Unsettled

by Ellington, S. C.

  Unsettled

  Copyright 2013 by S.C. Ellington

  www.scellington.com

  All rights reserved. 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 the express written consent from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

  Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

  The characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity or resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Print ISBN: 978-1493645541

  eBook ISBN: 978-1311191809

  Cover design by Marcharda White

  eBook formatting by Maureen Cutajar

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Novels by S.C. Ellington

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Keep in Touch with S.C. Ellington!

  About the Author

  S.C. Ellington is an up and coming author who enjoys expressing her creativity through frequently writing adult, contemporary romance novels that readers can relate to, but more importantly, enjoy.

  Aside from writing, Ellington enjoys curling up with her e-reader and absorbing herself in novels loaded with emotion, desire and passion. She also likes to spend sunny, wistful afternoons, in her hammock thinking up new ideas for great stories.

  S.C. Ellington currently resides on the west coast with her beautiful family and loving friends.

  Novels by S.C. Ellington

  Unsettled, Book One of the Unsettled Series

  Surrounded, Book Two of the Unsettled Series

  Dedication

  To all my fangirls, Logan and Brooklyn have arrived!

  Acknowledgements

  I am so gracious to everyone who has assisted me in my endeavor to publish a living piece of work.

  To my husband, thank you for putting up with me while I feverishly let the words for this novel flow through my fingertips. Our son is grateful as well! I am very thankful to have you in my corner.

  To my parents, you sculpted me into the woman I am. I thank you for everything that you did for me. I wouldn’t have made it nearly as far without you.

  To “The Clan”, you have been such a great help to me during this whole endeavor! You are all going to go far! I love you! Fi, I loved you before, but even more now—unbreakable bonds.

  To RT, thanks for being my very first beta reader! It all started with you!

  To MW, thank you doesn’t cover it! Without your help, my finished product would not have been nearly as great!

  To JL, I am now overly familiar with g-mail thanks to you! Thank you for all your help and support throughout this journey! Get ready for two and three!

  To KER, you know your place in my heart. Thank you for the support and guidance.

  To all my blogging buddies and social media friends, thank you for all your help, guidance, support and wisdom! Before I ran into you, I knew nothing!

  1

  “Good morning, Washington, D.C.! Here’s your daily dose of Jo!” my alarm radio screamed at me. I turned my body slightly and slammed my hand on the buzzing box, nearly knocking it to the floor. I grunted with disdain as I rolled over, not wanting to leave the comfort of my bed.

  “Shut up Jo! It can’t be that great of a morning with you ringing in my ears! When will it be the weekend?” I muttered into my pillow.

  Although it was Thursday, I seemed to be stuck in a never-ending cycle of work and sleep. I doubted I would ever become a morning person. I found the thought of cracking my eyelids before ten in the morning appalling.

  With my eyes wired shut I propelled my arm from underneath my lilac duvet and yanked the plug of my space heater from the wall as if I were some type of cuttlefish, using my denticulate suckers to secure my prey.

  Last week marked the second week of April and the winter storms had thinned out somewhat. A slight cold front had swooped in for a while on the East Coast but was supposed to taper off within the next few days. At least that was the scuttlebutt according to Heidi, the latest bouncy blonde weather girl employed by my local news station.

  I let my arm fall to the side of my mattress. Every muscle in my body creaked. Must be my old age setting in. My forehead creased at my disheartening thoughts. It was too early in the morning for me to be honing in on my increasing age odometer. Even though all the reasons why I needed to start my day crept through my sleep-fogged head, like every morning, I laid listlessly in bed.

  My unenthusiastic eyes finally fluttered open when I heard the distinctive noises of the refuse workers and their truck mulling down our tree-lined street through my window.

  I languidly looked at my clock and discovered that it was a quarter past seven; I was supposed to be at work by eight thirty. Although my mind knew I was running late to work again, my body was having trouble getting a move on.

  Stretching my limbs, I leisurely roved my eyes over my room, and was reminded that the matching lilac and gray thermal curtains I purchased from CostMart weren’t doing much to trap the heat in my room. I should have known that paying ten dollars per panel was too good to be true. Oh well.

  Last month our landlord, Tom Carcello, came by and refused yet again to upgrade our place to central heat. Tom’s severe case of deep-pocket, short-arm syndrome had me furious when we first moved into our house, but even with his annoyingly frugal ways, the late-fifties row house that harbored single-paned windows had been my home for the last three years. The row house was also a score since our lease was moderately rent controlled.

  After another several minutes of procrastinating, I finally threw back my duvet and forced my feet to collide with the dark cherry wood floor to start my daily routine that predictably ended with me laboring in front of a computer screen for eight hours.

  Just as I was about to hoist myself off my mattress, I heard a series of knocks. My door swung open.

