Текст книги "When I Was Yours"
Автор книги: Samantha Towle
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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 seconds 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.
Home is in Malibu where my beach house is. It’s the house that Max and I rented for our year off before we headed to college. It’s the place where I met Evie and where I spent the best year of my life with her—before she left me, and my world came crashing down.
The minute I graduated from Harvard and started working for my father, I was granted access to my trust fund. The first thing I did with that money was go straight to Malibu, and I offered a stupid amount of money to the owner of the beach house. He sold it to me on the spot.
For the three years that I had been away at college, I had kept up with the rent on the beach house. I didn’t go back there in all that time, but I couldn’t let it go either. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else being in the place that was hers and mine.
The first time I went back inside the house was torture. She was everywhere, in every room.
But no matter how much it hurt, I needed to be there. I needed to be close to her in the only way I could be.
I probably should sell it now, and buy a new house, as I know it isn’t healthy to hang on to the place. But it’s the only thing I have left of her, and I just can’t bring myself to let it go.
During the week, I’m forced to be in Beverly Hills because Gunner Entertainment is here. It’s my family’s studio that my great-grandfather started in the early days of making movies. When my grandfather took it over after his father had passed, he turned it into one of the biggest movie studios in Hollywood. After my grandfather passed, my piece-of-shit father, Eric, took over, and during his last few years, he almost ran the studio into the ground. He was too busy screwing any guy he could, pretending to me and the rest of the world that he wasn’t gay. All the while, taking the drugs, which eventually killed him.
And wasn’t I just my father’s son? Aside from fucking dudes, that is. I took on his form down to the letter.
It was always set that I would take over the family business. Didn’t matter that I didn’t want to. I never wanted anything to do with it. I hate the movie business.
My mother, Ava, is a self-righteous bitch of an actress. My father married her to get his heir to the business. And she was a beautiful up-and-coming actress, ruthless enough to marry a gay man and give him the son he needed.
In return, she got to star in every big blockbuster he could give her. He made her famous, just as he’d promised. She’s one of the biggest names in Hollywood.
I was just the transaction which gave them both what they wanted.
Ava was never around when I was growing up. She was usually filming on set somewhere, and even when she was home, I rarely saw her.
She didn’t give a shit about me. Still doesn’t.
My life was lonely back then. The only person I had in the world was Max.
Until I met Evie. And for the first time in my life, I felt wanted and loved by someone.
And, God, did I love her. Evie was everything to me.
She gave me the reason and strength to tell Ava and Eric to shove the studio up their asses. I walked away from it all to be with her.
I married her, and then a week later, she was gone.
I haven’t seen her since.
After she left, I was adrift. So, I grabbed ahold of the only thing I knew. I went back to the family business. I fell right back in with the sharks, and I’ve been swimming with them ever since.
Grabbing my keys off the side table, I let myself out and start the short walk to the hotel’s coffee shop to get my morning coffee.
Making my way through the hotel, I exchange pleasantries with the staff on duty. When I reach the coffee shop, I push open the door and step straight into the past.
Evie.
She’s standing behind the counter. Her face is turned slightly to the right, her attention on the TV mounted on the wall, and her hair is pulled back into a ponytail.
But it’s her.
I feel like a speeding train has hit me, and I’m pretty sure my heart has stopped beating.
It’s really her.
She’s here.
“Evie?” I breathe out her name, like I’m taking my first real breath in a very long time.
Her body stiffens at the sound of my voice. And I watch as her face turns my way. Those big whiskey-colored eyes that I fell in love with all those years ago meet mine, and my world stands still.
She looks exactly the same.
How is that even possible?
Maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m hallucinating. I mean, falling off the wagon with that chick might have tipped me over the edge, and now, I’ve finally boarded my very own train to crazy town.
I don’t know how much time has passed while we’ve been standing here, staring at one another. My hand is still holding the door open, my foot a step into the past, and my fingers are gripping the wood so tightly that I’m surprised I haven’t ripped a chunk out.
Then, her eyes shut down on me, and she looks away. It feels like she’s ripping my heart out all over again, and a rage I didn’t know possible floods my body and mind. And it’s all channeled in one direction—her.
I need to get out of here before I tear her and this place apart.
Turning, I step back and pull the door with me, slamming it so hard that the shop front rattles. I’m surprised I didn’t smash the windows.
I get about ten steps away before my blinding anger takes over and turns me back around, marching me straight back there.
The lobby is empty, which is a good thing because I probably look like an insane person right now—not that I actually give a fuck about what people think of me.
