to lie, there are times when I get that urge to take a needle. When my body craves that old, familiar rush. Sometimes, that urge is almost overwhelming.

  It's a byproduct of my former lifestyle and I just have to weather the storms whenever they arise. Copious amounts of booze, drugs, debauchery, and absolute excess – such was the lifestyle of a rock and roll god. Or, at least, a rock and roll minor deity.

  It was a life though, that was unsustainable – unless I wanted to go tits up before I turned forty, anyway. Heroin damn near ruined my life. In my mate Ronnie's case, it took his. That was my wake-up call – the night we both OD'ed. I somehow survived. Ronnie didn't. To this day, I don't know why the good Lord spared me and took Ronnie instead. It doesn’t seem right. It isn’t fair.

  Of the two of us, he was the better man. He was the one who deserved to live. Not me.

  And his death is my fault.

  Chapter Two

  Zoe

  I look at the man skeptically. “So, what you're telling us, is that you wrote all of the songs for this group, uhh –”

  “FUBAR, yeah. Most every single one of 'em,” he says. “I was the creative genius behind the band. Not that those pricks ever gave me the credit I deserve.”

  I cast a quick look over at my father, who is sitting back in his seat, letting me take the lead in the questioning. His face is passive, unreadable, and I can't tell what he's thinking. The man, our prospective client, sits there in dirty, torn up jeans, a black t-shirt that's seen better days, and tennis shoes with frayed laces and holes in the sides. He's got long, dark, greasy hair shot through with gray, porcine dark eyes, and a week's worth of growth on his face.

  If I had to guess, based on the way he's sitting there twitching, I'd say he's a junkie long overdue for his next fix. And if I had to guess further, I'd say he doesn't yet know where his next fix is coming from – hence, his appearance in our office today.

  “And you can somehow prove that you were the primary songwriter?” I press. “Contracts or – something?”

  “That prick Connor kept all my notes,” he says. “I mean, I can look around and see what I have left –”

  “Actual proof to back up your claims would be helpful,” I say.

  The man glares at me, and his face reddens. I know his story is complete crap. I'd investigated him before he ever set foot in our offices – a routine practice of mine before meeting with a potential client. Nothing too deep – just a light background check.

  Though my father calls my background check unnecessary, I prefer to know who it is we're dealing with. I learned enough though, to make me believe that Hill is just trying to file a frivolous lawsuit, hoping to squeeze some money out of this Connor Grigson guy, just to make the suit go away.

  “It would be helpful, yes,” my father finally says. “But, it's not entirely necessary at this point.”

  I look at my father, my mouth agape. He's been a lawyer for almost thirty years. He, of all people, should know that proof and evidence are kind of necessary when trying to prove a case. Even I, who has only been a lawyer for a couple of years now, know that much.

  I know what this guy is doing and I'm positive my father does too. It's a shakedown. It's basically legalized extortion and is beyond shady. I let out a silent breath and count to ten in my head, reminding myself – once again – that my father knows his way around the law. He knows it inside and out in ways I don't. At least, not yet.

  And, as he's so fond of saying, he and I prove the difference between knowing the law and being able to put that knowledge to practical use. He prides himself on having the experience to do that – experience I don't have yet.

  That much is true. I can't deny it. My father knows how to work all the angles and loopholes to his best advantage. And he uses every trick in his bag to advocate for his clients.

  Which is all a nice way of saying he sometimes treads dangerously close to crossing the line between lawful, ethical behavior, and…sleaze. He has quite a bag of legal tricks, and I've seen my father bend the rules to the point of breaking, but he's never truly stepped over that line.

  Something is off. This entire situation is so unethical that it's making me physically uncomfortable. I know there is no possible case here. I know that Jay Hill is full of it. Yet, my father isn't tossing this clown out on his ear like he should. Like I've seen him do to plenty of people who have come through our doors with a get-rich-quick scheme in mind.

  All of which makes me wonder one thing – why?

  Why are we sitting here listening to the garbage coming out of his mouth? If I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt after a mere fifteen minutes, that Hill is lying – that he's simply trying to extort money from this Grigson guy – why are we wasting time on him? There is no merit to this case. We should be moving on to people who actually need our help.

  I clear my throat. “I think if we're going to go any further with this case, we –”

  My father stops me with a wave of his hand and I bite back the scathing reply that's on the tip of my tongue. I hate it when he dismisses me entirely. Sometimes he acts like I'm beneath him. He can be so condescending and arrogant that I want to scream and smash things against the wall in protest.

  Luckily for the both of us, I have better self-control than that.

  A lot of the time, he acts like I don't know what I'm doing. Or, that I'm only here as part of “bring your daughter to work day,” rather than as the competent, qualified lawyer I am in my own right. After I passed the bar, he forced me to come work in the “family business,” and for the first year or so handed me all the crap work. Research, mostly. Pulling up old case law and filling out the endless supply of paperwork. It's only been within the last six months or so that he's allowed me to start working on real cases.

  Because he paid for it, my father is the one who chose what school I'd attend – and even though I love everything about Stanford and don't necessarily regret getting my law degree from there, if I'd been free to choose, I would have gone somewhere back east. If only to give me some space and time away from my family.

  As always though, I swallow my frustration with him down and say nothing. As much as my mind wants me to rebel and lay into him, it's how I've been programmed. My father's word is law in our family and there's no argument about it – always has been and probably, always will be. Our family is a patriarchy, plain and simple.

  My father controls virtually every aspect of my life and I don't know how to break those shackles. How to undo the programming in my head. It's how I was raised, and it frustrates me to no end that it's so deeply ingrained in me that even now, I can't do anything but shut down and follow my father's lead. It's just second nature to me.

  �
��I think that for now, at least,” he says in that deep, booming baritone voice of his, “we can proceed with getting the details of Mr. Hill's –”

  “Jay,” he interrupts. “Call me Jay.”

  “Fine,” my father says. “I think we can proceed with some background and the details of Jay's story before we worry about anything else.”

  In my head, I'm screaming that he's wrong. Screaming that we need something credible from this man before we move forward. Why waste time and resources on what I already know is a wild goose chase? If Jay Hill's story turns out to be one hundred percent crap – and I'm ninety-nine percent sure it will – why spend the time and energy on him, when we can be working for actual clients with actual cases?

  Why not cut to the chase and figure out if there's actually a case, before you invest any time or effort?

  “Actually, I –”

  “Actually, since Mr. Hill came all this way to see us, perhaps we should at least do him the courtesy of hearing his story before we decide anything one way or the other. Don't you think?”

  I look up to see Bryant Brooks striding into my father's office, a wide, sleazy smile on his face. Bryant comes from money. A lot of money. The man wanted for nothing growing up. His family catered to his every whim and want. I grew up well, I can't deny that. I never went without or wanted for much. But, compared to the Brooks family, we look like welfare cases.

  Standing at just five-foot-nine and being relatively slight of build, he's a man who carries himself in a way that makes him seem much larger than he is. He's confident, self-possessed and is always sure of himself – all qualities that my father loves about him.

  It's perhaps, not so surprising, that those are all qualities I despise. His confidence borders on the egotistical. He's arrogant. Condescending. He talks down to me just like my father does and it drives me absolutely crazy.

  He's a good lawyer, I can't deny that. The fact that he’s my father's right-hand man in the firm though – and practically a member of my family – seems to make him think he's better than everyone else. What makes it worse is that my father encourages this attitude. Bryant seems able to take a lot of liberties with my father – liberties that no one, not even me, gets to take. My father always, and I mean always, extends Bryant a latitude and grace nobody else receives.