Unlike Any Other by Claudia Y. Burgoa
Copyright ©2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, brands, media, places, story lines and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, brands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The use of these trademarks is not authorized with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover Design by Hang Le
Edited by Carol Allen
Formatted by Shirley Quinones
Unlike Any Other and the Unexpected series began with a simple thought—more like a question.
Have you ever watched a movie, a favorite television series, or listen to a band play some music, and seem to connect with the artist? Believe they are a part of your life?
But, do we really know them?
And this is where I was stumped, we don’t, and that led me to thinking about how many secrets they must harbor.
What is behind closed doors?
That question brought into mind several scenarios. Scenarios that made me wonder what happens to the children and to the people they love. And that’s how AJ’s story began to shape in my head.
It all started with a girl named AJ and her famous parents who protected her and her brothers from the real world for years.
I talked it through with a couple of people before I dared to write it, which led to the scenario changing a few times. For several months, I wrote about these two characters, their backstory, tweaked it, and finally send it to the beta readers who loved the plot but felt something was missing.
In my mind, this was a stand-alone book with a sweet, intriguing love story about family, loyalty, and the reality of life.
However, that was the tip of the iceberg. I had in my hands the stories of not only two characters, but also several extraordinary humans who fight against the odds, their demons, and life’s bitter surprises to find a piece of happiness.
After many revisions, our Unexpected series goes as follows:
Unlike Any Other ~ Gabe’s story
Unsurprisingly Complicated ~ Mason’s story.
Uncharted ~ Jacob (JC’s) story
Uncut ~ Matthew (MJ’s) story
Unable to Forget ~ Porter’s story
By now, you are probably wondering where AJ is—especially since she was the inspiration behind this series. Don’t worry though—she’s everywhere. While you enjoy the story of each of our characters, you’ll follow her struggles of trying to stay sane around her group of guys.
After you finish the book, and if you enjoyed it. Please, do me a big favor and leave a review. Let other readers know about it and spread the word.
Thank you much,
Claudia ♥
To Andie, who fights for the rights of every living thing.
I love you.
2015
I step out of Eleanor—my lime green VW Beetle—press the alarm key and take a glance at the neighborhood. The row-house architecture emulates the brownstone structures that we found in almost every city in the East Coast, but with a Texan twist. A warm combination of stucco and stone on the exterior with heavy timber balconies and iron accents.
I climb the steps to ring the bell but get sidetracked by the mums on each side of the door. It reminds me of how much I miss living in a house where I can plant flowers galore. Not that my studio isn’t pretty or the two plants I own aren’t appreciated. It’s just… don’t go there, Ainsley, stay in the present.
Right, the present. I have a mission to accomplish—Operation Gobble-Gobble. As usual, the door is unlocked and opens when I wiggle the handle.
“Honey, I’m home,” I holler as I step onto the rubber mat, wiping my feet and turning on the light in the small foyer.
The heavy steps on the wood floor drag my attention for a few seconds from scanning the place.
“We don’t have all night, AJ,” Ryker Finn scolds as he ushers me inside the condo.
The plaid cherry color couch adorned with big orange pillows never ceases to make me cringe every time I enter his home. Must be the pattern. After grabbing my phone, I place my messenger bag and my light jacket on top of it and give a quick scan of the living room. Mustard color walls, black and white pictures of the Eiffel Tower, a ballerina, and the sky and mountains.
I can’t marry these decorations with the tall, blond, husky football coach.
Why am I here?
My original plan for tonight included writing some music and watching a marathon of 80’s romcoms to kick-off my Thanksgiving week. It seemed like a good idea at the time and sounded better than visiting Ryker. Except, as I watched You Got Mail and Meg Ryan celebrated Thanksgiving with her boyfriend and friends, it hit me. I wanted to spend the holidays with someone.
The best solution, I came up with, was calling my… boyfriend. I phoned him and the call didn’t go as I planned.
“AJ, glad you’re calling,” he answered. No greetings or introductions to his newfound happiness. “Sweetheart, why don’t you swing by. I have a game tomorrow and I want you, babe.”
Yes, I’m responding to a booty call. My fault. My call didn’t include the booty part; he came up with the idea all by himself. Obviously, I said yes—a girl has her needs.
Ryker raises a blond eyebrow, tilts his head toward the hallway and crosses his muscular arms waiting for me to follow. He doesn’t like me to linger around the living room area. Our routine is to step into the house, make out while heading to the bedroom, and finish up with having sex.
“Sorry, the couch…” I scrunch my nose. “You really can’t buy a new one?”
There are pretty inexpensive ones at the second-hand furniture store down on Main. I know because I worked there two years ago during the holiday season. But, of course, I don’t mention it, as my mission is to score an invite, not to piss him off.
