by Lane Hart
“I wanna watch you fight,” I tell him.
“Seriously?” he asks with a grin.
“Yeah. I think I have a new appreciation for the sport. What Grayson did earlier…the classes are a good thing. It’ll take me some time to warm up to the whole idea of fighting in the cage for the hell of it, but I want to try.”
“Thank you,” he says, kissing me again. And the way his tongue dominates my mouth, I know the time for talking is over, even before he picks me up, holding me against his chest and carrying me into the house.
“I bet seeing you fight is hot,” I tell him as he carries me to the bedroom. “Is it wrong that I was turned on watching you beat the shit out of Patrick?” I ask.
Nathan groans. “You shouldn’t have told me that. Now I may have to brawl with him every time he comes around you.”
“Poor Patrick,” I tease.
“Now you’re gonna get three spankings, one for each time you’ve said that asshole’s name,” he tells me before tossing me on the bed.
Thinking back, I tell him, “But I only said his name twice.”
“Yeah, the third lick is just because I know you like it,” he says with a wink.
Epilogue
Nate
I bounce on the balls of my feet in the back of the tunnel, waiting for my intro song to start up.
Off in the distance, in the center of the arena, I can see my opponent already in the cage, pacing back and forth anxiously while he waits for me. He’s not the only one. I’m so ready to get this last fight over with.
Havoc is currently in first place in the tournament. And if I win this round with a submission or knockout, there’s no way that Team Chaos can catch us. If I lose, however…fuck that. I’m not gonna lose.
The first notes of my intro fill the air, and just like every time I hear the ridiculous song, I smile uncontrollably. It doesn’t help that Linc and Jude are on either side of me singing along and dancing like fools to the masturbation anthem.
My fight song years ago was the classic and overplayed “Eye of the Tiger”, so I felt like it was time for a change, especially with all the publicity. This year I went with “I Touch Myself” by the Divinyls. If nothing else, it’s bound to throw my opponents off. It’s not like they know that if I were going to touch myself it would only be to think about the beautiful woman cheering me on in the stands. I never actually need to jerk off since my little sex kitten can’t seem to get enough morning, noon and night. Not that I’m complaining.
“If you two are finished, can we go now?” I ask Dipshit One and Dipshit Two.
“This is your show, so lead the way, hot stuff,” Jude says with a slap to my ass.
Chuckling, I enter the arena, and the crowd noise rises to a roar. I’ve been surprised by the acceptance of everyone in the IFC. I’m not sure what I expected, maybe people yelling slurs or holding up signs to keep me out of the cage. Thankfully there wasn’t either.
As soon as I clear the tunnel, I start looking for Alyssa and Grayson, needing to know where they are and see them before I can fight. They do have a sign, one that says, We love Havoc’s Hero! with a red heart in the place of the word love. Flashing them a grin, I blow them a kiss before stepping in front of the judge, who runs his hands over me for the final inspection, applies Vaseline to my face and clears me to enter the cage.
Not only did my favorite two people come down to Florida to support me this week, but Alyssa’s been assigned to report on the tournament and has been sending updates from her laptop to Candice each night for The Cary Journal. The woman is one hell of a writer, especially when it comes to fiction. I try to shut down the thoughts of her sexy stories before I get all worked up behind my cup. We’ve had a lot of fun the last few weeks coming up with more material for hot scenes.
The referee gives me and the opponent, a thirty-year old veteran fighter, his standard spiel. Then the bell rings, and I’m on the move, lunging for the other fighter to try and catch him off guard. We ram into the fence, his back against it, right where I want him. Before he knows what hit him, I’ve swept his legs out from underneath him and got him down on the canvas.
From above him, my fists reign down punches to his face and sides while all he can do is holds his forearms up in front of his face trying to block them. Unlike my other fights where I won by submission, this time there is definitely blood from the cuts on his brow and jabs to his nose. But this blood is different. No one’s gonna die. The referee will stop the fight before I do too much damage. I try not to avoid it, focusing instead on ending this so I can enjoy my vacation with Alyssa and Grayson.
Sure enough, the ref soon pulls me off the other man, officially stopping the fight in the first round. After my arm is raised as the winner, I let out a breath of relief.
I did it.
I actually fought five men in five days and helped my team win first place. Mace and, surprisingly, Patrick are still in the tournament, but now the pressure is off them. Win or lose, Havoc has the most points, and no other team can catch us.
Now, it’s time to get to the fun part.
…
Alyssa
Glancing at my phone, I see that there're only minutes until the parade starts, and Nate and Grayson aren’t back yet. The last I heard was them mentioning some Star Wars souvenir in one of the gift shops, and Nate said they would be back in time for the parade of lights. It’s not that I’m worried about something happening to them. We’re in one of the safest theme parks in the world, and I know Nate would risk his own life before letting anything happen to Grayson. I just hate they’ll miss out on seeing this. Tonight’s our last night at the park. And while I’ll be sad to leave, I’m looking forward to getting home and having things go back to normal. Normal as in Nate moving in with Grayson and me permanently. Maybe to some people, it seems like we’re moving fast; but after everything we’ve been through together, it just seems right.
