Sweet Insanity
Copyright © 2018 by Desireé Adele
ISBN-13: 978-1726486873
ISBN-10: 1726486877
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cassie Robertson—Editor, Joy Editing
Karen McVino—Proofer, Expressive Editing
Melissa Panio-Petersen—Cover Designer
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Epilogue
Thank You
About the Author
For my Mother. My light and my way.
For Kate. Thank you for your endless faith and support. This book would not be here if not for you.
SOMEONE IS SHOVING A SHOT filled with amber liquid in my face. I’m so blasted at this point that I have to pour all of my concentration into lifting my arm and gripping the glass tightly so it won’t slip. I don’t even recognize the jackass who’s all but lifting my chin and pouring the liquor down my throat. I squint in an attempt to try to remember if I know him from somewhere. But his tall, wiry frame and a nose that’s clearly been busted a time or two aren’t ringing any bells. A fucking stranger in my apartment, shooting the eighteen-year-old whiskey my father got me. He, my brother, and I were supposed to crack it open after I graduate college. I guess that means shit all now.
Twisting to look over my shoulder, all I can see is a blur of people swarming like flies over a pile of dog shit, but then my gaze shifts to a specific spot in the center of the cream-colored rug. The location where our lips first touched in a kiss that turned my world on its head. My hand rises to my chest when the looming threat of my heart bursting from the thoughts of her amplifies.
I throw down the shot, not giving enough of a shit to appreciate its bold, complex flavor. I don’t even wince at the fire trailing down my throat. Everything in me is numb at this point. Of its own accord, my hand reaches around to my back pocket, patting it in search of my phone. Then I realize I left it upstairs in my room to avoid texting the one person who makes me feel as amazing as the first day I put on a pair of skates and hit the rink.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I notice a hand reaching across the kitchen island toward the whiskey bottle. My gaze trails up the arm and rests momentarily on a pair of tits barely contained by a sparkling silver halter top. I don’t need to look at her face to know who she is. Even with my mind swirling from a hefty mix of liquor and beer, I know her well.
She rests her elbows on the counter, her ass jutting out and her breasts pressing against the laminated wood. “My, you’re quiet tonight, Zack.”
She pours another shot into her glass and hands it to me. My eyes linger on it skeptically before I take it and toss it back.
“Hey, Christie.” I greet her through clenched teeth but don’t comment further, willing her to walk away.
Her glossy red lips purse, and there’s a small twinkle of amusement in her eyes. “So, uh, where’s your girlfriend? Haven’t spotted her anywhere tonight.”
My teeth sink into the inside of my bottom lip. “She’s not here.”
Pushing herself off the island, she turns then leans herself back on her forearms. “Word around is that you two broke up.” A glimmer of cunning in her hazel eyes betrays her sugary sweet tone.
A forced laugh escapes me. “You always believe every shitty word that comes out people’s mouths?” The slur in my voice takes too much work to hide at this point.
Her eyebrows rise, that duplicitous look in her eyes still gleaming brightly. “Oh, I see.” She turns to pour herself another shot, looking me over with interest. “So . . . you are still together?”
I snatch the glass from her hand before it reaches her lips. About twelve dollars’ worth of scotch spills over my knuckles before the glass makes it to my mouth.
My silence gives me away, and a devilish smirk washes over her face. “See? Not every rumor is fabricated out of thin air.”
I’m surprised she even used the word ‘fabricated’ correctly in a sentence. Turning toward me, her chest pressing up against my shoulder, she drags a French manicured nail up the inside of my forearm, leaving a dull white line in its wake. I shoot her a suspicious glare.
“Why don’t we go upstairs and talk about it? I’m a great listener, you know,” she declares.
“I’m really not—”
She silences me with a finger on my lips. The sharply pointed tip of her nail digs into the skin below my nose. She leans in closer. “Just to talk.”
Her breath smells like a mix of spearmint and woody scotch. Spearmint, not the sweet scent of cinnamon I’ve come to love so much.
My eyes squeeze shut. Fuck it. I’ve already lost her, and if I haven’t completely, it’s bound to happen at some point. May as well swing the ax and sever us with one quick blow rather than chip away at us bit by b
it until we realize there’s nothing left.
Christie’s hand wraps around my forearm. I pull myself up off of the stool, smacking a hand on the counter to steady myself as I sway from the alcohol-laden blood rushing to my head. Smiling wickedly, she pulls me up the staircase. My mind’s too foggy to convince me otherwise. I wonder, as we ascend, if it’s possible to lose everything twice in a lifetime.
