Razor: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance

by Landish, Lauren

  “Why would I abandon the man that I love in his time of need?” I asked. “Even if he deserved it by leaving me all alone at the worse possible time.”

  “Ugh. Don’t remind me.” Mason massaged my arm gently. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

  “Maddy was definitely something else,” I said.

  Mason groaned. “Please.”

  I grinned. “Well hopefully she gets put in an Asylum so she can some help. She definitely needs it. ”

  Mason laughed. “It’s called a mental institution.”

  “Even though she doesn’t deserve it, I do hope she gets the help that she needs.”

  Mason pulled me into a warm embrace and kissed my forehead. “God, let’s hope so.”

  A few days later . . .

  “I have a surprise for you,” Mason announced from the table he was sitting at with his laptop in front of him. He’d been typing for the past hour, driving me absolutely crazy.

  I suspected whatever he was doing was important, because when I complained at him to type more lightly, he just ignored me and typed even faster.

  I looked up from the newspaper I was flipping through. I didn’t know why I was reading it, it was written in Spanish, but I could make out a few words here and there and it was kind of an interesting way to try to learn another language while Mason was absorbed with whatever it was he was doing.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Well, I can tell with how you’ve been acting that a life on the run just isn’t for you, even though you won’t come out and say it.”

  Damn, I thought. Was it really that obvious? “Well, you’re kind of right to be honest. Why, what’s the plan?”

  Mason grinned. “You’re not going to believe it.”

  “Tell me.”

  Mason grinned even wider.

  He loved withholding information from me until it drove me insane. But I assumed this must be good news — I hadn’t seen him this happy in a while.

  “Well I was thinking about what you said about Dad, about him finally realizing I’d done the right thing. Well, I gave him a call, and he’s helped broker a deal for my legal troubles.”

  My mouth was open so wide a whale could jump through it. “Say what?”

  Mason nodded, his dimpled smile reminding me of a beautiful sunrise. “You’re looking at a free man, baby!”

  Whooping for joy, I jumped up from the bed and ran to his side, hugging him against me. “So when can we go back home?!” I cried.

  “Right away, but,” Mason raised a finger to calm me, “there’s one catch, but it’s not a big deal.”

  My jubilation evaporated like a drop of water on a hot day, even though he’d just said it was nothing serious. “What?”

  “I have to agree to become a Cyber Security Consultant,” he informed, “and if I’m ever caught hacking again,” he made a slit motion across his throat, “the deal is off. I go to jail. Shadow isn’t going to like it — I owed him a favor, but he’ll have to get over it.”

  It didn’t sound like much of a catch to me — it sounded like good news. We could return home and not have to be scared of police knocking at the door one day, and on top of it, Mason had a job.

  “This really sounds too good to be true,” I said thoughtfully. “Do you think this is real, or is it just something your dad said? And what about Anonymous? Are they still angry with you . . .”

  Mason eyed me with mock astonishment. “Carly Belle Washington, I’m shocked. You getting paranoid on me?”

  I slapped him on the arm. “Cut it out. Seriously, you were right about everything thus far,” I shrugged.

  “Well, I’m glad to know I’ve been such a good influence on you.” Mason chuckled and then shook his head. “But no, it’s real. This kind of stuff happens all the time. Haven’t you heard about hackers who get caught committing a cyber crime, but then get reduced sentences for agreeing to work for the government?”

  “In the movies, I guess.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m going to be. The government’s whore until I’ve worked off my debt to them. Anonymous is going to let it slide, but I’ll never be welcome back into their group again . . . which works out anyway given the terms of the deal.”

  I bit my lower lip. “And what about Brian? You said he brokered this deal for you, but are you going to be able to find it in your heart to forgive him?”

  Mason’s eyes grew distant. “Well, we had a long talk, a heart to heart I guess you could say. And although things aren’t perfect, and probably won’t be for a long time, we’re on the right track.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I muttered. With the rift that had grown between Mason and Brian, I didn’t think the two would ever reconcile. “You two stubborn mules are finally coming around.”

  Mason nodded, ignoring my jest. “That’s not all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re waiting for us just over the border. To bring us back home — Dad and Sherry.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “Oh.” A couple of days ago I thought we’d be doomed to exile, always on the run, and now things were looking up.

  I pulled Mason into the tightest hug I could manage, my heart overflowing with joy at the look of hope in Mason’s eyes . . . the hope for new beginnings. “That’s so wonderful! I’m so happy for you . . . us.”

  Mason eschewed my hug and planted a giant kiss on my lips. “You damn well better be.”

  “Wait,” I said, after our smooch was done, pulling back. “Does Mom know that we’re in a relationship?”

  Mason pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Dad probably told her, but I don’t really know.”

  “Ugh,” I said, dreading the moment. “I can already hear the bitching now.”

  “You survived a crazy psycho bitch and being plowed by my monster cock, and you’re worried about a little complaining?” Mason joked.

  I playfully smacked him on the face. “When it’s my mom doing the complaining, then yes. Yes I am.”

  “We’ll have to take away your worries then.” Mason got up from his seat, picked me up in his arms and carried me over to the bed.