The music starts playing through the speakers in the park before the parade starts to roll through. I hope they hurry before they miss how beautiful the floats are all lit up with colored lights and favorite characters. Like right now there’s a horse-drawn carriage rolling through, looking like it’s straight out of a fairytale. When it’s directly in front of me, it stops, and the driver steps down and opens the side door revealing…
Oh. My. God.
“Surprise,” Grayson says when he and Nathan step down wearing matching formal white tailcoats with a big red sash and royal blue pants. I slap my palm over my mouth when I realize they’re dressed as prince charming. My prince charmings.
“Ma’am,” Nathan says with a wink, bowing to me before holding his white gloved hand out for mine. When I place my palm in his, he goes down on one knee; and I nearly faint. That’s when I see the stuffed green frog Grayson is holding, one with a red ribbon tied to it, a sparkling diamond ring dangling on the end, catching the light.
Nathan reaches over and pulls the ring free before holding it up to me.
“I’m no prince charming, but, Alyssa Grant, will you marry me and let me love you and Grayson every day for the rest of my life?” he asks with a grin, because he already knows my answer.
“Say yes!” Grayson encourages when I take too long to respond.
“Yes, of course I’ll marry you,” I answer. “But you’re wrong. You are my prince charming.”
After slipping the ring on my finger, Nathan gets to his feet. And then my arms are around his neck, and my lips are on his, kissing him for all I’m worth.
Not everyone’s story has a happy ending. Some end abruptly with broken hearts, proving that life isn’t always perfect. But if you’re lucky, you just might find someone to help you pick up the shattered pieces and fill in the empty spaces you’re missing, giving you a second chance at a happily ever after.
The End
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times bestselling author Lane Hart lives in North Carolina with her husband, author D.B. West, their two daughters, a few lazy cats and a pair of rambunctious Pomeranians. When Lane's not writing she spends her free time relaxing at the beach while looking for sea turtles in the summer months and cheering on the Carolina Panthers in the fall.
Connect with Lane:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/WritingfromHart
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/lanehartbooks
Website: http://www.lanehartbooks.com
Email: [email protected]
Find all of Lane’s books here on her Amazon author page!
Keep reading for a sneak peek from Lane’s dark romance, Exploited.
EXPLOITED
A Dark Redemption Novel
By Lane Hart
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue were created from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted and trademarked status of various products within this work of fiction.
© 2016 Editor's Choice Publishing
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” at the address below.
Editor’s Choice Publishing
P.O. Box 10024
Greensboro, NC 27404
Edited by Angela Snyder
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Photo by Matt Geeling Photography
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Model Shane Burnell
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Cover by vocaldesign
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Warning: This book contains some dark, dirty and dangerous situations, before ending with a jaw-dropping cliffhanger. The debauchery will continue in Redeemed.
“My thrill-seeking angel is about to lose her wings.”
Prologue
Blair Lockhart, age eight
“Blair? Blair, stop! Listen to me, goddamn it!”
His harsh hand grabs and shakes my shoulder so hard that my head rocks forward and back, snapping my neck and causing my eyes to pop reluctantly open.
Red. Red everywhere. Blood. There’s blood splattered all over his face and…and his white shirt and tie. Oh God, his hands. I look down and watch the blood drip from his hands that are holding me, staining the front of my blue Sunday school dress. The one mommy said looked beautiful on me and brought out the blue in my eyes. Mommy…I still hear her screams. Or maybe they’re my own because she’s lying on the floor next to the coffee table, unmoving, soundless…
“Blair!” he yells. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up and listen to me!”
He’s so close, kneeling in front of me that I flinch when his spit wets my already damp face. Now I’m even dirtier, blood and spit all over me.
God, his eyes. They’re so dark and angry. Scary. He’s never liked me, but now I think he hates me. My only thought is to scream at the top of my lungs for help, for someone to save mommy and me from him…
Whap!
The entire side of my face goes numb before my cheek begins to throb painfully like it has its own heartbeat.
“Stop screaming or so fucking help me…” he says through gritted teeth before pushing something sharp and wet to my neck. My eyes cut over to try to see it, but just moving my head to the side burns my throat. Then I notice the black handle he’s holding…the handle of the big knife that’s covered in her blood. A whimper escapes from my trembling lips despite how tightly I press them together to try and prevent sound from coming out. My sniffles are loud too when I try to catch my breath, but he doesn’t yell at me to stop those.
“Listen to me. You’re not gonna say a word. Do you hear me? Not a single fucking word to anyone! And if you do, this knife is gonna cut through you just like it did her. Do you understand me, Blair? Keep your mouth shut!”
