Chasing Darien (Chasing Series Book 1)

by J. M Stoneback

  Chasing Darien

  Copyright © 2018 by J.M. Stoneback

  ISBN-13: 978–1982000776

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editor:

  RJ Locksley

  Proofreader:

  Judy’s Proofreading

  Cover Designer:

  RBA Designs

  Interior Design & Formatting:

  Type A Formatting

  Contents

  CHASING DARIEN

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Stuff You Need To Know

  Acknowledgements

  Other books by J.M. Stoneback

  Alana

  Six months earlier

  LOVE IS A stupid emotion that fucks you up. Makes you weak, makes you want to question your self-esteem, your morals. Love can crush you into tiny pieces and turn you into a person you don’t want to be. Right now, I hate love. Hate it with a passion. And if you don’t protect your heart, love will chew it up and spit it out, which is happening to me right now.

  I sit across from the love of my life, gripping the glass tight until my palm hurts. Charles unbuttons his cufflinks and rolls up his sleeves to his elbows, resting them on the white cloth covering the table.

  “I’m leaving you for her.” The tone of his voice is low, no remorse in his hazel eyes. Nothing about his facial expression says “I’m sorry.”

  “What?” I heard him loud and clear, but I don’t want to accept what he is saying. I want to scream and slap the shit out of him, but I remain in my seat, fighting back the tears that are burning in the back of my eyes.

  The people in this stupid bistro piss me off. A couple sucking face in the corner, a bunch of men laughing and clinking their glasses together—even the waitress is sporting a stupid smile. Meanwhile, my day is getting shit on. Closing my eyes, I inhale the aroma of sweet honey and fresh croissants.

  “I’m leaving you for her.” When he says it again, tears threaten my eyes even more and my heart beats fast like a drum. “We haven’t been happy in a long time, you shut me out, and you won’t get help for your depression.” His tone is flat. I focus on his throat, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. I’m fighting the urge to smash the glass in his face.

  “So fucking your PA is the answer?”

  He glances around to see if anyone heard me. I don’t give a rat’s ass if I draw attention to us. He was dumb enough to invite me here to break up. And who invites a person to a restaurant to break up with them like it’s a business meeting? Only Charles. It shouldn’t surprise me; business was always more important than family.

  “How long were you with Rebecca?” My voice is hoarse.

  “Ala—”

  “Answer me.”

  Shifting in his seat, he says, “A year.” He exhales. “She’s pregnant.” Charles laces his fingers together so tight that they turn white.

  I snort a humorless laugh; the universe must not like me as it keeps screwing me over. I’ve been dealt some crappy cards in my life, but this takes the cake. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I taste blood on my tongue.

  This asshole is wearing the exact silk black tie with pink hearts that I bought him for our seven-year anniversary. Son of a bitch. His charcoal hair is slicked back and shiny. His skin is beautiful—perfectly tan, like he bathes in natural sunlight. White plaid shirt and black slacks are freshly crisp. I know because I ironed his clothes this morning before he went to work.

  Everything we worked for has gone down the drain. All the blood, sweat, and tears I put into this marriage was a waste of my time. Making sure he has dinner on the table, cleaning the house, giving him sex—which, by the way, sucked. Being the perfect wife he wanted, trying to fit into his perfect world. And yet he abandoned me when I needed him the most.

  Fuck him, and love. Before I do something stupid, I stand up, grabbing my purse from the white tile floor. Charles grabs my hand. Without thinking, I slap him across the face. Adrenaline pumps in my blood like a firecracker. I spit in his face and say, “Go fuck yourself.”

  Taking a napkin from the holder, he wipes his face, mumbling cuss words under his breath. I remove my platinum wedding band from my ring finger and toss it at his face. He yells my name and people stop eating and look our way. God, I’m trying not to break into a million pieces. As fat, hot tears trickle down my cheeks, I wipe them with the back of my hand.

  Don’t cry over that piece of shit. You deserve better. You will be fine. I try to convince myself as I make a beeline for the exit.

  When I step outside, it’s fucking hot, like the sun is taking a whip to my face. Sweat forms at the top of my forehead, so I wipe it away with the back of my hand. Good thing I decided to wear a pink floral dress that stops above my knees and white flip-flops, otherwise I would die of a heat stroke. Hate Newark’s weather during the summertime.

  As I search my purse for my phone, I realize I left it on the table where I left Charles. I’m not going back to retrieve it, so I search the crowded sidewalk and spot a guy wearing a black, three-piece, expensive suit, leaning against the stone wall with his hands shoved in his pockets. I politely wave my hand in his face, and he stares at me like he saw a ghost—he must have noticed the color of my eyes. My right eye is cornflower blue, and my left eye is emerald. So I get a lot of weird looks.

  “Can I use your phone?” Hope he doesn’t notice the emotions in my voice.

  He watches me for a minute with stormy gray eyes. “Sure,” he says, handing me his iPhone. My thumbs shake as I type in Crystal’s phone number. I press the phone to my ear, and she answers on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Crystal, pick me up.”