  “What are you doing?” I asked breathlessly.

  Mason grinned as he lowered me onto the bed and began taking off his shirt, exposing his rock hard abs. “About to give you something that you’ll treasure forever.”

  “Huh? You’ve already given it to me, and I will treasure it forever,” I said looking down at his growing bulge.

  There was a twinkle in his eye as he replied coyly, “That too. But I was talking about something special — someone special.” There was an odd lilt to his words that had me wondering.

  My breath quickened as I looked again at the gigantic bulge in his pants, until his meaning finally hit me.

  I began to protest, “but with everything happening, your new job, me starting my career, and our parents . . .”

  Mason pressed a finger against my lips, shushing me. “None of that matters. All that matters is what we feel for one another. I’ve wanted one thing since you walked into my life, Carly Belle Washington, and that one thing is you.”

  “And now a baby?” I asked incredulously. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This couldn’t be Mason Keller talking.

  Mason shook his head. “Not just any baby. The most talented baby ever to be born. Razor version 2.0.”

  “You’re insane!” I smacked him and laughed. Then I crossed my arms and scowled. “And who says I want you to give me said baby, huh? Especially at a time like this.”

  “Come on Carly,” Mason urged, leaning forward to deliver a kiss to my lips that left me wanting. “You know want it. Let me put a baby in the oven.”

  Shit. Mason was so damn irresistible when he turned on his charm. Who the hell was I kidding? Mason Keller wanted me to give him a baby. And if I knew anything, what Mason wanted, Mason always got.

  I wrapped my arms around his neck, my heart filling with joy as I pulled him int
o a deep passionate kiss and then said, “Go for it.”

  If you enjoyed this book, please take a moment to leave a review. As an independent author, I can use all the reviews I can get!

  Read on for the bonus novel, Addicted: A Bad Boy Romance. And don’t forget, if you enjoyed this book, join my mailing list and you’ll be notified of any future releases!

  Addicted: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance

  By Lauren Landish

  “Your lips would look great wrapped around my…”

  Who in the world tells a girl that on their first meeting? Tyler Locklin, that’s who. He’s filthy rich and arrogant with a set of abs that is the envy of all young men everywhere, and did I forget to mention devilishly handsome? He’s a bastard of the first order. I can’t stand to be in the same room with him.

  But with one wink or a flash of his mischievous grin, I go weak in the knees. It pisses me off. I’m supposed to hate him. He’s an asshole. Yet, I can’t help but be drawn to him because I’m . . . ADDICTED.

  * * *

  Prologue

  Victoria

  I squirmed beneath the silken sheets, the last vestiges of an earth-shattering orgasm coursing through my sweat-covered limbs. My breasts rose and fell below the sheets as I tried to catch my breath and regain control. After a while, my racing pulse slowly started to calm down as the tremors slowly receded. At last, a sigh escaped my lips as my body was flooded by a rush of hormones.

  It was always this way.

  He takes me, ravaging my body for everything that it’s worth . . . and then leaves. It’s a game he plays. He wants to leave me in a state of desperation, aching for more of his touch. Aching to feel his lips all over my body. He leaves, knowing that I’ll still be there when he comes back, wanting every piece of him.

  Bastard.

  I should’ve left him. I had every right to. But whenever I think I’ve finally had enough, I make up reasons why I can’t. Maybe it’s because he's one of the richest men in the country. Maybe it’s that incredible swagger or that cocky grin that says he can fuck any woman he wants. Or maybe it’s because I like feeling his eight-inch cock plowing through me like no tomorrow.

  The truth is, being with him is a huge ego boost for a girl like me. He’s handsome, powerful and mysterious, and I’m a small town girl with dreams of becoming big in the fashion world. Being with him is downright intoxicating. Addicting. And I can never get enough.

  There’s just one problem . . . he’s my stepbrother.

  Chapter 1

  Victoria

  A fool. That’s what my mother has always called me for choosing a career in the fashion industry. Why can’t I aspire to work in a real industry with more stability? She’d ask.

  “Because that’s always been my dream, Mother,” I’d say.

  “Well, sorry to tell you, sweetheart, but dreams don’t pay the bills.”

  Then she’d go on to berate me, telling me how much of a mistake I was making with my life. It got so bad that after I graduated from college and got a job as a personal assistant for one of the most popular designers in the city, Christine Finnerman, we had a huge falling out. I don’t know what it was with her and my pursuing my dream of fashion.

  Every day, she would call me to tell me that it wasn’t too late to turn around and do something else with my life. She would offer alternatives to my career choice—all of which I hated with a passion. For a while I put up with her not-so-subtle suggestions, but I was infuriated every second that I had to listen to her complaining, and it took great effort to hold it all in. I mean, isn’t it a parent’s duty to encourage their child's hopes, dreams and aspirations? Not so for my mother. She seemed to take a special kind of glee in telling me I was doing it all wrong.

  Finally, I could take no more. The feelings that I’d been holding back had boiled over and I soon started getting into shouting matches with my mother, saying things better left unsaid. Of course, none of these arguments ever ended well, and we ended up not speaking to each other for weeks at a time.

