Authors: Stylo Fantôme
Ang stole his roommate's car to get to Beacon Hill. He couldn't be positive where she was, but she had babbled on and on about wanting to get clean, so he had an idea. When he saw a Bentley parked sideways on a grass meridian, he knew he had guessed right. He leapt out of his car, not even bothering to shut it off. Banged on the front doors of the building, hoping to rattle a security guard. Nothing.
Ang ran around to the back, didn't even bother with wiggling the window. He kicked it completely in and then dropped in to the basement. He ran through the room, then up two flights of stairs. Found a high heel at the top. Ran in to the dividing areas between the locker rooms. Found another high heel. He ran through the female locker room first, praying she was in there, just passed out or puking. No such luck. He burst in to the main pool area.
There was a trail of stockings and a belt and a dress leading to the side of the pool. He ran along the edge and then didn't even think about it, just jumped in to the pool. She wasn't in very deep water, it only came up to his chest. Tate was floating on her back, her arms stretched out to the sides, legs dipping down a little in to the water. A Jack Daniel's bottle floated nearby. Ang pushed his way over to her, grabbed her under her arms. She was only wearing a bra and panties, and her skin was freezing to the touch. The pool wasn't heated at night.
“
God, Tate, what did you do!?” he shouted, cupping one hand under her jaw and looking down at her. Her chocolate eyes rolled towards him. Didn't quite focus. Looked over his shoulder. Around the room. At the ceiling. Her pupils were
huge
, swallowing her irises. She looked possessed.
Goddamn Satan.
“I'm good,” she mumbled. He began dragging her towards the edge.
“
You are so not good. This is so, so,
so not good,
” he groaned. She sighed and her eyes fluttered close.
“I'm good, Ang. I'm good,” she whispered.
He lifted her out of the pool and then climbed out after her. Whipped his jacket off and shoved it under her head, propping her up. He called her name, but she didn't open her eyes. He slapped her across the face. Still no reaction. He really started to panic.
Without a second thought, Ang opened her mouth and shoved two of his fingers down her throat. It didn't work the first time, but the second time he really jammed them down there. She heaved forward, rolling to the side as she vomited all over his hand and the floor.
“God, thank god, that's it. Get it all up,” Ang urged, rubbing her back. She sobbed and puked again. It was all liquid. Copious amounts of amber liquid.
Christ, how much did she drink!?
She finally fell back against him, crying. Her makeup was everywhere, streaming down her face. She was shivering, her whole body trembling. He looked down at her, wiping her hair off of her face. He had never seen Tate like that before, so broken down. It hurt his heart.
“I'm sorry,” she sobbed, reaching one hand up and grabbing onto his shirt. “I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I'm such a waste. Such a waste of time. I'm so sorry.”
“Stop it! Stop saying that! You are worth every minute I have ever spent with you!
More
than that!” he yelled back at her. Her eyes finally found his and she smiled. Actually smiled at him.
“
Ang.
Why couldn't it have been you?” she whispered, her hand coming up to rest on his cheek.
“I don't know, baby. I wish it had,” he whispered back.
Tate nodded and closed her eyes. Her hand fell away. It looked like she was sleeping. Even soaking wet and covered in makeup, she was still beautiful. She had a beautiful soul, it shined through everything she did – he just wished she could see it.
Her shivering cranked up, grew more violent. Ang decided it was maybe time to take her somewhere warmer, and he attempted to pick her up. But her shivering turned in to something else. Her whole body was shaking; he couldn't quite get a hold on her.
When he looked back down at her face, her eyelids were fluttering up and down. All he could see were the whites of her eyes. Liquid was streaming out of her mouth. She was having a seizure, thrashing around so violently, he thought she was going to break her arm, or leg.
Or neck
. He started screaming, gripping onto her shoulders as tight as he could.
“
SOMEBODY HELP US!
”
TO BE CONTINUED ...
CONTINUE READING TO THE END FOR SCENES FROM PART 2
AND OTHER STORIES TO COME
So to be 100% honest, this story started out as a joke. No, literally. I wrote several stories before this one, and had read a lot of romance novels, and I follow a lot of book blogs, and I started noticing some trends. I told a friend of mine, “to write these stories, there are a couple key ingredients – and one thing you obviously need is a certain kind of Alpha name.”
