Reckless Love_A Second Chance Romance

  Reckless Love

  J. Saman

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  EPILOGUE ONE

  EPILOGUE TWO

  End Of Book Note

  Touching Sin

  Prologue

  Lyric

  * * *

  I can’t stop staring at it. Reading the two short words over and over again ad nauseum. They’re simple. Essentially unimpressive if you think about it. But those two words mean everything. Those two words dove deep into the darkest depths of my soul, the part I’ve methodically shut off over the years and awakened the dormant volcano. How can two simple words make this well of emotions erupt so quickly?

  Come home.

  I don’t recognize the number the text came from. It shows up as Unknown. But I don’t have to recognize it. I know who it’s from. Instinctively, I know. At least, my body does, because my heart rate is through the roof. My stomach is clenched tight with violent, poorly concealed, sickly butterflies. My forehead is clammy with a sheen of sweat and my hands tremble as they clutch my phone. It’s early here in California. Not even dawn, but I’m awake. I’m always awake, even when I’m not, and since my phone has, unfortunately, become another appendage, it’s consistently with me.

  It’s a New York area code.

  Goddammit! I suck in a deep, shuddering breath of air that does absolutely nothing to calm me, then I respond in the only way I can.

  Me: Who is this?

  The message bubble appears instantly, like he was waiting for me. Like there is no way this is a wrong number. Like his fingers couldn’t respond fast enough.

  Unknown: You know who this is. Come home.

  I don’t respond. I can’t. I’m frozen. It’s been four years. Four fucking years. And this is how he reaches out? This is how he contacts me? I slink back down into my bed, pulling the heavy comforter over my head in a pathetic attempt to protect myself from the onslaught of emotions that consume me. I clutch my phone against my chest, over what’s left of my fractured heart.

  I’m hurting. I’m angry. I’m so screwed up and broken, and yet, I’m still breaking. How is that even possible? How can a person continue to break when they’re already broken? How can a person I haven’t seen in four years still affect me like this?

  I want to throw the traitorous device into the wall and smash it. Toss it out my window as hard as I can and hope it reaches the Pacific at the other end of the beach, where it will be swept away, never to return. But I don’t. Because curiosity is a nefarious bitch. Because I have to know why the man who was my everything and now my nothing is contacting me after all this time, asking me to come home.

  Unknown: I’m sitting here in my old room, on my bed and I can’t focus. I can’t think about what I need to be thinking about. So, I need you to come home.

  I shake my head as tears line my eyes, stubbornly refusing to fall but obscuring my vision all the same. Nothing he’s saying makes sense to me. Nothing. It’s completely nonsensical, and yet, it’s not. I still know him well enough to understand both what he’s saying and not.

  Me: Why?

  Unknown: Because I need you to.

  Me: I can’t. Too busy with work.

  That’s sort of a lie. I mean, I am headed to New York for the Rainbow Ball in a few days. But he doesn’t need to know that. And I do not want to see him. I absolutely, positively, do not.

  Unknown: My dad had a stroke

  My eyes cinch shut, and I cover them with one hand. I can’t breathe. A gasped sob escapes the back of my throat, burning me with its raw taste. God. Now what the hell am I going to do? I love his father. Jesus Christ. How can I say no to him now? How can I avoid this the way I so desperately need to? Shit.

  Me: I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Is he okay?

  Unknown: He’ll live, but he’s not great. He’s in the ICU. Worse than he was after the heart attack.

  I shake my head back and forth. I can’t go. I can’t go home. I was there two months ago to visit my parents and my sister’s family. I have work—so much freaking work that I can barely keep up. I don’t want to see him. I won’t survive it. I’ll see him, and I’ll feel everything I haven’t allowed myself to feel. I’ll be sucked back in.

  Things are different now.

  They are. My situation has changed completely, but I never had the guts to call him and tell him that. Mostly because I was hurt. Mostly because I felt abandoned and brushed off. Mostly because I was terrified that it wouldn’t matter after all this time apart. If I see him now, knowing how much has changed…Shit. I just…Fuck. I can’t.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I’m drenched in sweat. The blanket I sought refuge in now smothered me. I’m relieved his father is alive. I still speak to him once a month. Wait, let me amend that—he still calls me once a month. And we talk. Not about Jameson. Never about him. Only about me and my life. I’m a wreck that Jameson is contacting me. I can’t play this game. I never could. It was all or nothing with him.

  Unknown: I miss you.

  I stare at the words, read them over again and then respond too quickly, Liar.

  Unknown: Never. I miss you so goddamn much.

  I think I just died. Everything inside me has stopped. My heart is not beating. My breath has stalled inside my chest, unable to be expelled. My mind is completely blank. And when everything comes back to life, I’m consumed with an angry caustic fury I never knew I was capable of.

  Unknown: Are you still there?

  Me: What do you want me to say?

  Unknown: I don’t know. I’m torn on that. Please come home.

