RAPTURE: A NOVEL Read online

  "That wouldn't be so bad, would it?"

  "Guess not." I change the subject. "So…wanna tell me about that ex of yours and why you're hiding?"

  His lips touch the rim of the beer bottle again. His lips are…fine. "She’s been served."

  It takes me a good minute to get what exactly he’s talking about. "Oh." My heart shrinks at the thought of my own divorce. "Did she not take it well?"

  "Not really."

  "Did she not see this coming?"

  "I don't know." He shrugs. His eyebrows pull together as he runs his hand over his unshaven cheek. "Is this some kind of interrogation?" A smile.

  "Youuu started it," I slur, fighting the unexpected laugh rippling through my chest. "I'm just trying to be a good bar shrink."

  "You're doing an excellent job, babe." His hot breath makes my skin prickle as he whispers it into my ear.

  If I were sober, I’d probably tell him off and ask him to leave, but the fuzziness in my head, the strange pulsating sensation in my stomach, and the fact that I no longer owe anything to Owen indicate that it's okay to keep this conversation going. I find Daniel intriguing, a little different, cocky even, but interesting enough to distract me from the depressing thoughts in my head. Maybe Rayna is right after all. Maybe I just need to get out more.

  "Do you call every woman you meet at a bar babe?" I ask, doing a ninety-degree spin on my stool to face him. "I thought we agreed on my name." I have to lean against the bar to prevent myself from falling off. Having three shots of tequila with only a few fries is making me lose control over my own body. But I do know I don't want to end up on the floor.

  "Right." He nods, also shifting on his stool, his knee connecting with the legs of mine. "I'll do my best to keep my word."

  "Hey." I wave at the bartender again, wanting shot number four.

  "You got a ride home?" Daniel asks after I order.

  "I thought this was a no-strings-attached situation?" I mumble, my tongue barely moving in my mouth. Then I down my tequila while the plate of fries, now stale and cold, remains in front of me.

  "It is. I just want to make sure you get home safe," he says. "I promise I won't follow."

  "Pfff." I try to suppress a hiccup. "That would be considered breaking the rules of bar therapy."

  "Sounds like you're a bar therapy pro."

  "Not really... I don't typically..." I have to stop for a second to think about what I was going to say. Everything in the bar, including my plate, is spinning. My fingers miss at least twice while trying to find the little container of ketchup. "...go out and get drunk in a bar on a Friday night. I’m a stay-at-home type."

  The silence between us becomes weird. I avert my gaze, make another ketchup-dipping attempt, and bring the fry toward my mouth. But, of course, I miscalculate and the runny substance, which seems to have a mind of its own, ends up all over my sweater.

  "Shit." I rub my fingers against the fabric. Why didn’t I wear something black? Black is nice. It’s the color of my life.

  "Here." Daniel hands me a stack of napkins and waves at the bartender. Two seconds later, a wet towel is being shoved at me. My attempt to clean off the ketchup turns into a disaster. My fingers aren’t listening, and I keep dropping the towel on my jeans. My sweater looks like one huge red blur.

  Bottom line: Drinking at home would have spared me the embarrassment.

  "You mind?" Daniel slowly pulls the towel away. I can feel his hand grasping my shoulder to steady me while his other one slides across my chest, up and down....up and down. His face is an even bigger blur, the music is muffled, and the lights dancing in the back are fading in and out. How did I get here? What am I even doing? My son is dead, my husband and I are getting a divorce, and I'm drunk out of my mind, letting some stranger in a bar grab my breasts.

  "Hey…you okay?" His voice pulls me back to reality.

  "I'm fine," I say breathlessly, sliding from my stool and waving at the bartender. "I'm...going home..."

  Daniel wraps his arm around me. "How are you getting home? Someone picking you up?"

  "I need to close my tab," I blurt out at the bartender, trying to ignore the fact that Daniel's hand on my waist doesn't feel too bad. On the contrary, it's strong, nice, warm...and muscular. Even with all those layers of leather and material rubbing against my sweater. I'm sure it's because Owen and I haven't been close for a very long time and it's simply a normal physical reaction. Nothing more.

  "Hey, why don't we get you a cab, huh?" he mumbles in my ear, giving some silent signals to the bartender.