I prattled off some very well known Alphas from the literary world, and we noticed that a lot of these gentlemen had very distinct, usually unique, usually long, first names, and then very short, concise last names. I don't wanna name names, but for example,
Christopher Prey
, kinda encapsulates what we had noticed.
“So what name would you pick?” I was asked. I'm not sure where it came from, I work around liquor, so maybe Jameson just leapt out at me – thus, Jameson Kane was born. Fits the above formula to a T.
We kinda laughed about it, and I didn't think about it much, till the same friend one day went “what would Jameson's story be?” And I kinda joked that every Alpha needs that spunky, sassy, female lead, who should also have a funky name, usually kinda androgynous. Hello, Tatum! I laughed that she would be sexy and crazy, he would be dark and sensual, they would compliment each other, and complete each other.
The story exploded after that, just came together like it had been sitting in my brain, completely written, waiting to be noticed. I wrote it in a frenzy. Couldn't sleep, didn't eat much, barely left the computer. It just would not stop, it demanded to be released. I put other stories on hold to let it out. So thanks have to go to my close friends for letting me joke about romance novels with them.
I have never written a story like this – the language, the sex, the aggression, it all kinda scared me. I am not very much like either Jameson or Tatum in real life. But it just felt natural. I found myself getting nervous and changing sentences, rearranging scenes, and then I came upon this awesome meme that read - “Write in a Way That Scares You a Little”.
Well, the scariest thing to me is the idea of someone reading my work and going “ew, that's weird!”, so I decided FUCK IT. I'm gonna write it EXACTLY how it comes out of my brain, EXACTLY how it comes out of Jameson's mouth, and if people don't like it, then they don't have to read it. It was the best decision I have ever made, writing this story was such a catharsis, such a joy. It sounds cheesy, but it's the truth. So thanks internet!
And a special thanks to all the authors out there writing dark, taboo, misunderstood stories. It is my firm belief that if it exists in the world, then it should be written about, regardless of “subject matter”. As Real Sex on HBO taught me (does that show my age!?), if someone can be in to something, then there is an audience for it! So read what you want, write what's in you to write, and fuck anyone who gives you crap about it. I can't imagine a bigger waste of time than criticizing someone's work just because it scares me.
And to my beta readers – I really lucked out with some excellent ones! They are from all over, the U.S. to the U.K., and I have never met any of them in real life, but they were wonderful throughout this whole process. Your feedback and constructive criticism were all appreciated beyond words. Thank you all so much. Some of these lovely ladies are: Cassie Fite – thanks for taking a chance on a “dark read”, I honestly didn't know it was dark when I wrote it! Erin Winer – my bestie convinced you to read it, and thanks for doing so. Viveca Benoir, another indie author I found along the way, your help was amazing, you introduced me to my cover designer, and told me about Draft 2 Digital. Everyone, check her out at:
http://vivecabenoir.c
om
Special shout-out to author L.A. Cotton – we met via a beta reading forum. She was looking for a beta reader, and was willing to trade (that's right! You never know who is beta reading for you – I keep hoping I'll submit a book to a beta reader and it'll be like CJ Roberts or something ..., seriously, I love you CJ Roberts, if you have secretly read my work, please tell me! Just let me love you!).
So Mrs. Cotton and I swapped stories. She is from the U.K., I'm from the U.S., and we had two very different stories, and two very different writing styles. Her book was softer, new adult, all romance and slow burn and “
will they? won't they?
”
goodness. I worried that my book wasn't exactly up her alley, seeing as how Erotica and New Adult Romance are pretty far apart on the spectrum, but her feedback and advice were invaluable, her turn around time fast. She has continued to support me and promote me, and I can only hope to adequately return the favor some day. Thanks for all your help!
Too many blogs to name. From the beginning – for both of us! - Watz Teasers and Trailers was BEYOND supportive. Thank you to Cover To Cover Book Blog, Triple B's Badass Book Boyfriends, Intellectual Vixens, Through the Booking Glass, Fallen for Books, Trina and Taylor's Bedtime Stories – all willing to take a chance on a new indie author, and most of you holding her hand along the way.