I nod until the pain in my neck makes me stop. “Good, girl. Now go to your room, take the dress off and hide it inside your dollhouse. Wash your hands and face, then put on a clean dress. Got it? Can you do all that, or do you want to end up like her?” he asks, while pointing with the knife to the other side of the room.
Glancing over his shoulder, I see mommy so still, lying in a puddle of red, her unblinking eyes staring up at the ceiling. I shake my head up and down, and then side to side, unsure which answer he wants from me. Whatever it is, I’ll give it to him.
“Go!” he shouts, shoving my back, causing me to stumble forward.
When I catch my balance, I race down the hall to my room, trying to remember everything he wanted me to do. Hide my dress, wash up, get dressed. Hide my dress, wash up, get dressed. Hide my dress, wash up, get dressed. Repeating those three things over and over in my head, I manage to stop hearing her screams and seeing the blood, too busy trying to do what I was ordered. But once I’m standing in the middle of my room with a new, clean yellow dress on, I don’t know what to do next. What does he want me to do now? He didn’t say, and I don’t want to go back out there, but I also don’t want to upset him.
Oh God. Panic rises from within me, making my stomach and chest ache. It’s the same feeling I get when I’m swimming under water at the pool when the two older boys tease me, daring me to try and hold my breath longer than them. I know he’s gonna hurt me too. It’s just a matter of time. Running to my closet, I quietly open the door and slip into the darkness, crouching underneath the rows of dresses. Wrapping my arms around my legs, silent tears start pouring down my face as my whole body shakes, but I don’t make a sound as I wait for him. I don’t want him to hit me again, or worse, stab that knife through me like he hurt mommy. So I’ll hide in here. He’ll come get me eventually.
And that’s what terrifies me the most.
Chapter One
Ten years later…
Brede Rawls
Feeling my phone vibrating against my chest through my t-shirt pocket, I flip the right turn signal on and pull my bike over to the side of the road to kill the engine and answer. I’m guessing it’s Jim calling to give me an update on Paula. Fucking time’s running out, I know, so whenever the phone rings I worry it’s bad news, that I took too long…
Unzipping my leather jacket to get to my phone, I let out a sigh of relief when I don’t recognize the three-three-six area code on the screen. Not knowing who the hell it is, I answer with a gruff, “Yeah?” while still straddling my classic, 1981 Wide Glide Harley.
“Brede! How you doin’, man?” A way too peppy masculine voice shouts into my ear, so loudly I have to pull the device away despite the noise of passing vehicles.
“Who the fuck is this?” I ask since I only give my cell number to a small, select group of individuals who I trust implicitly, like the man and woman who raised me.
“It’s Roger Lemons, you know, from Lexington,” he answers quickly, probably because of my clipped, pissed off tone.
“Rog?” I reply in surprise as I watch the sun begin to set over the horizon. It’s been years since I’ve stepped foot in that god-forsaken town, but I do vaguely remember a kid from middle school named Roger. “Is this really the Ginga Ninja?” I ask with a chuckle. If I remember correctly, he was a freckled-face redhead that the other kids picked on, right up until he followed them home after school and whooped their asses in their own front yards.
“Yeah, man! How you been?” he asks excitedly.
“Busy,” I say since I’m still suspicious abou
t how he got my number, and I don’t have time for fucking pleasantries. Heading out of New York after a job fell through, I still have at least eleven hours before I reach Kentucky, if the sky doesn’t open up on me. And I need to get there before Jim’s call. I need to see her and say what I should’ve told her years ago before it’s too late. But I also hate the idea of showing up empty handed. Guess I don’t have a fucking choice.
“What’s going on? I’ve got somewhere to be, and you’re slowing me down,” I bark into the phone at those somber thoughts.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, sorry,” he says. “So, I got your number from an Army buddy who said you’re the one known as Azrael, the angel of death. That true?”
Running my free hand through my windblown hair, I exhale a breath. Must have been Nolan Stevens since he’s the only person from Fort Benning who has my number and knows about my illegal side business.
“What do you need?” I ask, neither confirming nor denying the nickname that I received during my three tours in Afghanistan.
Both of my biological parents were murderers, so it seemed fitting that I should follow in their footsteps. As a trained sniper, I was the government’s executioner, disposing of bad guys for them. They paid me to be a murderer, and it was easier to do than I expected. Putting a man in the sights of my rifle, holding my breath, pulling the trigger and simply walking away. I was deemed a hero for stopping at least forty-two hearts, taking the lives of men who could’ve had wives and kids depending on them for all I know.
Since I was honorably discharged a year ago, well, I haven’t found any civilian jobs that require my skills of assassinating men with a single gunshot to their head. To pay the bills and all my vices, I’ve been living as a mercenary, getting paid to kill seven different men so that those individuals who wanted revenge didn’t have to get their own hands dirty. My hands are so damn stained they’ll never be clean again, so what’s a few more deaths on my conscience?