  “Wake up, wake up, WAKE UP, BROOKLYN!” Alex shouted brightly, her voice raising a few octaves. I was glad she hadn’t added banging pots and pans to her absurdly annoying and sporadic wake-up call.

  “Shut up! I’m awake—now get out.” I whined groggily.

  “Oh come on Brooklyn…it’s not like it’s six in the morning…and I couldn’t wait to share my news.”

  “What news? Everyone is not like you, Susie Sunshine,” I responded sarcastically, a little perturbed that Alex insisted on barging into my bedroom the same way she did in college.

  “Nevermind, I’ll wait ‘t
il you’re in a happier mood and functioning to share,” she replied, waving off my question. “Excuse me for trying to get you out the door on time. We both know you have a propensity to oversleep…and for the record, I am only awake at o’ dark thirty since Jay has to leave the house early,” Alex replied, pretending to be offended by my crass attitude.

  “Whatever…now if you’ll excuse me Susie, I’m going to empty my bladder in peace,” I remarked, forcefully pushing myself off my mattress and staggered past Alex toward my wash room down the hall. I lazily passed the recent photos I’d taken of D.C. at dusk on my way. Alex, knowing how much I loved taking photos, got them framed for me as a Christmas gift. While I pulled my hair tie from my limp ponytail and ran my fingers through my waves, I subconsciously chanted a silent thank you that I didn’t share a bathroom with my roommate, Alexandra. Although she was my best friend, it was a well-known fact that I would rather chew and digest flathead nails than be forced to share a toilet with another person, even if it was my best friend and her live in boyfriend, Jay. I needed pure solitude for a good thirty minutes in the morning. How I had survived living in the dorms my first year of college was still the ninth wonder of the world.

  I splashed water on my face and looked at my reflection in the mirror. In six months I would no longer have the youthful glow of a twenty-four-year-old due to the fact that twenty-five was pounding on my door. I was convinced that age didn’t make people feel old; it was actually life’s experiences that sometimes threw people through a loop.

  In an article in last month’s issue of O, the author listed every possible reason why women usually feel more settled as they approach their thirties and beyond. I would find out soon enough if there was any truth to her claims. I certainly wasn’t feeling all that settled, especially not at seven thirty in the morning.

  I rolled my eyes at that thought and decided I should probably apply an additional layer of concealer to mask the blotchy dark circles that had formed under my eyes. Restful sleep was hard to come by. Most times when I closed my eyes my brain went back to the same dream.

  I instinctively turned to the side in my full-length mirror to evaluate my physique. I was a bit eager to see if the torturous supplemental liquid diet I had been on for the last two weeks had actually helped my muffin top appear less pudgy. Within seconds I knew I wasn’t that lucky. In clothes I could pull off the flat stomach look, naked, not so much.

  I appraised myself in the mirror once more, making a mental note to enjoy a greasy slice of DiMaggio’s pizza the next chance I got, although I was certain that inhaling cheese and pepperoni wouldn’t assist me in my attempts to obtain the status of “gym rat.” Who was I kidding? I hadn’t been to the YMCA in six months. My membership was probably expired.

  In my family I was always considered the cute one—the five-seven statuette with soft, wavy, black hair and complementary cognac skin. Thanks to my mother’s genes I was slightly endowed in the chest and derriere areas. My apple face and brown, almond-shaped eyes provided depth to my facial features. Mike, my not so recent ex-boyfriend, persistently reminded me that I had a “pretty face.” Never mind the fact that his bullshit peddling was his halfcocked attempt at bolstering my self-esteem so I’d look beyond the fact that he was a cheating jackass while we were together. Supposedly I had forced him into the arms of another woman since I wouldn’t give up my cookies after five seconds of dating. I growled at that thought and impaled the plug of my flat iron into the electrical outlet and turned on my shower faucet.

  Wrapped in a towel, I stood in front of my closet, curling my toes around one of the T-shirts in the pile of clothing that was overflowing past my built in storage space. At one point in my life, I’d tried to be one of those narcissistic women who organized their clothes in color-blocked sections on potpourri hangers. Unfortunately, I just wasn’t cut from that organizational cloth.

  As I bent down to riffle through my garments, I realized that the gnawing back pain I had been experiencing lately was pleasantly absent. Maybe the new mattress I purchased from MattressPros was actually living up to its reputation? Too bad the mattress set me back a cool fifteen hundred dollars on a store line of credit. Luckily they were running an interest-free promotion.

  My eyes landed on the neon green numbers on my nightstand clock, reminding me that it was well past seven forty and I needed to get a move on. I abruptly kicked clothes from underneath my feet while I exited my small walk in closet with my fashion picks for the day. I decided on my infamous black and crème polka dot dress—coincidentally, the least-wrinkled option of all my wardrobe choices.