To Najla Qamber,
www.najlaqamberdesigns.com
, the wonderful woman who designed my book cover. To be honest, I pretty much fan-girled every time you e-mailed me. I ran around for days going “
do you see this!?!? All the cool book covers that I already love!?!? That chick is doing
MY
cover!
” There was a huge time difference between us, and I'm pretty sure I sent you like three e-mails for every one you sent me, but you were so easy to work with, you got my vision and concept right away, and did an amazing job. Thank you so much.
Of course there are a million other people. Thanks to my husband, for being very understanding about me working 8 hours a day, then coming home and sitting behind a computer for another 6+ hours. Thanks to all my friends – none of you are in to romance novels, but some of you offered to read it anyway, and all of you listened to me blabber on about it endlessly. Thanks to my real life job, for tolerating my daydreaming, sneaking in to dark corners to read, and stretching my lunches well past their time limits so I could write more. Thanks to everyone who has already read it, is going to read it, or plans to eventually read it.
But mostly, thanks to anyone who has read this far and plans on continuing to the included chapter from
Separation
, part two to Jameson and Tatum's story, and an excerpt from a new series,
Pen vs. Sword
. It's all at the end, I promise!
Songs that I listened to while writing, songs that just made me think of the story, and a couple that inspired actual scenes.
COMING 09/22/14
SEPARATION
:
The Sequel to Degradation
A pounding noise brought Jameson out of unconsciousness. Just blackness. He squinted and stared up at the ceiling. Where the fuck was he? It took him a second to realize he was in his library. It started to come back to him. He had passed out on the leather sofa in the library. He couldn't remember the last time he had even used the sofa, let alone slept on it. Then he remembered that a little over a month ago, he had put the sofa to a very good use.
Tatum
.
He groaned and sat up. There was more banging and he pressed a hand to his head. He couldn't remember how much he'd had to drink. It had been a lot. A glance at his liquor cabinet showed that it was wide open, and completely empty. There was more pounding.
“Sanders!” Jameson yelled, rubbing his face. There was no answer and he lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “
Sanders!
Get the goddamn door!”
Silence, followed by
bang bang bang
.
He growled and stood up, started marching across the room. There was a crunching sound and something sliced through his heel. He hissed and lifted his foot. A chunk of glass was imbedded in his heel. He yanked it out and glared at it. Then he looked down, and lost his glare.
Glass was everywhere. No, not glass. Crystal. Broken crystal, scattered all over the ground. A wide swath of floor, from the liquor cabinet to the wall across from it, was coated in broken tumblers and bottles and decanters. It all came back to Jameson. He had broken every piece of glassware in the room, after Sanders had left.
After
she
had left.
The pounding still wasn't going away, and now that he knew why Sanders wasn't answering the it –
because he wasn't there
– Jameson made his way to the front door. Someone was knocking on it, over and over. He stomped up and yanked it open.
“What?” he barked.
A police officer blinked at him. Jameson was a little surprised, but he didn't show it. He kept his glare in place. The officer was young, and tall. Taller than Jameson. He looked gangly and nervous, like it was his first day at basketball camp. Jameson raised his eyebrows, glancing between the cop and the police cruiser that was parked in the driveway.
“Um, is this the residence of ...,” the cop checked a notepad. “Jameson Kane? Or Sanders Dash ..., Dashke ...,”
“
Yes,
” Jameson cut him off.
“Are you -,”
“I'm Jameson. This is my home. What do you want?” he demanded. The cop swallowed nervously.
“Uh, we wanted to let you know, we found your car,” he answered. Jameson's eyebrows went back up.
“My car?” he asked, not having a clue what was going on. The cop looked down at the notepad he was holding.
“Uh, a Bentley, registered to a Jameson Kane and a Sanders Dashke ..., uh, yeah. License plate WXC1-,” the cop started to prattle off. Jameson held up a hand.
“Yes, I know my own license plate. What about the car?” he pressed. Now the cop looked surprised.
“Um, it was reported stolen,” the cop explained.
“
Stolen?