THE ROOM ECHOES WITH THE loud thud as my back hits the blue mat. Though I’m wearing protective head gear, the sheer impact sends a dull ring sounding in my ears.
A hand slightly blemished with the signs of age hauls me to my feet. “You left yourself open, paidí mou.”
The man has fifty knocking at his door, yet Christos’s energy and fluidity reveals not age, but diligence and raw talent.
After sliding off the head gear, I drop it on the mat with a smack and smooth back the hair sticking to the perspiration on my forehead. “I know.”
He gives me a tender smile. The very same smile I saw eleven years ago. On the day he saved my life. Placing a conciliatory hand on my shoulder, he hunches and stares directly into my eyes with his own whiskey-colored irises. “When you make eye contact with your opponent, you miss blocking potential strikes.”
The trilling Rs of his thick Greek accent roll over my ears.
His index finger points at my sternum. “Assume their eyes will deceive you and instead look at the center of the body. Their extremities will be in your line of sight.”
Following his direction, I fix my gaze on his chest, watching intently when the barest shift in his shoulder has me throwing up an arm to block when he moves in for a strike.
His answering smile is a greater reward than any grade of belt I’ve received in all my years of training under him. Offering a grateful nod, I head to the back room to change.
He calls after me, “Moussaka for dinner tonight?”
“Only if I don’t have to cook it!” I shout back to the man I’ve lived with for over ten years.
Christos Anastas is my father. Well, my adoptive father. But the fact that we don’t share blood makes no difference to me. He’s been more of a true father to me than many biological fathers out there.
I’ve no idea who my biological father is or was. Truth be told, I don’t think my mother even knew. The only glimpse of my father I’ve ever had is when I look at my crystal-blue eyes in a mirror. My mother’s were a mahogany brown, only really noticeable when her pupils weren’t freakishly dilated.
When we make it home, I head straight for the shower and the steamy hot spray that will relieve the tension in my sore muscles. Doesn’t matter how much protective wear you have on, when it comes to mixed martial arts or MMA, you’re going to walk away with some bumps and bruises. It’s all par for the course. In the controlled environment of training, I’ve found solace within the pain. It almost alleviates the ardent numbness and apathetic frame of mind I tend to fall into. The pain pulls me to a place where I’m alive and breathing, one where I actually feel.
As I step out of the shower, I’m met with the intoxicating aroma of meat sauce and roasting eggplant. I quickly towel off and throw on my PJs—a sleep shirt and pants peppered with little suns and moons. Christos must be feeling bad about the takedown earlier; moussaka is one of my favorites.
Once I’ve moisturized and pulled my hair back into a tight French braid, I plop myself down face-first on the bed and huff out a sigh of exhaustion. My backpack taunts me from where it leans on my nightstand. I have a quiz tomorrow in criminal psychology and should probably review some of the material.
After reluctantly pushing myself off my bed, I pull out my textbook and my laptop and rest the latter atop my crossed legs. As I scour through my notes, I notice a couple of things I can’t recall being discussed in class. Not because I wasn’t paying attention or lost myself in some daydream. I take my studies seriously. Nope, it’s because of him.
Zack Graves, aka Chester Chatterbox. The guy who sits behind me in class. The idiot never puts his phone on silent, so all I hear as I’m doing my damndest to listen to Professor Cormac’s monotonous drone is the faint clicking sound of his phone’s keyboard and the rage-inducing ping of an incoming text. My best friend insists I’m a neurotic nutcase whenever I complain about it. But if the shoe were on the other foot, I’ll bet she’d be just as pissed off.
No sooner does my laptop close than Christos calls me down for dinner. When I enter the kitchen and see him pulling the steaming baking dish out of the oven, I can practically taste it.
“Smells fantastic!” I say as I reach into the cupboard and pull out a set of plates and glasses.
After placing an ample helping on each floral-patterned plate, we grab our dishes and meander to the kitchen table. I’ve already stolen a bite before reaching it.
“You should be proud of how far you’ve come in your training, paidí mou.” His tone hints that there’s more coming. I look at him, and his eyes shine with pure pride. “I think you’re ready to begin teaching some classes.”
My fork clatters onto the porcelain plate with a clang. “Really?”
The creases of his laugh lines deepen with his grin. “I wouldn’t say so if I didn’t mean it.” He places his large hand over mine before continuing. “I believe in you. And while I know you have your own goals for a career, I hope you’ll consider it. You have much to offer.”
My face practically splits in two from the smile I can’t contain, and I can only thank him. Not just for the offer of apprenticeship, but for everything he’s given me throughout the past eleven years.