  If I earned a dollar every time someone at work stopped me and commented that my dress looked “just like the one Julia Robert’s wore in Pretty Woman!” I most certainly would have amassed a hefty nest egg. I honestly didn’t know how many more times I could hear that line before I would undoubtedly develop a complex.

  I slipped my A-line dress over my head and buckled the matching belt into place on my waist. I opted to pair my dress with off black diamond cutout tights and red pumps. As a final touch, I snatched my cubic zirconia studs from my dilapidated jewelry box and screwed them into their rightful place in my pierced ears.

  I turned off my bedroom light and retreated back to my bathroom to paint my face and tame my hair. As usual, I was running behind since I’d taken too long in the shower.

  “Where is my mascara?” I groaned aloud, rummaging through my makeup bag.

  “Look who’s up and at ‘em! Ugh, I’m so tired!” Alex chirped at me as my fingers finally located my mascara tube at the bottom of my bag. Alex was leaning on the doorframe, watching me finish my morning ceremonials.

  “Of course you are,” I countered cynically. “What were you going to tell me earlier?”

  “Remember that new book I told you about, Ride ‘Em Cowgirl?” Alex asked in a singsong voice.

  Alex had recently attended a pleasure party hosted by one of her colleagues and purchased the naughty and nice book. I could see the mischief in her hazel eyes as she waited for a response. The light from the overhead bathroom lamps reflected off the faint burgundy highlights she had foiled into her long chestnut hair a few weeks ago. The color really complemented her honey skin and high cheekbones. Her broad-tipped nose and light pink lips accentuated her overall appearance. Alex’s natural beauty was unmatched, but it was her kindheartedness that had maintained our friendship over the last several years. There was no denying that Providence had a hand in her creation.

  I lifted an eyebrow and shifted my eyes in her direction, “Uh-huh…” I responded haphazardly, trying not to poke my eye out with the mascara brush.

  “Well, girl, let me tell you…the book lives up to the hype! Jay and I tried out a few things last night…I’ll spare you the details since it's so early in the morning!” she bleated out, full of glee. “We need to work on getting you a man so we can compare notes!” she said, leering in my direction and crossing her arms authoritatively. I knew that stance all too well—she wanted me to heavily consider her not-so-subtle suggestion.

  While it was true that Alex was notorious for sharing too much information when it came to her love life, I did get a bit jealous of her relationship at times. I’d never admit that to her though. Alex and Jay recently hit nine years together and although they had their share of rough patches, they were completely compatible. Jay had even followed Alex to the East Coast. He resigned from his project manager position at Sussex Management in Los Angeles and called Alex from Dulles airport. With Jay finding himself essentially homeless and unemployed, I agreed to let him move in with Alex and me. Jay’s infectious personality made it easy to be around him, so our living arrangement didn’t bother me. After a few frustrating months of job hunting, he landed a position at DCM Project Management on the outskirts of Maryland.

  “Gee...thanks for that update and highly unnecessary visual. I think I just vomited a little in my mouth,” I muttered. “For the millionth time Alex, I am perfectly ha
ppy being single.” Okay, so I had become overly familiar with the bullet vibrator that she’d given me as a gag gift on my twenty-second birthday—so what?

  “Maybe I am not meant to find my ‘Mr. Right’ at the moment, and I for one am so over settling for ‘Mr. Right Now.’ Shall I refer you to my most recent debacle—Mike?”

  “While I agree that he was a loser, that tragedy was over two and a half years ago, Brooklyn.”

  Had it really been that long? I recounted the months and discovered that she was right. Mike and I were over before we’d ever got close to being intimate.

  In my heart, I longed to possess the type of euphoric chemistry and commitment Alex and Jay shared. I certainly never had that with Mike—and the one time I thought I was close, Damon, Jay’s cousin, abruptly pulled the plug on our four-year romance. Damon had scarred me to my core. Even though it had been three years, my heart was still attempting to recover from that harsh pulverization...and using Mike as my rebound only resulted in pure catastrophe.

  “Finished” I said, out loud. I was done putting on my makeup, and I definitely wanted to shut down any further conversation that revolved around my love life.

  I took one last glance at myself in my bathroom mirror and shut off the light. I was content with my rushed styling job.

  I hadn’t pulled off a trendy or sophisticated look, but my appearance was acceptable for the low-level assistant position that I held at Copple, the small marketing firm where I was Trent Walker’s servant. I was certainly thankful I had managed to hold onto my job during the economic recession, but that didn’t make heading into the office any easier.

  I transplanted to D.C. from Southern California, opting to trade sunrays for snow when I thought my employment prospects would be better in a metropolitan area that wasn’t overrun with wannabe starlets.