“No AJ, my roommate bought it.”
Right, the mysterious ‘roommate’ who is never around. Six months and I’ve yet to meet him. The couch isn’t the point of my visit, for Ryker, it’s having sex and for me… changing my annual holiday trend. For the first time in three years, I plan to celebrate them. At least Thanksgiving, which is next Thursday.
Minus six days and counting.
Ryker and I have been seeing each other for about six months. Enough time to invite the familyless girl to join him for a dinner, right?
He hadn’t mentioned a thing and I could wait, but… I’m cutting it too close already.
Earlier, I talked myself into asking. My parents always said: “What’s the worst thing that can happen? If they say no, you’re back to where you began.”
“Thanksgiving is almost here,” I state the obvious.
Ryker grumbles something and directs me to his room. Like usual, the comforter is gone and there’s only the sheets and blanket on top.
“As I was saying,” I speak, but Ryker doesn’t take notice. He kisses my neck and pulls off my dress.
“Fuck, I swear you have the best lingerie in this world,” he grunts and kisses my shoulder blades. “Take off the pump, AJ.”
A strange statement coming from him, he’s an older man—late thirties. It’s easy to assume that being a football coach and having experience would’ve led him to women who wore better underwear than a twenty-four-year-old.
Ryker taps my pump lightly; I remove his hand and shake my head.
“No, the pump stays. After six months, you should know better.”
Ryker has a problem with my insulin pump. Every guy, I sleep with, has a problem with it. Sorry, but I don’t have a pancreas that works well enough to produce insulin on demand.
“Talking about six months.” Do it, AJ. You set yourself up to succeed in this mission; take the chance. “You know that I don’t have a family to spend the holidays with… why don’t you invite me to enjoy it with you?”
“Uh, you celebrate the holidays?” his question follows with two wide eyes and a confused hmm that doesn’t sit well in the pit of my stomach.
“Yes, I do celebrate holidays,” I answer, controlling my tone so I don’t sound like an annoying girl. “And it’ll be nice if you invited me to spend it with your family.”
“You’re shitting me, right?” his southern accent deepens. “Why would I want to bring you home when you’re only a romp between the sheets?”
Ouch, that hurts somewhere. In fact, his question hits me right through the heart. Why not call me a cold bitch? Not that my heart hurts. My pride, maybe? My back tenses and I’m shrinking in size. Yes, it’s definitely my pride he wounded.
“I’m more than that.” My protest isn’t acknowledged as he unhooks my bra slipping the straps down my arms.
Really, after calling me his… fuckgirl, he thinks I’ll continue this? Fuck that, I’m leaving.
The feathery kisses, he places along my back, are making me doubt myself though. Okay, one more time and then I’ll head home and move on… yes?
“Not once have I ever seen you leave,” he comments as a matter of fact.
“That’s because after you dispose of the condom, you doze off,” I complain of his poor performance. There are times I don’t orgasm at all and he doesn’t care.
“If you stayed… nevermind. You’re unattainable, AJ.”
Unattainable? I’ll tell you what I am: a lonely person with no holiday plans. The girl who is back to square one. I have no one to spend my holidays with. What is wrong with him? I want to shake him until he understands my point of view. It’s just dinner, I don’t expect him to drop on one knee and propose. Or to score another invitation. For Christmas, I’ll make other plans.
Oh well, another year going to the deli section of Whole Foods to buy a couple of slices of turkey, some mashed potatoes, green beans, and a smidge of pie.
“Come on, babe, don’t be difficult.” He takes off my boots and socks then slips down my panties. “Tomorrow I have a big game, the faster we finish this, the earlier I can go to sleep.”
Yes, let’s get done with the task of fucking AJ and then head to bed. Ryker tears the foil square… the man is already slipping in the condom.
Great, no foreplay.
Today I don’t care, I’ll brush my clit while he’s plunging himself inside me. I don’t give a shit if he complains about me emasculating him.
It’s just sex, nothing special…
Special disappeared years ago.
2015
Whoever thought of adding a flashlight to a cell phone was a genius. Nothing better than the faint light to find the discarded clothes around the bedroom I hadn’t seen during the gateway after sex. Ryker was right earlier, I don’t wait too long before I want to dash out of his apartment.
Yeah, it’s me and not him, for the most part. I’m a mass of bitterness that is gradually growing harder and bigger, damn it.
That line should get you an Oscar, AJ. I pat myself on the back—mentally, of course.
Oscar or not, each year I care less and less. In part, because of the fact I don’t have a place where I can head to carve a turkey and call it a family-home. The other part is not having anyone to celebrate the holidays with.
Another year without parents, turkey, or presents under the tree. Heck, not even a tree; why bother decorating if I’m all alone? Old fatty Santa will skip my apartment. I’m on his naughty list but so are my parents. My parents, a set of lovely units who used to care for me once upon a time—or so they claimed.