THE RHYTHMIC BOOM OF THE bass bounces off the walls in my apartment. From my place at the center island, I hear plates and glasses clinking within the kitchen cabinets. I’m not usually so antisocial, but I’ve got a splitting headache and a quiz in class tomorrow. If Professor Cormac’s pointed glare tells me anything, it’s that he wants my ass out of the classroom ASAFP. As soon as fucking possible.
Throwing a party tonight wasn’t my idea. That’s all fucking Keith. My roommate, professional jackass, and best friend. Out of the two of us, he seems to be the one who never grew out of the freshman party stage. If I’m being completely honest, I haven’t fully grown out of it either. Not sure if that’s my own doing or thanks to Keith’s influence. Probably both.
I take a swig of my beer. Maybe I need to get laid. It’s been . . . fuck, when was the last time I got any action? Three weeks? Maybe a month? A legit eternity for me. I may as well go out and get myself a chastity ring and parade around with the Jonas Brothers. Wait, didn’t they vow to abstain from sex until marriage? If that’s the case, then I blew that chance when I was fifteen.
This unintentional celibacy is not from a shortage of willing participants. Half the girls in the room are probably hoping to get me in the sack. I’m not being a cocky jackass; it’s the truth, plain and fucking simple. Being one of the top centers for our school’s championship winning hockey team will have girls dropping their panties for you at the snap of your fingers.
And hell if I didn’t capitalize on that last year. A different chick in my bed nearly every night. It was the time of my fucking life. Until a number of the girls assumed that one night with me was the equivalent of sticking a flag in my ass and claiming me theirs. That was a lesson well learned.
But considering I’d like to continue getting laid without subsequently being stalked—and a relationship is one hundred percent off the table—I’ve got a couple of girls a short text away if I need to blow off some steam. A booty call. Girls who know the score and shed their clothes for me with zero expectations outside of the bedroom. It’s a pretty perfect system, if I do say so myself.
Keith ambles over, a red Solo cup in one hand, his other arm slung over the shoulders of a busty brunette. “Z-Man, this is downright sad.” A touch of a slur warbles his voice. “All this honey fresh from the fucking hive and you’re sitting here like you’re afraid to get stung. You been all right lately?”
I plaster on a phony smile and swill back the remainder of my beer. “Nah, man, I’m good.”
I lean back over my chair and aim the empty bottle toward the trash can on the other side of the kitchen. A small rush of pride fills my chest when it drops into the bag. Could’ve had a career in basketball if I really wanted one.
Keith nuzzles the brunette’s face with his nose, and she gives him a cheeky giggle. “This little honey bee is Jacqueline.” He nods toward a group of girls standing behind them and suggestively raises his eyebrows at me. “Jacqueline here was sweet enough to bring some friends. Pretty little flowers all ready to be pollinated.”
I have to stifle a laugh at his drunken attempt to pronounce pollinated. Shit, he is plastered. He couldn’t even stick to the same metaphor.
I stand and stretch my arms behind my back, maybe a little more dramatically than necessary. “I’m gonna call it a night. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do the same before Coach benches your ass.”
His arm moves from Jacqueline’s shoulder to, by the delightful squeal she releases, her ass. “Coach is all bark and no bite. I’ll never understand why you act like he’s going to spank you or something.”
Shaking my head, I make my way toward the stairs, letting him hang on to that drunken thought and knowing full well that this party is likely to rage on until the wee hours of the morning. The exact ‘type’ of party it is will likely change as the night wears on though. I’m just hoping he keeps his escapades on the couch. Apparently, if he’s drunk enough, Keith turns into Steven Tyler in the sack. I’m still waiting for the night he breaks into “Dream On” in the middle of sex.
Once I’ve made it to my room, I strip down to my briefs and climb into bed. Not only can I still hear the bass from downstairs, I can feel my fucking bed vibrating from it. Which would be useful if a chick was with me.
My phone lights up with a buzz from my nightstand. I unlock it with a swipe and open my texts. Speak of the devil.
Christie: Just got out of work. U free?
Ah. Christie. A sorority chick with the body of a fucking swimsuit model. One of my frequent riders. Christie and I first hooked up at a holiday bash her sorority threw. The chick is a freak in bed. Not a damn thing I can’t do to her, and the best part is, no strings attached—a stipulation she seems to be forgetting lately. Hence why it’s been so long. And believe it or not, the novelty of it all has been getting old.
Sweet Insanity (Sweet Series Book 1) Page 1