  Me: Why?

  Unknown: Because I need you. Because he needs you. Because I was always too busy obsessing over you to fall for someone else. Because I need to know if I’m making a mistake by hoping.

  I shake my head vigorously, letting out the loudest, shrillest shriek I can muster. It’s not fucking helping, and I need something to help. Clamoring out of bed, I hurry over to the balcony doors, unlocking them and tossing them open wide.

  Fresh air. I need fresh air. Even Southern California fresh air. A burst of salty, ocean mist hits me square in the face, clinging to the sweat I’m covered in. It’s still dark out. Dawn is not yet playing with the midnight-blue sky.

  I stare out into the black expanse of the ocean, listen to the crashing of the waves and sigh. I knew about him. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t Facebook-stalked him a time or twenty over the years. Forced myself to hate him with the sort of passion reserved for political figures and pop stars. But this? Saying he misses me?

  Me: Seeing me won’t change that. But if you’re asking, you are.

  He responds immediately and I can’t help but grin a little at that. You still care about me, Jameson Woods. When I catch the traitorous thought, I shut it down instantly. Because if he cared, if his texted words meant anything, then I wouldn’t be here, and he wouldn’t be th
ere and this bullshit four a.m. text conversation wouldn’t be happening.

  Unknown: I’m not asking. Seeing you might change everything. But more than that, I need you here with me. My father would want to see you. Come home.

  I hate him. I hate him. I hate him!

  Me: I can’t come home. Stop using your father to manipulate me.

  Unknown: It’s the only play I have. You can come home. I know you can. Are you seeing someone? Before you respond, any answer other than no might kill me right now.

  I growl, not caring if anyone walking by hears. How can he do this to me? How can he be so goddamn selfish? Doesn’t he know what he put me through? That I still haven’t found my way back after four years? I shouldn’t reply. I should just throw my phone away and never look back.

  Me: No. And you’re a bastard.

  Unknown: YES. I Am! Please. I am officially begging. Really, Lee. I’m not even bullshitting. I’m a mess. Please. Please. Please!!!!

  Me: …

  Unknown: What does that mean?

  Me: It means I’m thinking. Stop!

  My eyes lock on nothing, my mind swirling a mile a minute.

  Lee. He called me Lee. That nickname might actually hurt the most. And now he’s asking me to come home. Jameson Woods, the man I thought was my forever is asking me to come home to see him. And for what? To scratch a long-forgotten itch? To assuage some long-abandoned guilt over what he did? Why would I fall for that?

  I sigh again because I know why. It’s the same reason I never bring men home. It’s the same reason I haven’t given up this house even though I don’t fully live in it anymore and it’s far from convenient. It’s the same reason I continued this conversation instead of smashing my phone.

  Jameson Woods.

  The indelible ink on my body. The scar on my soul. The fissure in my heart.

  Unknown: …

  I can’t help the small laugh that squeaks out as I lean forward and prop my elbows on the edge of the railing. The cool wind whips through my hair and I hate that I feel this way. That I’m entertaining him the way I am.

  Me: What does that mean?

  Unknown: It means I’m getting impatient. Please. I need you to come home. I know I’m a bastard. I know I shouldn’t be asking you this. But I am.

  Unknown: Aren’t you at least a little curious?

  YES!

  Me: NO!!!!!!! And bastard doesn’t cover you.

  Unknown: Please. It’s spinning out of control and I need to see you. I need to know.

  Me: You already know.

  Unknown: About you?

  Me: Yes, or you wouldn’t be texting me at four in the morning.

  Unknown: It’s seven here. Does that mean you’ll come?

  Me: …

  Unknown: …

  Me: Yes.

  My phone slips from my fingers, clanging to the hard surface of my balcony floor. My phone buzzes again, a little louder now since the sound is reverberating off the ground. I don’t pick it up. I don’t look down. I don’t care if he’s thanking me or anything else he comes up with. I don’t care. I don’t want to know.

  Because I’m busy getting my head on straight.

  Locking myself down.

  I care about his father and I want to see him, want to make sure he’s okay with my own two eyes.

  I’ll go home and I’ll see him. I’ll see him, and I’ll do the one thing I was never able to do before. I’ll say goodbye. My eyes close and I allow myself to slip back. To remember every single moment we had together. To indulge in the sweet torture that, if I let it, will rip me apart piece by piece. Because I know what I’m in for, and I know that once I step foot off that airplane, nothing will ever be right again.

  Chapter 1

  Lyric

  Six years ago

  * * *

  “You’re new here,” the girl on my right says just as my ass hits the hard plastic of my chair. Her accusation mixed with the inquisitive expression on her face makes me wish I had been a bit more discerning in my seating choice, but when you don’t know anyone, you tend to find any seat in the middle. The non-stick-out seat as I refer to it. Evidently, it wasn’t living up to its name.

  “Is this school that small?” I question in return instead of answering.

