OTHER CONTEMPORARY NOVELS
BY SAMANTHA TOWLE
Revved
Revived
Trouble
THE STORM SERIES
The Mighty Storm
Wethering the Storm
Taming the Storm
PARANORMAL ROMANCES
BY SAMANTHA TOWLE
The Bringer
THE ALEXANDRA JONES SERIES
First Bitten
Original Sin
Copyright © 2015 by Samantha Towle
All rights reserved.
Visit my website at www.samanthatowle.co.uk
Cover Designer: Najla Qamber Designs
Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Craig, you saved my ass on this one. You are always saving my ass.
I honestly couldn’t live without you.
I love you.
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
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue: Evie
Epilogue: Adam
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The shower’s running.
Not a good sign when you live alone. It can mean only one thing. I brought a hook-up back to the bungalow.
Fuck.
Fighting my eyes open against the morning light streaming into my bedroom, snapshot memories of last night begin to dance around my pounding head.
Max turned up at my office. Talked me into going out and drinking with him.
Shots. Way too many shots.
Then, two women came over to join us.
One was blonde, a natural, with long wavy hair. Petite body. She even had hazel eyes. Her face was pretty, not beautiful like Evie’s but pretty enough. Because of that, I couldn’t help myself. I had to have her. Not because she was hot—which, of course, she was—and not because I just wanted to get laid. No, it was none of those things.
I fucked the blonde because she looked exactly like Evie, my ex-wife.
I can’t believe I did it again. Jesus, I really am a sick fuck.
Trust me, what I’ve done is like an alcoholic falling off the wagon.
I don’t have a sex addiction—even though I do like sex a lot. No, I have an addiction to fucking women who look like my ex-wife.
Sick, right?
Well, I had an addiction, which apparently has kicked back into play.
Fuck!
I haven’t pulled this crap in a really long time. Up until last night, for five years—barring a slip-up three years ago—I’d successfully avoided having sex with any women who reminded me of Evie.
Three fucking years down the drain.
I’d actually thought I was cured. Guess not.
For a long time, after Evie had left me, all I did was screw random Evies. All they had to be was petite with long blonde hair, and I would let my imagination do the rest.
According to my therapist, screwing Evie’s look-alikes was my way of dealing with her abandoning me. Supposedly, I was trying to re-create the one time in my fucked-up life when I had felt truly happy—before it all went to shit.
Funny because, even though my life had sucked before Evie, ultimately, she was the sole reason it went down the path straight to hell.
I should’ve known from the moment I met her that, eventually, she’d be my downfall. I mean, I am Adam, and she’s my fucking Eve. It had been written in the cards.
My therapist said I was mourning the loss of her, like she’d died or something. Maybe if she had, it would have been easier. At least I’d have known why she’d left me.
But no, all I got—after a year together and one week of marriage—was Evie disappearing without a word.
I mean, we had been fine, happy even. Or so I’d thought. I had gone out on my one-week-late bachelor party, kissing her good-bye before leaving, and when I got home, waiting on the coffee table for me were annulment papers with her signature on the dotted line, a note beside it saying, Sorry, and her wedding ring sitting on top of it.
And that was it.
I haven’t seen or spoken to her since. That wasn’t for my lack of trying. Of course, I repeatedly rang her cell. I left her panicked, then angry, and then just plain old desperate voice mails. And I kept calling until her mailbox was full.
A few days later, her number was disconnected.
Even then, I still refused to believe she’d just left me.
So, like the sad fuck I was, I tried to find her. I hired the best PI in California to look for her.
But after a few weeks of trying, he came up dry. It was like she’d fallen off the face of the planet.
I didn’t want him to give up though. I offered him a shitload more money to keep trying, but he told me there was no point. He said the reason he couldn’t find Evie was because she didn’t want to be found.
And there it was. I had my answer.
She’d really left me.
She was gone, and I was never going to see her again.
Up until that point, I’d held things together with the hope that he’d find her, and I could bring her back home.
But that was never going to happen.
That was when I fell apart. I couldn’t breathe, like I was suffocating from the pain. It was the worst kind of agony.
I just needed to forget—forget everything, forget her.
So, the first thing I did after leaving the PI’s office was go and score some coke, which was easy enough to do in my world. I had used coke in the past, pre-Evie, for recreational use. That was the norm in my so-called privileged world.
I snorted that fucker on the spot, and a small sense of relief washed over me, but it wasn’t anywhere near enough. I was looking for total oblivion. So, I took another hit, and then I left the dealer with an eight ball in my hand to get me through the rest of the night. Next up, I went to a bar, and I started drinking with the intention of never stopping until, at the very least, I was comatose.
