IB
*This is the first chapter of book one in a brand-new series that will debut in December. More details on this will be released soon.
**This is UNEDITED and subject to change.
Zaxton
The headline was all anyone cared about.
It was all that was repeated over and over and over again ad nauseam across every news network, entertainment magazine, and blog.
“Suzie Ward, manager of the hugely successful pop band, Central Square, and girlfriend of Zaxton Monroe found dead in the shower.”
The headline was followed by mass speculation because even though there were some leaks and a few statements here and there, no one knew what actually happened except for us.
And even then, I was the only one who knew the truth.
A secret I will take to my grave. A fucking heartbreak that has turned me into the delightful motherfucker I am today.
Especially today.
Eight years ago, I lost the love of my life.
And it doesn’t seem to get any easier with the passing of time. Maybe it’s because I lost more than just her that day. I lost a piece of myself I haven’t been able to retrieve.
My phone vibrates on the seat beside me, but I don’t bother checking it.
It’s either one of the guys, my brother, or work.
None of which I want to deal with right now.
I should have stayed home today. I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning, but today we have a photoshoot for a few pieces in the new women’s fall line, and I have to be in it, and who gives a shit?
Bed and whiskey for breakfast was a much better option.
My driver, Ashley sits quietly and patiently up front, staring straight ahead and allowing me this moment. He knows. He’s been with me long enough to know that I’ll get out when I’m ready and I’m just not there yet.
Will I ever get past this? Will the hurt ever dissipate?
“What happens if I call in sick,” I mumble under my breath and notice Ashley stir up front.
I’m not asking him, but I wouldn’t mind if he answered me all the same.
He’s the closest thing I have to a father-like figure in my life even though I pay him to be here because mine is a world-class piece of shit.
Mine is the reason I’m the CEO of Monroe Fashion instead of him.
“May I suggest, if you talked about that day, it might help to unburden your soul.”
“One has to have a soul for it to be unburdened.”
He breathes out a mournful sigh in that way that tells me I’m being petulant.
“Talking about it won’t unburden me. It will only burden others.” The truth shall not set me free. It shall ruin someone who is already suffering more than he should.
“You know—”
“I know. And thank you. If I ever do want to talk about it, you might hear more than you ever wanted.”
He chuckles at my wry tone just as a flash of whitish-blonde whisks past my window, snapping me out of my miserable thoughts.
Inadvertently I follow the trail it makes, transfixed by the unique color and wavelike flow as it bounces and plays in the summer sunshine and breeze.
That is until it drops from my view in a sudden swish and swoop along with the body it’s attached to. Then there’s the scream.
“Shit.”
Snatching my phone, I fly out of the car and race up the three cement steps to the first landing where a woman is yelling and fighting with a man trying to snatch her purse.
Gripping the leather handle, he gives a solid yank, managing the upper hand with the purse while simultaneously shoving her to the ground. Hard.
Without thinking twice, I collide with him, the full force of my size and weight knocking him back.
The purse falls from his hand, skidding on the steps, but before he can catch himself from falling or right his body and flee, I grab him by the shirt and haul him up.
Feet dangling from the ground, I get a better look at him.
“Jesus,” I hiss in dismay. “What the hell are you doing snatching purses at your age?”
The kid who can’t be any older than seventeen sneers at me, all punk-ass bravado despite the fact that I have him dangling like a worm on a hook. “Fuck you, man. The fuck you care what I do? You don’t know me.”
I set him down, but I don’t release my grip on his shirt.
“You think stealing from women makes you tough? Makes you a man? Do you know what being tough is?” I get right up in his face.
“Tough is being a man even when the odds are stacked against you. It’s doing the right thing when the wrong thing is easier.
Grow up. Get out of your shit and do better. Now go, before I call the police.”
I shove him away, but make sure he sees me staring after him. For a second he falters, his gaze snapping down the woman who is still on the ground, then back up at me before he runs off.
I turn, taking in the now seated woman, swearing under her breath, and staring incredulously at a high heel clutched angrily in her fist. The long, narrow heel of the shoe hangs limply from the black stiletto, having snapped.
“You’re not supposed to do this,” she bemoans.