  “Alana? Where are you?” I hear music playing in the background.

  Exhaling, I say, “I’m near the bowling alley on Washington Street.”

  “Be there shortly.”

  I press the end button, hand the phone back to the guy and tell him thanks. He nods. Charles finally comes out the building with his briefcase in his hand. His eyes land on me, and I flip him the bird. I look at the guy who let me use his phone, and he cocks his eyebrow.

  “Don’t ever get married.” My voice is shaky.

  Without giving the stranger a chance to respond, I stand at the edge of the curb, wrapping my arms around my waist. People walk in different directions, and horns honk from the traffic. Teenagers walk in a group, with their heads down, eyes gl
ued to their phones.

  Fifteen minutes later, Crystal’s old red Honda pulls up to the curb. I open the door and slide in, strapping the seatbelt over my body.

  “What’s wrong?” she says, driving into traffic.

  Everything is wrong. Everything. Resting my head on the leather seat, I glance out the window as buildings flash as a blur. I don’t even answer. Instead I hyperventilate.

  Darien

  LIFE FUCKING SUCKS.

  I lean back in the black chair, rubbing my temple with my index finger. Chris Fisher, my lawyer, sits across from me with a manila folder in his hand. He doesn’t look like the everyday lawyer. Golden-blond hair reaches his shoulders. Nerdy glasses the size of binoculars sit on the bridge of his nose. And the old man is dressed like a knock-off version of Steve Urkel. Colorful suspenders, white collared shirt tucked loosely into his denim jeans. But I didn’t hire him because I care about his wardrobe, I hired him for his credibility.

  He is the best damn divorce lawyer in the state of New Jersey. Won hundreds of cases. Chris slides the folder to me. I open it and rub my fingers on the paper.

  “I can’t help you if Mia doesn’t sign the papers. I had the cops sent to her place several times, but no one comes to the door.”

  I exhale at his answer. “Is there a way to bypass this shit?” I snap.

  He shakes his head. For fuck’s sake, I’m paying him a shitload of money and he still can’t make this go away. Whatever happened to the crooked lawyers? Where they do stuff to beat the fucking system?

  Shaking his head, he says, “I’m sorry, Mr. Casey.” He picks up his worn briefcase, tucks it under his arm. “Give me a call when you contact Mia.” He exits my office.

  I grab a joint from the drawer, pop it in the corner of my mouth, light it and inhale deeply and exhale as the smoke clouds the air. As I turn my executive black leather chair around, I face the wide glass window, glancing at most of Newark. My business is slap right in the middle of downtown, and I can see different colors and sizes of rooftops, parks, museums, and old worn industrial buildings. The view is perfect—when I look down, people look like ants going to their destination. The city is busier than ever on a Friday night. Gray clouds cover the sky, and light rain taps the screen. I flick ashes in the tray and take another hit and put the bud out in the tray.

  Mia motherfucking Casey has me by the balls now. My wife won’t sign the papers unless I give her half of my fortune. Don’t know where she is, but she will pop up sooner or later when she snorts her trust fund. I can count on her to do that.

  I glance at my Rolex. I have a conference meeting with Aiden Launder in thirty minutes—he is going to be the manager for the new location in London, England.

  I own one of the top banks in the United States, D&D. Started D&D back when I was a senior at NYU when I got approved for a loan of one hundred thousand dollars at a shitty bank. Worked my ass off to have my millions.

  My PA, Lisa, walks in and sets a brown paper bag on my glass desk.

  The first three buttons on her white cream blouse are missing, exposing her push-up red lace bra. She has been trying to get me to fuck her for some time, but she is not my type. Not saying she isn’t beautiful—she is. Since the news spread that I’m divorcing Mia, she has been trying to cater to every need and demand, including ones that aren’t in her job description. I don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure. I have a strict policy on office flings. Keep your crotches to yourselves or get fired. Two things I keep separate—money and women. I learned that the hard way.

  “Your meeting starts in ten minutes. Anything else you need?” She bats her black clumped eyelashes. Her face looks like she stole Ronald McDonald’s makeup kit and got a little too happy. I just want to tell her to clean that shit off her face.

  “No.” I remove the meatball sandwich from the bag and begin biting into it. Red sauce drips from the wrapper, and I hold it over the bag. My custom navy suit cost too much to ruin.

  She sits her perky ass on my desk that cost more than her yearly salary and begins to make circles on her chest. I pretend not to notice her black pencil skirt rising up her long tan legs. The number one thing that turns me off about a woman is when she tries to make herself too available for me. And right now, she is offering herself to me like a bitch in heat.

  “So I was thinking.” She tucks a brown-sugar strand of hair behind her ear and says, “You wanna go for drinks tonight?”

  “Can’t. Have plans,” I answer truthfully. I’m having a shitty day, and if she keeps hitting on me, I’m two seconds from sending her ass straight to the unemployment office.