  It was so bad that when her wedding came about, I didn't go. She was marrying some filthy rich guy that she'd callously divorced my father for.

  I figured if she thought I was such a failure, then she wouldn’t want me showing up at her wedding, embarrassing her in front of her high-class guests.

  In truth, I also didn’t go because I was still angry about the divorce. My mother had up and left my dad without so much as an explanation, simply stating that she wasn’t happy in her marriage and hadn’t been for a very long time. I thought it had more to do with the new man she was seeing, who had a far, far larger bank account.

  After all, my mom has always had a taste for the finer things in life, you understand.

  It didn’t seem to hurt my father, however, since he had a new girlfriend half his age within a week of the divorce. My father, it seemed, had already been dipping his toes in the younger pool way before things turned south in his marriage. Perhaps it was the real reason why Mother left him. Whatever the case, despite being angry about the divorce, I didn’t approve of my father’s behavior either. The girl he was with was around my age and dumb as a sack of potatoes. To make matters worse, he had plans to marry her and start a family. Out of distaste, I started shunning my father’s company as well, because when it came down to it, I couldn’t tolerate a girl that was basically the same age as me being my stepmother.

  So here I am, in a big city, parentless, with only my dreams and aspirations to guide me.

  * * *

  A sharp voice snapped me to attention.

  “Where is my coffee?”

  I froze, a stack of papers filled with clothing designs, measurements and fashion models bundled in my arms. Slowly, I turned around to see Christine Finnerman, my boss, leaning against her desk, her palm resting against the polished wood. She impatiently tapped on her desk with her immaculate nails, making a clack, clack, clack sound.

  As usual, she was dressed as sharp as a tack. A white dress wrapped around her matronly frame, fitting her like a glove, and a shiny black belt circled her waist, giving her shapely figure a va-voom appearance. She was wearing black glossy heels I’d contemplate killing my mother for, and not one bit of her shoulder-length hair, which is a striking pepper gray, was out of place.

  “I’m sorry, Christine,” I said when I could finally manage, trying to push down the anxiety that was suddenly rushing up my throat. “I was just about to get it. I didn’t expect you to arrive ten minutes early.”

  Christine eyed me with contempt reserved for a dog. “One should always be prepared for the unexpected, especially in this industry.” She paused for dramatic effect. Hurry up. I swear she spoke the last words with her mouth closed.

  “Right away.”

  Scrambling in my three-inch Christian Dior heels—a job perk that I particularly enjoyed—I made my way to my desk that’s in the adjoining room to Christine’s office. I threw the stack down on it, breathing in and out, trying to catch my breath. I was wearing a tight black dress that makes it difficult for me to breathe as well as move because it’s a size too small. Christine told me that at a size eight, I’m fat by industry standards, so I’d started trying to squeeze into smaller dress sizes, hoping that the discomfort would encourage me to lose weight.

  Once I thought I could breathe again, I scurried over to the professional Keurig machine that sat in the hallway leading up to Christine’s office. A few seconds later, I’m setting down a steaming mug on her desk.

  I stepped back and beamed proudly as if I'd just won a nationwide competition. “Will that be all?” I asked her, my tone respectful.

  Christine didn't even bother to look up at me as she flipped through the pages of a fashion book. “You may go,” she said, motioning her hands as if she was shooing a fly.

  I turned away, feeling dejected. I hated how Christine treated me, but I was used to it. I saw my tenure as her indentured slave as a necessary sacrifice. As one of the most powerful wom
en in the fashion world, working for Christine would open up many doors for me.

  And once that door opens, I’m going to run through it, slam it, and never look back.

  I made it to the door before Christine spoke again. “Oh, and Victoria, I need you to call Adam Pierre to tell him I won’t be attending his show next week.”

  I turned back around, my mouth agape like a frog. “But . . . Adam throws one of the biggest shows in the industry,” I dared to protest. “You can’t just not show up.”

  Christine looked up from her book, her expression sharp enough to cut glass.

  It was the only answer I needed.

  “I’ll get right on it,” I squeaked.

  I scurried back to my desk and flopped down in my seat. Blowing strands of hair out of my eyes in frustration, I took a deep breath and picked up the phone. Did I mention that I really hated working for Christine? I consider myself a pretty headstrong girl who can speak up for myself whenever I feel like I’m being mistreated, but in the face of Christine Finnerman’s wrath, I became a doormat—mainly because I so desperately needed my job.

  I quickly dialed Pierre’s number.

  “Bonjour?”

  I was surprised when Pierre himself answered. Usually he had some lackey to handle his affairs, but when Christine Finnerman was calling, I guess even if you're the busiest honcho in town, you have time.

  “Mr. Pierre?” I asked nervously. “This is Victoria Young, Christine Finnerman’s assistant.”

  “Ah yes, Victoria,” Pierre said in his heavy French accent. “Christy has told me a lot about you.”

  None of it good, I’m sure.

  Sweat beaded my palms. “I’m sorry to tell you this, sir, but Christine has informed me that she must cancel for your upcoming show.”