“Not today! Your job is to carry me from point A to point B without snapping like a twig. Don’t you know what this means for me?
Now look.” Her hands fly about her body.
“I’m a bloody mess. Literally.” She threateningly shakes the shoe.
“I’m gonna tell Marie you did this to us, and she won’t be pleased. Not at all.”
Marie? I take a better look at the shoes.
Marie Marcato. Exclusive and expensive. But clearly, she’s speaking in jest and ire because no one knows or speaks to Marie directly.
Not even me and I’ve been trying for longer than I care to admit.
Still, I can’t understand how she’s more upset about her heel snapping than she is about the fact that she was almost mugged .
My shadow looms over her, blocking the blinding summer sun. “What were you thinking fighting with him? He could have been armed or seriously hurt you. Are you okay?” The cuts on her knees are dripping blood down her shins and onto the concrete steps, but she’s more focused on her broken shoe.
Alarmingly bright cornflower blue eyes snap up and glue themselves to my face. And the moment they register me, they grow round as dinner plates, her plump pink lips parting. “Shit,” she hisses.
“Now you’re catching up. That’s what I said when I saw you were struggling with him.
Are. You. Okay?” I repeat, my annoyance dripping through into my tone now that she’s staring at me like, well, like everyone else does.
Starstruck, awed, and terrified. “Do you not know how to answer questions or is English along with common sense a difficulty for you?”
She scowls at my sharp, curt words. “Did you honestly just ask that? Do you have any sense how insanely rude and condescending that is after what just happened?”
My lips bounce, attempting to curl up into a smirk, but I beat it instantly away. “Whatever gets you to speak.”
She blinks away from me, staring down at her knees that are bleeding and oozing everywhere. “He shoved me, and my shoe broke,” she shoots back. “Obviously I’m not having the best of mornings.”
“Obviously,” I deadpan, mocking her snarky, sardonic tone. “And now you’re hurt. For the third time, are you okay?”
“Um. I don’t know,” she admits on a shaky breath. “I’m pissed. And hurt. And annoyed. At so many, many things right now.”
“Can I help you up?”
“You might be the last person on earth I should ever ask for or accept help from.”
Okay. I’m not sure what to do with that. “Do you work here?”
“Probably not for much longer. I’m a design intern. First day.” Regret immediately strikes her features and she frowns, shaking her head violently. “I seriously wish I hadn’t just told you that.”
I chuckle and with the sound of my laughter at what she inaccurately assumes is at her expense she scathingly glares back up at me with those arresting eyes.
Then there is her hair and those sexy lips and those entrancing pinpoint freckles on the bridge of an adorable petite nose and across the upslope of her perfect, high cheekbones and shit.
I can’t stop looking at her.
Though I know I’ve seen her face before, I’m just struggling to place where exactly. My stupid cock stirs in my pants. Not the most opportune time for that, especially given her vantage point of me from the ground.
Slowly she starts to stand, albeit awkwardly because she can’t roll onto her knees to help herself up and the pencil skirt she’s wearing is restrictive around her thighs.
“That’s not a good idea,” I tell her. “You’re bleeding, your shoe is broken. Not to mention, you just admitted you’re not sure if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.” She hisses out a shocked breath as her knee scrapes the ground. “I can’t exactly live here and besides, I don’t want to be late on my first day.”
“I’m sure they’ll understand when they see you.”
She rolls onto her side, attempting to use her elbows, and this is just ridiculous.
“I don’t know what that move is, but you’re only going to hurt yourself more,” I admonish. “Was your purse really worth this? Here, take my hand.”
“No thanks.” She shoves my proffered hand away, her pride getting the better of her. Or maybe it’s because you’re being a dick to her after she was just attacked . I push that thought away.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask coolly, annoyed she’s brushing me off when I helped her with the mugger and am offering to help her again.
She strikes me with a look. “You mean other than the jerk standing over me, making fun of me? Yes, I know who you are.”
“Then I’m shocked you’re still speaking to me like this.” She’s an intern. That means she works for me whether directly or not. So her talking back to me like this?
“Me too. Must be all the blood loss and adrenaline making me loopy. I take it no one talks back or insults you?”
“Not if they have any sort of natural self-preservation instincts, which I think we already established you don’t.”