  "What am I supposed to do with my car? Just leave it?" I huff.

  "Listen, you can't drive like this, babe. I'll get you a cab or an Uber, alright?" he insists.

  "I don't need you to get me a cab or an Uber... I...can...takare of myshelf." I slam my hand against the bar and switch my attention to the bartender, who keeps ignoring my requests to close my tab. Summoning all the strength left in me, I shout, "Anyone working here?!"

  "I already took care of the bill. Come on." Daniel hooks his arm through mine.

  "I didden ass you to," I growl, jerking my other arm, which causes his beer to fly off the bar. I can see it traveling down in slow motion, the bubbly contents spilling on my sweater and jeans like a well-deserved punishment for getting wasted.

  "Fuck," I blurt out as the bottle shatters right next to my feet, splashing the leftover liquid all over my boots.

  "Just put it on my tab, man." I can hear Daniel's instructions right before he walks me toward the entrance.

  Then there are a few blank moments; I don't exactly remember how my purse ends up on my shoulder, but I can feel it bumping into the bodies of strangers as we rip through the crowd.

  The air outside is ice cold. My lungs start shrinking as I take a deep breath when we step into the parking lot. Correction: when I get dragged into the parking lot.

  "What's your address?" Daniel asks, tapping the screen of his phone.

  I sway on my feet, back and forth, trying to keep my balance while I watch the thick clouds coming out of my mouth as I attempt to produce a coherent sentence.

  "No srings attashed, remember?" A quivering combo of mumbling and slurring comes out of my mouth on the third try. My body begins to shake, my stomach is churning, and I can’t keep my eyes open. This isn’t good at all.

  "Look, I'm only trying to help, okay? You can't even hold yourself up. How the fuck are you going to drive?" Irritation is evident in his voice.

  "Whadyou care?" I whisper, fighting gravity.

  "You're right. I don't. But I'd be an asshole to let you get behind the wheel in this condition."

  I blink a few times, trying to focus on the letters on his fingers as he runs his hand across his forehead, pushing some of the hair back under the hood.

  F A I T H

  "Juss leave me alone," I choke out, fighting the twister in my head. What happens after that, I’m not sure. I black out.

  4 Justice

  I don't know what's worse—dealing with my soon-to-be ex-wife or drunk women. Nikki Deville will drive a person crazy even when she’s sober and on her meds, but right now, the woman with golden hair is leading the female-disaster-of-the-year competition.

  "Hey...Hazel?" I mutter with both feet rooted to the wet asphalt and my arms wrapped around her tiny frame. This isn’t what I had in mind for tonight. "Hazel...Wake up."

  No reaction. She’s out cold.

  "Shit." I scan the parking lot. The brilliant idea of trying to find her car keys inside her purse and leaving her in her vehicle crosses my mind, but the rowdy bunch near the bar entrance is making me uneasy. Better get out of here and fast before someone figures out who I am.

  I take a deep breath, readjust my grip, and carry the woman to my Jeep. Thank God she’s small, but getting her into the passenger seat is a fucking pain anyway. Her arms and legs don’t want to cooperate, and I’m pretty sure the ketchup from her sweater traveled to my sweatshirt. I'm still not sure why I'm doin
g it when we leave the parking lot.

  For Chance. You're making sure this person doesn't end up dead. Because that's what you do. You’re becoming a better man, Justice.

  When we stop at a light, I glance over at Sleeping Beauty and mentally curse myself. What the hell am I going to do with her if—when—she figures out who I am? She didn't seem to know when I approached her at the bar. I shouldn't have, but I hate seeing drunk douchebags hitting on women. Something about her made me step in. Part of my rehabilitation process maybe.

  By the time I get back to the cabin, it's almost one. With the engine still running, I sit in my driveway and think for a few minutes. Leaving her in the cold wouldn’t be cool. Taking her inside is an invasion of my privacy. I never bring anyone here, let alone a drunk female I just met at a bar. The only two people who are allowed to be in this place are Aiden and Nikki. No, scratch that. That conniving bitch doesn't have a right to come here anymore, which reminds me that I need to make sure to ask Dom—my manager/personal assistant/nanny—to change the locks and the access codes. I don’t want my ex anywhere near my family’s property. Especially after she started fucking remodeling without checking with me first. The Malibu house is more than enough of a parting gift.