Unfortunately, I woke up the next morning with that same agonizing, suffocating desolate feeling.
I just wanted death to come and fucking take me.
As I came around, my skull pounding from the drugs and alcohol, I discovered that I was in bed with an unfamiliar girl beside me. But as I looked at this girl’s face, I realized she didn’t look so unfamiliar. Actually, she looked a hell of a lot like Evie. They could have been sisters, given the right lighting. Then, the girl woke up while I was staring at her. She smiled as she put her hand on my cock, and I felt a strange sense of relief.
Without another thought, I fucked her again. And it was in those first few second
s of pushing my cock inside the nameless Evie look-alike that I didn’t feel like I was going to die.
There was nothing. I was numb, free of the pain.
And that was when I realized that screwing someone who looked like Evie would free me from the pain more than coke ever would, not that it’d stop me from snorting it in tandem with sex. They just kind of went hand in hand.
But from that moment on, I’d search out that nothingness like a sniffer dog tracking drugs.
I never slept with the same girl twice. No, because in my fucked-up brain, it felt like a betrayal against the only woman I’d ever loved—you know, the one who had left me in this fucking mess.
So, screwing these women once was fine. Twice would be a betrayal that I apparently couldn’t do.
I know. It’s fucked up.
But this was my life for the next five years.
When the pain was unbearable, which was pretty regularly, I would take some coke and go out to a bar alone. I’d stay out until I found someone who looked enough like Evie to get me through the night. I’d chat her up with sweet words and empty promises—not that it was ever hard for me to get laid. Then, I’d take her back to her place or a hotel, a pub restroom, or an alleyway—I wasn’t fussy, so long as I could fuck myself into oblivion—and I’d feel that comforting numbness that would get me through a few more days.
It was an addiction I couldn’t seem to break, not until my father died. Trust me, it wasn’t the grief that made me want to sort out my life. No, it was the glaring fact that I didn’t want to die in some shitty hotel room with coke up my nose and a faceless lay next to me in bed—like he had.
Although my lay would have been female, unlike his.
My father was men all the way, much to my mother’s dismay. That was only because she was worried about his preference for men getting out and ruining her public image.
So, when my father died, after five years of living with my coke and sex addiction, I put myself into rehab. I found out from my counselor that I didn’t actually have a sex addiction. I was addicted to having sex with women who looked like my ex-wife.
Tragic, right? Yeah, well, tragic is my middle fucking name.
Two years after rehab, I did fall off the wagon once when I thought I saw Evie.
I was in San Francisco. My studio was shooting a movie there, and they were having problems on the set. Basically, the director was threatening to walk out on the movie because the lead actress was being a mega bitch. That mega-bitch actress was my mother. So, I had to go there to handle her because no one else could.
When I was driving through the city, heading to the set, I swore to God, I saw Evie walking down the street.
By the time I pulled over and went to look for her, I saw no sign of her.
I was sure it was her.
Looking back, it was probably just another look-alike. I was always good at finding them.
Even still, I was so convinced that it was Evie that I got back in touch with my PI and had him look into it.
Yet again, he came to me a few days later with nothing.
That night, I got drunk off my ass and fucked an extra from the set who had long blonde hair and a tight ass. She looked like Evie from behind. And, yes, I kept her faced away from me the whole time I was screwing her.
Pathetic, I know.
That was when I figured it was time to get myself another therapist.
And I got a damn good one, and he helped me stay Evie-look-alike free.
Until last night.
What triggered last night’s occurrence, I have no clue.
A few days ago would have been my and Evie’s wedding anniversary, if we had made it that far. But these last three years, I’d gotten through those missed anniversaries without slipping.
So, aside from that, nothing else happened to set me off—except for a lot of alcohol, which wasn’t a rare occurrence when I went out drinking with Max. We usually got drunk and then got laid.
I’m not celibate. I did abstain for a time as part of my therapy. But that was a while ago.
Now, my goal is to just avoid having sex with Evie look-alikes.
I have tried to date in the past, but I could never get it to work. Trust is a big issue for me. Basically, I don’t trust anyone with a vagina. I think that, essentially, all women are untrustworthy cold bitches.
My therapist is still working on that one.
Apparently, that comes from mommy issues as well as my ex-wife issues.
As you can see, I’m not a good candidate for a relationship.