”
“Yes. Mr. ..., Mr. Sanders reported it stolen, last night. It's being towed here, right now. I just had some questions,” the cop told him.
“Sanders reported our car stolen?” Jameson clarified.
Someone had stolen the Bentley? He hadn't even known it was gone, and if he had, he would've just assumed Sanders had taken it. He was practically the only one who ever drove it; it was more his than Jameson's.
Who would've stolen the Bentley? After Sanders had put in his “notice”, Jameson had kicked everyone out. Just walked into the main lounge and yelled at everyone to get the hell out of his house. Petrushka Ivanovic, his ex girlfriend, had argued to stay, but he had practically thrown her out onto the porch and then slammed the door in her face.
Then Jameson had locked himself in the library and drank himself stupid, cursing both Tate and Sanders while he destroyed all his crystal. Was it possible that one of his disgruntled party guests had stolen his car? Most of them were wealthy in their own right; they could buy their own Bentleys.
“Yes, last evening. We found it soon afterwards. There is some minor damage to the vehicle, but it was like that when we found it. We took pictures, but you'll want to contact your insurance company,” the cop continued, jotting something down in his notepad.
At that moment, a tow truck started rumbling up the drive. Jameson stared in shock as it pulled his car around right in front of the porch. The entire passenger side of the Bentley was scratched up, as if it had side swiped something, and then dragged along it. The sideview had been ripped clean off.
“What the fuck happened? Did you find the person who stole it?” Jameson demanded, stepping out onto the porch. The cop flipped through some paperwork.
“Yes. Actually, that's how we found the car. An officer who had responded to a 9-1-1 call noticed the car idling in the middle of the road, and called in the plates,” the cop read off the notes.
“Did you arrest the guy?” Jameson asked.
“Not yet. From what I understand, it was a woman. She was found unconscious in a pool in the Beacon Hill Athletic Club,” the officer said.
Tatum.
“Unconscious?” Jameson repeated, his voice soft. More pages flipped in the notepad.
“That's how she was found, the officer at the scene reported. Uhhh, let's see ..., okay, the report says that when paramedics arrived, she was having generalized seizures. A man on the scene said she had vomited prior to -,”
Jameson didn't hear any more. He turned around and walked back into the house without saying a word. Walked straight back into his kitchen and opened a cupboard next to the fridge. Pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Twisted off the wrapper and cap before chugging as much as he could before he had to breathe again. There was a creaking noise behind him and he became aware that the cop had followed him. Jameson took one more drink before leaning against the counter.
“Is she okay?”
“Do you know the -,”
“
Is she okay?
”
“Uh, um,” the cop stuttered, and Jameson heard notepaper rustling. “I-I don't know. The last report I received was that she was checked into an emergency room, still having seizures, and with an irregular, slow heart beat and low oxygen levels. I haven't heard anything else, Mr. Kane.”
Mr. Kane. Someone should've told him my real name is Satan.
“Leave,” Jameson whispered, staring at his granite counter tops.
“Excuse me?”
“I said
leave
. Get out of my house,” Jameson snapped, finally turning around. The cop looked stunned.
“We have some paperwork, I need you to -,” he started to stammer. Jameson strode forward and pushed past the officer.
“The car belongs to Sanders, track him down,” he grumbled.
“But you -,
sir!
Sir, did you know you're bleeding!?” the cop exclaimed, hurrying after Jameson and pointing out the bloody footprints he was leaving behind him.
“Yes,” Jameson snapped back. A large man in coveralls was hovering in the open doorway, holding a piece of paper.
“Hey! Who gunnah pay for dis tow job? I need fiddy bucks,” the guy drawled in a thick Boston accent. Jameson growled again and stomped up to an end table that flanked the front door. He yanked open a drawer and pulled out a stack of money. Both the cop and the tow truck driver gaped at him.
“All of this is yours, just be off my property within the next five minutes,” Jameson said as he lead them out onto the porch, all the while flinging hundred dollar bills to the ground.
“Ay, ay, no problem, buddy,” the guy said, quickly dipping down and picking up what had to be $800. He was a large guy, but he ran back to the car and had the Bentley unloaded and was driving off in the tow truck well under the five minute time limit.
