Beautiful Storm
Authors: Megan Isaacs
Beautiful Storm
Copyright © 2015 Megan Isaacs
Cover Design:
Okay Creations
,
www.okaycreations.com
Photography:
Perrywinkle Photograph
y,
www.perrywinklephotography.com
Editing:
Eagle Eye Reads
,
www.eagleeyereads.weebly.com
Proof Reading:
Vivid Words Editing
,
www.vividwordsediting.com
Formatting:
Champagne Formats
,
www.champagneformats.com
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 the copyright owner except for the use of short quotations in a book review.
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. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
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 authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
[email protected]
|
www.meganisaacsauthor.com
This book is not intended for readers under the age of eighteen. Due to sexual content, possible triggers, and explicit language, reader discretion is advised.
Table of Contents
M
AC LIES ON
our bed. His gaze follows my every move as I put on my makeup. I’ve had to use several layers of foundation and powder, along with a little blush, to hide the yellowing bruise on my right cheek, so it’s taking a little longer than usual. It’s a different look for me, but one I’m getting used to. Before I was just a
swipe-the-mascara-and-go
type of girl. Luckily lips heal fast, and with some natural lipstick, I can barely see anything amiss.
I try hard to ignore the fact he’s here. He’s been by my side as much as possible over the last few days, it’s an annoying pattern he’s beginning to follow. This house is large, but no matter what room I’m in, he’s right behind me. He cries, tells me how sorry he is, and follows me around. Overpriced gifts and obscene-sized bouquets of flowers are sent to me, because throwing money around
obviously
makes everything better. I’m beyond sick and tired of his pathetic routine. It’s getting impossible to forgive him, and it’s slowly killed my love for him.
I’m no longer in gut-twisting, butterfly-inducing, heart-pounding love with him anymore. Sometimes I still get all these feelings, but with different connotations now. Not one of them is love. And in a strange way, that’s more painful than his fists.
“Where are you going, Liz?” He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up.
My stomach tightens at his enquiry. “I have that interview I told you about earlier this week. I’m meeting up with a guy named Noah Hamilton. He runs
Ignition
; it’s a mod shop for American muscle cars,” I reply, my tone flat.
In the mirror, I watch him walk towards me. “So what’s the interview for?”
Irritation at his question has me biting back my less than polite response. I take a deep breath and turn to face him. “He’s good, one of the best in his line of business. The magazine wants an article on him for the next edition. Christ, Mac. You know what I do for a living.”
“You like those muscle cars, don’t you? Ask him if he sells them. If you see one you like, just buy it. You know I won’t mind.”
There he goes again with the gifts. I think my brain just flew out the window, because the words spill from my mouth before I can stop them. “You do realise buying me ridiculous presents and skulking around at my side for days isn’t going to fix the problems between us, don’t you?”
His shoulders tense, but he takes steady breaths as he fights to remain calm. I hope it’s something he can achieve, as his pupils are normal-sized, and his usual alcoholic aroma is fairly mild compared to recent levels.
“Yes, Liz. I’m well aware that shit won’t fix our problems. Where the hell’s this coming from?”
“You’re joking, right?” I retort. “Where do you think it’s coming from? Have you looked at me this week at all? You beat me up, Mac. You dragged me by my hair up the bloody stairs.” My temper rises, along with my voice. “
You
banged my head against the wall.
You
hit me in the face.
You
kicked me in the stomach.
You,
Mac.
You
.
Did
.
That
.”
In my rage, I stand up and face him, now upset enough to be in his face, with my finger poking into his chest. But I should know better. Instant panic grips me, and I shy back away from him. Have I pushed him too far? We’ve never discussed Mac’s abusive behaviour.
“You need help,” I whisper. I chance a glance up at him, and I’m amazed to see complete bewilderment on his face, which quickly twists into an angry sneer.
Oh, God. He’s in serious denial.
With a slight lean forward, he’s in my space. “I don’t need fucking help!” Spittle flies from his mouth.
My fight or flight instincts emerge, and I recoil away from him. Perhaps I have no fight left. Complete shock at my reaction overrides his anger, and he battles to calm himself.
“Baby, I just need you. I don’t need shrinks, rehab, or any shit like that. I just… need you.” He reaches for me, softly this time, causing me to fight every instinct to run. Wrapping his arms around me, he drops his head down into the hollow of my neck. “I just need you,” he repeats.
Revulsion floods my body and bile rises in my throat. “I’ve got to go, Mac, otherwise I’ll be late for my interview.”
He lets me go, his expression still sombre. I turn and grab my bag and notes off the chair near the bed and walk out without looking back.
I’ve made it down the stairs when Alex, one of the bodyguards employed by Mac, stops me at the front door. His large but comforting hand encircles my upper arm. “You okay? I heard shouting. Has he hurt you?” His words are rushed and quiet.