But I am a guy, one who works hard and likes to fuck harder. So, I still have one-night stands but just in a healthier manner. I have sex with brunettes or those with black, pink, blue, purple, or red hair. Any color goes, except for blonde. Taller chicks are better, as Evie was tiny. I avoid any temptation I can. Skin color doesn’t matter. I don’t discriminate. I screw anyone I find attractive, but for my own sanity’s sake, I avoid small blondes who remotely resemble my ex-wife.
Or should I say, I did until last night when my drunken self thought it would be a good time to fall off the wagon.
My therapist will be so proud. Guess I’m going to have to call him.
I scrub my hands over my face, letting out a long tired breath.
I’m really not looking forward to facing the look-alike, and I need to get to work. I have back-to-back meetings all day.
Grabbing my cell, I check the time. Seven thirty. Among the emails and messages filling my screen, I see a couple of texts from Max from late last night.
Just for the record, I tried to talk you out of taking the Evie look-alike home. I all but threw my brunette at you. THAT is how good of a friend I am. And it had nothing to do with the fact that the blonde told us she was a gymnast, and I wanted to screw her.
So, tell me, was she as bendy as she looked?
Fucker. Laughing, I shake my head.
Max is my oldest and best friend. We’ve known each other since high school and come from the same background. We both have crappy parents, so we jelled immediately. He knows all about my problem. Max went through the whole Evie thing with me from start to finish. There are only two people I trust in this shitty world, and Max is one of them.
I hear the shower turn off, so I quickly text him back.
Good to know that you wanted to screw someone who looked like my ex-wife, fuckface.
I get an instant response.
Hey, fucker! Good morning to you, too. And I never said I wanted to screw her because she looked like Evie. I said I wanted to screw her because she was a fucking GYMNAST!
I let out another laugh as I type a reply.
You’re a sick man, Max.
Then, I finish off the message.
And, yes, she was as bendy as she looked.
Dropping my cell on the bed, I glance longingly at the swimming pool right outside my door. I don’t even have time for my morning swim. My mornings always feel off if I haven’t been in the water. And this morning definitely feels off. Surfing would be my ideal way to start the day, but that will have to wait until the weekend, like always, when I can get to my beach house.
God, I fucking hate the corporate life.
On a sigh, I get up and pull on last night’s boxer shorts. I don’t want to have the uncomfortable morning-after conversation with the look-alike with my junk hanging out.
I’ve just covered my goods when the look-alike, whose name has evaded me, comes wandering into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel.
I inhale sharply as I see the reason why I fell off the wagon.
Fuck. She really does look like Evie.
A hell of a lot more than I expected. That, combined with last night’s consumption of alcohol, explains my current predicament.
I really went all out last night.
The look-alike smiles at me, biting the corner of her lip. Her hand is gripping the top of the towel, holding it in place.
I can’t do anything but stare at her.
I feel like my insides are twisting in all the wrong directions, and I have the sick urge to fuck her again.
Jesus Christ.
I close my eyes to break the connection.
“Is this as awkward for you as it is for me?” she asks softly.
I open my eyes and stare over her shoulder. “Yeah.” More than you’ll ever know.
She lets out a laugh, squeaky and high-pitched. It’s nothing like Evie’s soul-touching soft laugh.
Fuck.
She needs to go—now.
“Look”—I scratch the back of my neck as I take a step toward my bathroom—“I’ve gotta jump in the shower and get ready for work. I’m running late already. You okay to let yourself out?”
“Oh…yeah, sure.”
I hear the disappointment in her voice loud and clear.
Instead of feeling like shit, I just feel relieved that she’ll be getting the hell out of here, and I can pretend that last night didn’t happen.
“Cool.” I tap a hand on the doorframe and disappear into the bathroom before she can say anything more.
Pulling my boxer shorts off, I turn the shower on hot and step inside. I put my head under the spray and close my eyes. But all I can see behind my lids is Evie’s face.
“Fuck!” I hiss, punching my fist against the tiled wall.
After ten years, I’m not over her, and I’m still pulling this same shit.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
God, I hate myself. And I hate Evie.
I hate her for living her life without me.
And I hate that I haven’t been able to live without her.
Because, really, all I have done for the last decade is exist inside the haze of my memories of her.
Half an hour later, I’m showered and dressed for work in a suit and tie. I hate ties, but as the head of Gunner Entertainment, I have to look the part.
I head into the living room of the bungalow I call home five days a week. There’s no sign of the blonde, except for the lingering strong scent of perfume.
Thank God.
I live in a rented bungalow at The Beverly Hills Hotel. I could get an apartment, but I can’t bring myself to put down roots here. Even though I grew up in Beverly Hills, it’s never felt like home.
When I Was Yours Page 1