“We still have to -,” the cop started. Jameson glared at him and stepped back into his doorway.
“Call Sanders. He reported it stolen, not me. He can deal with this mess,” he snapped, and then slammed the door shut.
The cop banged on the door for a while, but Jameson was very good at ignoring things. He took his stairs two at a time, his heart thumping louder than his footsteps pounding down the hall. He felt like he was going to explode. Like his heart was going to pound right out of his chest. Or rather, whatever organ it was he had in place of a heart.
Tatum
.
He didn't know why he thought he'd find answers there, but Jameson went straight into Sanders' bedroom. A large walk-in closet stood open, all the clothing gone from it. Sanders didn't mess around. Something had been left behind, though, and Jameson sighed as he walked up to the foot of the bed. Sitting there, stacked neatly and packed in even bundles, was $32,000, in cash. Jameson knew it was exactly $32,000 because the night before, he had taken the cash out of a safe in his own room, and brought it into Sanders' room. Brought it to
her
.
A note sat on top of the money. Only one word was written on it, in Sanders' neat script: “
Satan
.”
At least he spelled my name right.
A light was on in the bathroom and Jameson walked towards it. Very little actually disturbed him, but the sight he took in kind of made him want to vomit. Not because it was too ugly, but because it showed him what a terrible person he really was, deep down. Through and through.
Sometimes, he forgot.
All the drawers on the vanity had been pulled open, stuff hanging out of them. The mirror had a large spider-web crack on the right hand side, closest to the door. One crack shot off all the way down to the sink, and some blood and stands of hair were in the very center of the spider-web. Long, black, hair. Shards of mirror were scattered around the sink and on the floor, and bloodstains smattered the vanity top. What looked like bloody fingerprints were smeared down the whole length. He closed his eyes. Took deep breaths through his nose. Went back in time.
Petrushka had cornered him in the kitchen. Said unkind things about Tate. Jameson had been angry at Tate at the beginning of the night – angry at her for over two weeks before that; but after confronting her, after seeing her reaction, his anger had started to fade away. Started to turn into something else. Something unfamiliar. Something he hadn't felt in a
long time
.
Guilt
.
Pet was a massive bitch who didn't even know Tate. She had come along with Jameson just to watch the fireworks. Petrushka was almost a bigger sociopath than he was; Tate didn't deserve it. Not from Pet. Jameson had treated Tatum poorly enough.
She had been so upset. Maybe, just maybe, there was the tiniest possibility that he had been wrong about her. Wrong about her relationship with the baseball player. He hadn't wanted to wait till the end of the night to find out; he sought Tate out the minute he shook Pet loose.
Jameson hadn't seen how it had started, just how it had ended. When he had walked into Sanders' room, saw a man in a suit bent over Tatum, he had thought it was Sanders, at first. Talk about upsetting. Sanders was like a son to Jameson, he didn't want to have to kill him.
But it wasn't Sanders. It was Dunn, Jameson's business partner there in Boston. A man Jameson had gone to school with, a man he had known for a long time. Dunn knew that Tate was off limits. Tate knew that Jameson didn't want her to sleep with any of his friends or colleagues. Breaking rules was apparently par for the course, that night. Jameson had wanted to murder them both, but he had settled for kicking the shit out of Dunn, and then kicking Tatum out of the house. He hadn't bothered to look in the bathroom. He never bothered to look at anything,
ever
. He didn't have to – he didn't care. Right?
Right?
She had bled. How could I not notice that she was bleeding? Even I never made her bleed.
Jameson pressed his back against the door and then slid into a sitting position. Put his head in his hands. He was a Yale graduate. He owned multiple businesses, in multiple countries. He played the stock market like he had invented it, and owned real estate so pricey, even Donald Trump was interested. He was considered by many to be a very smart, calculating man.
But suddenly he felt very stupid. Brought down by a woman with black hair and dark eyes. A sexy wit and a sexier body. A bartender, coupon clipper, temp worker. A college drop out turned party girl, with loose morals, and legs that rarely closed.
So much better than him, in every way, shape, and form.
Her only downside was thinking she could use sex as a weapon. She'd always been too naive to realize that sometimes, weapons could backfire.
It had certainly backfired on him.