  I shut off the engine, circle around my car, and swing the door open. The jet lag is kicking my ass big time. My body and mind crave sleep, but instead, I’m stuck here with a woman I barely know. My eyes sweep over her, snug in the passenger seat of my Jeep. She looks small and almost peaceful, as if she wasn’t the one drinking herself silly back at The Black Lagoon. There’s a hint of despair on her face, the same look she wore earlier when I first saw her at the bar. Something tells me leaving her here would go against my better-man beliefs. I pull her out of the car and carry her inside, hoping she wakes up before we get to the guest room, but she’s out cold, like after taking a bottle of Ambien.

  My feet trip over my unpacked suitcase as I’m crossing the living room and the gravity starts pulling Hazel’s body toward the floor, but I quickly regain my balance.

  "Fuck." Drawing her closer to my chest, I kick the suitcase in annoyance. The silence that follows next is razor sharp, and I swear I can hear her faint heartbeat shadowing the pounding of mine while we move through the house. For a small person, she sure is giving me a hell of a workout.

  I push the door of the guest room open with my shoulder and take a second to digest the view of the mattress, which is covered in plastic. Apparently, parts of the house are still being remodeled. Or upgraded, as Nikki called it. Even though I instructed Dom to cut this shit out.

  "Upgrade my ass," I mutter, inhaling deeply as frustration and anger begin to choke me. Nikki and Aiden have spent a total of five days here since he was born. She never liked bringing our son here. This place isn’t child-friendly, according to her. Too ancient. Too quiet. Too far from civilization. Doesn’t matter anymore. Soon the little guy will be old enough to know not to stick his fingers into the outlets.

  The bitter asshole in me is tempted to leave Hazel in the guest room, but I know I wouldn't want to wake up in a strange house on a mattress without sheets or blankets. But hey, there’s always the couch.

  The moment I turn around to take her back to the living room, an inaudible slur leaves her mouth.

  "Hazel?" I whisper, in hopes that she’ll wake up so I can get her address and send her back to her place.

  "I f-feel s-s-s," she coughs into my sweater.

  "You’re what?"

  "Feel siiick." Another slur.

  I freeze in the middle of the hallway like a fucking deer in the headlights, trying to figure out the fastest route to the bathroom.

  "I think I’m go-mm to th-throw up." She wiggles in my arms.

  Hell no! Not happening. "Not yet, Hazel," I say, pushing my bedroom door open with my foot, and dart to the bathroom before things get really messy.

  We cut it very close but make it on time. She falls to her knees and empties the contents of her stomach into the toilet while I hold her up.

  Just pretend this is a bad dream, Justice.

  After she’s done puking, we sit there for a few minutes to make sure that’s the last of it. She’s quiet and reminds me of a rag doll, and the fact that I can’t get the address out of her pisses me off because I don’t want some drunk woman I know nothing about in my sanctuary.

  "Can you get up?"

  She shakes her head and her body begins to slant. Sending her home in this condition without an escort probably isn’t a good idea anyway.

  "Fucking hell," I grumble to myself, lifting her up. My attempt to help her clean up at the sink turns into a wet adventure. Her head doesn’t want to stay up, and her arms and legs are like rubber. After fighting over the paper towels while I try to dry her off, we walk to my bedroom and I sit her on the edge of my bed. "If you’re going to spend the night, you can’t sleep in this," I say, brushing her hair away from her damp cheek.

  "Mm-kay." She attempts to grab my left hand. "What doesh umm-m tattoo say?"

  "Huh?"

  "Whashur t-tattoo say?"

  I ignore her question. "I’ll get you a t-shirt. You’re not sleeping in this." I point at the ketchup stain on her clothes.

  Her eyes are hooded when she starts pulling her sweater over her head. It’s both funny and painful to watch and since the sight of her bare skin stirs something inside me, I choose not to.

  After I tear my gaze away from her poor attempt at undressing, I walk over to my closet, cursing myself yet again for bringing this woman here. Then my jaw drops to the floor when I turn around and see her splayed on my bed in only her bra and her jeans that are pulled halfway down her legs. Apparently, she passed out somewhere around the time she tried to get them off.