  “What about to—”

  “You’re dismissed.” My tone is flat.

  After I finish eating my sandwich, which tastes like dirt, I toss the bag in the trash can. I make a mental note not to ever order from that place again. Sighing heavily, she turns on her heels and says, “Mr. Launder is waiting for you in the lobby.”

  Alana

  “JUST ONE MORE round, sweet cheeks,” Tate pleads as he leaves trails of kisses from my neck to the corner of my mouth. My sex stings as it rubs against my cotton boy shorts. I glance at the blue neon light on my alarm clock on my nightstand. It’s four in the afternoon. Geez, I just want to stay tangled in the cotton sheets with Tate.

  “I have to go to work in an hour,” I say, forcing myself up from the queen-size bed, grabbing my black robe from the computer chair and wiggling it on my shoulders, covering my tits. Tate slides on his boxers, pulls me into his arms. My cheek presses against his bare chest and his heart beats steady.

  He cups my ass cheeks. I run my tiny fingers through his copper thick hair that brushes his shoulders.

  His hazel eyes with specks of green around the rim of his irises narrow. His erection presses against my stomach. Blushing, I pull away, go to the bathroom attached to my bedroom, turn the shower to hot. I drop the robe and panties to the white tiles. Tate is on my heels, and he shuts the door behind him. The steam fogs the small bathroom, making my body sweat.

  Tate is a sweet guy, and I met him two months after Charles left me at the bistro. We met at a local bar. Ever since then, I have been using Tate to get over Charles. It’s wrong, but it’s better than being alone, and sometimes when he is here, I don’t miss Charles. My heart doesn’t ache as much. I can’t deal with thinking about what happened between us and how he got Rebecca pregnant. It’s really dumb to miss someone who took your heart and smashed it to pieces. Emotions are stupid, and I wish there was an off button for them.

  Tate whips out his dick and takes a leak in the toilet. I take a red toothbrush from the holder, squirt toothpaste on it, and begin to brush my teeth.

  “Tuesday, go to the lounge with me.” After tucking himself back in his boxers, he washes his hands and dries them on the pink hand towel hanging on the rail. He wraps his arms around my waist, resting his head on my shoulder, and watches me in the mirror.

  “I thought we agreed to keep it casual,” I say between each scrub. I spit in the sink and hold the toothbrush under the brass faucet and dump it in the holder. Turning around, I place both hands on the edge of the fishbowl sink. By his frown, I can tell that he doesn’t like my answer.

  “We are, but there is nothing wrong with getting to know each other.” He traces his index finger on my lips and continues, “I’m pretty sure there is more to you than working at a strip joint.”

  “All right,” I huff, folding my arms.

  His eyes grow to the size of saucers. Guess he never imagined me actually saying yes. I like our arrangement. Like that we can have sex, get what we need and go on our merry ways. We don’t ask each other anything about our personal lives. The only thing that I know about Tate is he studies law at New York University, and we share a common interest in anime and video games. If I weren’t nursing a broken heart, I would date him. The sex is pretty good, and he is smoking hot like a Calvin Klein model. That sounds so cliché. He has a body to die for. Lean muscle, like he nev
er misses a day in the gym.

  I’m not ready to open that door just yet, not ready to date. But if Tate wants to get to know me without trying to pressure me to be with him, then I can go out with him. It won’t be a date, just two friends hanging out.

  “I’ll text you the details,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against mine before leaving the bathroom.

  After I shower, I throw on my white cotton blouse that hugs my torso, black-and-red-checked skirt that stops above my knees, and white knee-high socks with a pair of black heels. I brush my damp red hair into a high ponytail, pad to the open spacious living room, grab my leather jacket from the coat rack and wait by the door for my roommate.

  Crystal sits on the worn brown couch and fishes through her knock-off Michael Kors purse, pulling out a small compact mirror and studying her face. She finger-combs her short lavender hair to the side. Our outdated furniture stands out like a sore thumb in this two-bedroom, two-lavish-bathroom condo. Even the entertainment center is ancient, the black paint peeling off the cheap wood. The previous owners left this stuff, and we were too lazy to get rid of it.

  “Why did Tate leave here with a big stupid grin on his face?” she asks, her black eyes gleaming.

  “I agreed to go out in public with him,” I answer nonchalantly, shrugging my shoulders.

  “That’s good, he likes you a lot.” She tucks her mirror back into her purse.

  “But I’m not ready to move on.”

  “You should. Charles isn’t thinking about you. He went off and had another family. So move on.”

  Her words sting, but she’s right. Don’t need to sit, mope, and have a pity party. And maybe, with Tate, I can grow to like him.

  “You know what else we should have done?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

  Oh, no, here we go with this crap again. “Don’t even say it.”

  “Keyed his fucking car.”

  “We would have been in jail.”

  “Who gives a crap?”

  My best friend is the master of paying people back and having no boundaries. When she caught her sister’s boyfriend cheating, she put sugar in his tank and landed herself in jail for a few days. I had to bail her out.