I yank the door open and stride through, banging it shut with as much force as I did the first time.
Evie’s big brown eyes are straight on me, wide and afraid.
Seeing her afraid like this should pull me back a step, but it doesn’t. At this moment, I don’t think a fucking dump truck could stop me.
I reach the counter and slam my hands down on the metal surface. Leaning forward, I stare at her with cold eyes.
“Why?” I say low, my voice hard.
“Wh-why, what?” Her tentative voice shakes, almost like she’s afraid to ask the question.
She should be afraid.
I stare down at the counter and take several deep breaths in and out, trying to control my rage. I can barely hear with the blood pounding in my ears.
One of my hands curls into a fist as I lift my eyes back to hers. “Why. Did. You. Fucking. Leave. Me?” I harshly bite each word out.
I want her to feel the pain in my words. I want her to feel every second of agony I’ve felt since she tore my heart out and shredded it to pieces.
Her lower lip trembles. She wraps her arm over her stomach and takes a small step back, away from my anger.
In all the time I knew Evie, I never really yelled at her—well, not like this anyway. And I never wanted to have to, but this is what she has reduced me to…reduced us to.
We’re two almost strangers with a world of hurt sitting between us.
Her eyes sweep the floor. “I-I can’t…”
She lifts them back to mine. I can see anguish and indecision in them.
“I…don’t know what to say.”
My chest is pounding so heavily that air is gusting out of me. “You don’t know what to say?” I yell, punching my fist on the counter. “How about the truth? How about telling me why you upped and disappeared on me a fucking week after we got married?”
Her eyes go to the wall over my shoulder. I see a shine of tears in them. It makes me ache for her, and that just pisses me off further. What right does she have to cry?
“I-I’m sorry,” she whispers.
I erupt again. “I don’t want your fucking apologies!” Well, I kind of do, but I want an explanation more. I want to know why she destroyed us…destroyed me.
I take a deep breath and try to even out my voice as I say, “I just want the truth, Evie. I just want to know why you left.”
Her eyes flicker to the window, looking at the people passing by. “Please, Adam,” she beseeches. “It’s my first day here, and I need this job. Can we talk later?”
My head nearly explodes. I half-expect to see my brain splattered all over this counter. “Are you fucking kidding me? No, we can’t fucking talk later! Ten years, Evie! Ten fucking years! You owe me an explanation, and I’m going nowhere until I get it.”
The door to the café opens, the sound yanking my eyes away from Evie. I don’t want any interruptions right now.
A seriously overweight middle-aged guy stands just in the doorway. I don’t recognize him. Must be a guest at the hotel.
He looks between Evie and me as the door shuts behind him. His brow furrows, and concern flitters over his face.
We can’t look like a picture of heaven right now. More like the very definition of hell.
Evie looks like she’s about to burst into tears, and I’m pretty sure my face is bright red from the rage burning up my skin. My hands are now curled around the edge of the counter, and I’m leaning forward over it, invading Evie’s space.
Ignoring the guy, I stare back at Evie. “Answers, Evie. Now.”
“Is…everything okay here?” Fatty asks.
Letting out a pissed off sigh, I swing murderous eyes his way. “Things are just fucking peachy.”
Then, out of nowhere, I feel her hand on my arm.
The touch sends me reeling, searing into my skin, heating me right through to my bones. I haven’t felt this way since…since the last time I felt her touch.
“Adam, I know I owe you my time. But, please, can we talk later?” Her voice is soft.
And I’m reminded of all the times when we used to lie in bed after making love, and we’d talk about nothing for hours. Her voice was always so soft, so sweet, in the darkness.
“I have my lunch break at one, or I get off at five. Whichever works best for you, I can do. But just not right now. Please.”
My eyes move down to her hand. I need her skin off of mine, yet I need her to never let go again.
She removes her hand from my arm.
The instant her touch is gone, I feel cold. And the iciness seeps straight back into my ruined black heart.
I watch as her fingers curl into her palm, like I just burned her skin.
I lift my eyes, boring straight into hers.
“Five. I’ll come back here.” Releasing my grip on the counter, I step back and stride toward the door, passing Fatty as I go.
I yank the door open and then stop before passing through. I turn back to Evie to find Fatty already at the counter. Guy sure can move fast.
My eyes meet with hers, and I pin her with my stare. “Five o’clock, Evie, and you’d better be here. Otherwise, I will come looking for you, and you can bet your fucking ass that, this time, I will find you.”
Then, I get the hell out of there and slam the door on my past.