More than two years ago, we had a disagreement and stopped speaking to each other… well, we had a full blown fight that singled me out of the family for the holidays, birthdays, and any other special occasion. Who am I kidding? I was voted out of the family forever.
“You should stop feeding the tabloid with lies about your lives,” I yelled at my parents. It started with the magazine I was holding where my boyfriend, ex-boyfriend or whatever the hell that man was to me once, was cozying up with a model. His long-time girlfriend read Entertainment and Life.
“The two of you should stop playing with other people’s feelings.” The pain of seeing him with another woman flashed through my gut and consequently I lashed out at my parents. “Be fucking honest for once. I don’t need to be on the front cover of a magazine but at least being recognized as your child wouldn’t hurt.”
“Liars… I hate you.”
“AJ, stop and apologize right now,” my father ordered. “This is so unlike you. You’re being a heartless, selfish brat.”
“I’m an adult, you can’t make me do things I don’t want to,” I screamed louder. “Never, I’m done with this farce. You two are dead to me.”
“Apologize,” my father repeated firmly. I shook my head and tossed the magazine I held to the floor. “Then don’t come back until you can act like a grown-u and ask for forgiveness.”
My brothers and I speak, but they like to keep themselves inside the neutral zone. That includes spending the holidays with our parents and not me.
Since then I’ve spent the holidays alone. Last year I believed it might change. The story was simple, the dude, I thought I dated, left town to meet his girl’s family. Of course, after such explanation we stopped our daily coital encounters.
“Victory,” I whisper as I find my black lace panties and matching bra. At last, I have everything I require to jet out of this place.
Ryker was right when he said: “Not once have I ever seen you leave.” He sounded more curious than upset. “You’re unattainable.”
I hear rustling in the bed and look over my shoulder while I’m hooking my bra. Ryker sits up.
“Leaving already?”
I check that my insulin pump is intact.
“Why should I stay?” My smart remark grants me a groan. “For a second round? It’s not like I get much action, big boy.”
Before he can respond, sounds come from outside of his room. Keys hitting a surface, wheels rolling, papers shuffling. I hurry with the task of dressing. After slipping on my dress, I pick up my phone and illuminate him with its light. Ryker’s eyes are bulging and his fists grip the sheets. He trembles to the sound of stilettos tapping the floor. Pointing the flashlight toward the entrance of the room, I see her. A tall, willowy, dark haired woman dressed to kill—me.
“You fucking bastard.” She steps in, flashing a dark glare toward him. “My mother was right, I shouldn’t have married you.”
“Wait, you’re married?” The last word comes out more like a desperate shriek.
This tops last years, ‘Oh, I’m heading to my girlfriend’s place in New Hampshire with her folks.’ My crippled judgment strikes again. Great, I’m becoming the Marilyn Monroe of the south. Except my hair is curly, long and brown, and my eyes are green.
Note to self: next time run a background check and make sure you have the facts instead of assuming.
“I c
an explain.” The stuttering from the husky six-foot-five football coach of one of the most famous college teams highlights the show.
Somewhere inside my head a fairy, that lives with my thoughts, is rolling on the floor laughing. I work hard not to join her.
“Or, I can do it, please, I love to explain things.” I raise my hand as I teach my kindergarten children to do during class when they want to participate. Then slap it because this isn’t a classroom and I’m too nervous so my brain is prone to act before thinking.
Retreat, I order.
The wife sends another wave of death rays toward me. Ugh, great, now I’m a harlot and a teacher.
What’s next?
I’ll appear on a talk show: Interview with the woman who teaches young minds during the day and wrecks homes at night.
Mrs. Ryker turns on the light and her eyes pin me. I suddenly shrink a foot or two because of that super height and power the heels she wears provide her. The navy blue dress accessorized by a scarf and a pair of wings pinned to her breast hint that she’s a flight attendant. Now it all makes sense. She’s out of town and I have never seen this place well enough to notice who might cohabitate with Ryker.
That glare, she’s going to kill me.
‘Squashed like a bug’ will be the epitaph on my tombstone.
What is this woman, six feet tall plus her shoes? At my median height of five-foot-five, she’s making me self-conscious of my size.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I had no idea,” I say. “You see, I’m internally damaged. Emotionally dead, no longer among the living when it comes to the heart-to-heart thing. Without a heart, my internal common sense doesn’t function and I couldn’t see that I was with a taken man. If you choose to shoot me, I don’t blame you but know you’ll leave behind… no one to cry for me.”
I drop my chin to my chest.
“You expect me to clap after this dramatic display?” she snorts.
Oscar-worthy acting, I don’t say. I ran lines with the best.
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