  I am new. First day of my first semester in this new school to be exact. A transfer student in my junior year, but I have a reason. This school is known for its music and business program. Both separate obviously, but considering I’m a music major and business minor, it’s sort of perfect. I was at NYU, thinking that would be the best place for me, but it really wasn’t. It was pretty fucking unhelpful actually. My father warned me about that. I hate it when he’s right, but he usually is, so maybe it’s time I start listening.

  My pretty neighbor nods, her rose-tinted lips pinching up into something resembling a scowl, her dark blonde bob moving with her head like they’re one unit. She has deep, soulful eyes, porcelain skin and a hoop through her nose. She pushes up the bridge of her stylishly too-big, black-framed glasses and smiles. “Unfortunately, yes. I’m Cassia, but everyone calls me Cass.”

  “Lyric.”

  “Oh,” she gasps, eyes wide. “Pretty name. Unusual. Do you do something with music?”

  I get this question a lot. Every time I introduce myself to someone. Like the name given to me at birth dictates the meaning behind my life. The sad part? It does. And I kind of hate telling people that. It makes me wish my rock-star father hadn’t been so literal in naming me. I’d much rather have been named something non-descript. Something like Jessica or Tessa or Julie or Megan. Something that wouldn’t draw attention to my passion or his. Music.

  My eyes inadvertently draw down and I catch sight of her T-shirt. Jimmy Eat World. I smile. I like them, too.

  Instead of answering, I laugh it off, quickly changing the subject as I try to evade the question. I don’t know her well enough to answer that one yet. “How did you know I was new?”

  She shrugs like the answer should be obvious. “I’ve never seen you here before. Five thousand is small enough that you notice everyone, and you don’t have that doe-eyed, new puppy look about you that suggest freshman. Plus, this is advanced corporate finance, which is an upperclassman course.”

  Observant little thing, isn’t she? “Well, you’re good. I am new. First day. Junior transfer.”

  She sits up straight, my answer supplying her with a burst of a new energy. Her shoulders square and she shifts to face me, but before her eyes can meet mine again, her attention diverts to the front of the classroom. Her mouth pops open and her cheeks pink up just enough for me to know she’s staring at someone she finds attractive. On instinct, I turn in the direction of her gaze and land directly on Jameson Woods the Third. How do I know his name and the fact that he’s the third of his male ancestors with that exact name when this is my first day here?

  I went to high school with him.

  And now I sigh out loud. I can’t even stop it. For some reason, his presence in my fresh start irritates me. It’s inexplicable, really. I never had a problem with Jameson Woods. Even when he ruined a friend of mine or six. I understood what he was. I even appreciated his brutal honesty when he told the girls he enjoyed his fun and wanted nothing more. In my mind, it was on them for getting attached to a guy they’d known they shouldn’t get attached to. There is no taming the bad boy. There is no making the chronic player a monogamist.

  He strolls aimlessly around the large tiered lecture hall, his eyes filled with boredom and a blatant lack of desire to be here at nine a.m. on a Monday—day one of the semester. Before he catches me in the act, I take a few seconds to check him out. I’m not the only one. Every other female’s eyes are glued to him. A few of the guys’, too.

  I allow myself to take him in. Hair, thick and black like a raven. Short on the sides, long and tousled on top to the point of flopping onto his forehead in an I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-after-having-sex-all-night way. Strong, chiseled jaw with a hi
nt of dark stubble, which he scratches absentmindedly. Eyes, the palest of blues like a freaking husky dog, framed in impossibly long dark lashes. Tall, built and tan with muscles for miles. The cotton of his t-shirt—the same shade of black as his hair—strains against his form.

  Cocky swagger? Check. Confident smirk? Double check. Too good looking to be legal or even real? Unfortunately, yes.

  Bastard has all of that in spades and knows it.

  He’s the equivalent of a king-sized candy bar. So deceptively tempting. Looks so enticingly ideal. Large, delicious, and promises endless pleasure—or so the rumors tried to sell it to you—while you indulge. But you know that once you give in, once you eat that whole goddamn candy bar, you’ll regret it. Mostly because he unapologetically screwed every single girl in our high school while maintaining the persona of the nice guy and was hated by no one. Not even the girls he left in the dust with a smile and a broken heart. I never got involved with his drama. I listened with patience and understanding when my friends cried on my shoulder and berated themselves for giving in to what they knew better than to taste.

  I had a boyfriend for most of high school, which is probably why I can’t stand the notion of one now. I have to admit, I’ve relished my freedom like a rogue fish in the ocean.

  Jameson I-know-every-woman-is-watching-me Woods runs a hand through his perfect hair and I find myself rolling my eyes at him, a wry smile twisting on my lips. I move back to my neighbor, but she’s still all googly eyes—something I would not have thought coming from a bad-ass chick like this—for the hot bod. I inadvertently roll my eyes again, wishing for the second time in ten minutes that I had sat somewhere else.