  Are you fucking kidding me? "Hazel?" I dart back to my bed and give her shoulder a light squeeze. "Come on. Wake up! It’ll only take two minutes. I promise. I need you to be up when we do this."

  I’m dead if this woman pulls a Nikki on me tomorrow morning and tells the paps that I did something to her.

  Hazel doesn’t respond, which complicates things greatly. I don’t want to touch her while she’s unconscious, but I can’t leave her here like this, half naked and smelling like a dive bar. I’ve done all sorts of shit to women, but it’s always been consensual. And right now, I’m stepping into a very dangerous territory, especially with Nikki calling me names in public.

  My traitorous eyes scan her body, taking in every little detail. Hiding under a thin layer of black lace, she has the most amazing set of breasts I’ve ever seen on a woman, not too big and not too small—just the right size to fit in the palm of my hand.

  We could’ve had a good time if she wasn’t so clumsy and drunk.

  Remember, you're working on being a better man, Justice.

  "I bet you give one hell of a blowjob, sweetheart," I mumble under my breath, studying her mouth. Not that I really need one right now or even when she wakes up. For that, among other things, I have Rachel. Rachel sucks just as good as she does makeup. Yeah, I know, I can be a sick fuck. I say crude shit like this even if I don't mean it. Old habits die hard.

  The egoistic afterthought that most women would kill for a chance to spend a night in my bed leads me to believe that what I’m about to do isn’t going to create a problem. Because I really don’t want Hazel to wake up in a bra and a pair of jeans that are pulled halfway down—it would look worse than a clean t-shirt. It would smell worse too. Besides, she probably won’t remember any of it tomorrow. So with that, my decision is made.

  Don’t fucking stare at her breasts, Justice.

  Why not? They’re real. I haven’t touched real breasts in over a decade.

  Sticking to my quest to be a better man, I listen to my first thought, and focus on Hazel’s face as I get her into one of my t-shirts. Then I take off her boots and her jeans, grab the rest of her clothes, and leave the room before my satin sheets start smelling like the dumpster behind The Black Lagoon.

/>   The roar of an engine in my driveway catches me off guard when I’m in the laundry room.

  "Justice!" My soon-to-be ex-wife’s voice coming from out on the deck startles me.

  Cursing myself for not changing the access codes to the property before filing for divorce, I rush out of the laundry room to shut the bedroom door before Nikki discovers Hazel.

  The click of her heels and the scent of her fragrance plague every part of the cabin when she lets herself in, and after I meet her in the living room, we square off.

  "I know that Mexican bitch of yours leaked it!" She tosses the stack of papers at me.

  "May is Puerto Rican," I say matter-of-factly, trying to keep my voice down.

  "Who cares?"

  My pulse begins to race. For someone who’s so hell-bent on making the world a better place for women of all ages, sizes, and skin color, Nikki’s quite a hypocrite. The female activists supporting her massive Twitter campaign would throw stones at her for calling my publicist names. "What the hell are you doing here?" Isn't she supposed to be on set of whatever the hell Hollywood blockbuster she’s starring in right now?

  "What’s this?" She gestures toward the papers and peers at me with contempt.

  "I thought you knew how to read, babe." Lately, I’ve been wondering why the fuck I married her. The only logical explanation I can come up with is whatever drugs I was doing at the moment. Must have been acid or some other hard shit, because I hardly remember proposing.

  "You seriously think I’m buying this crap? I know you like the back of my hand. There’s no way in hell this was leaked to the press before I got served. It wasn’t a fucking accident. You and your minions did it." Nikki throws her famous femme fatale look at me.

  No, sweetheart, this doesn't work anymore with me.

  "Well, I found out from TMZ that I'm an abusive husband. That's not cool. Have I ever laid a finger on you that you didn’t ask for?" What’s ironic is that the sick part of me wants to wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze really hard so she’ll stop screaming, but that’s not what I do. "Or was it not the way you liked it?" I have no idea why I’d say that shit to her—sometimes I feel like I’m programmed to turn every question directed at me into an innuendo. But it’s hard not to when ninety percent of my lyrics are soft porn. Making sexual comments is part of who I am. I just don’t know why I do it with her. She and I haven’t slept together in over five months. The last time it happened, it was just another angry fuck. Us trying to work it out. Yet look where we are now.