CHAPTER ONE

BECCA

 

Have you ever wanted to lick someone from head to toe before? Climb them like a tree and use them as a humpy bear?  Swear to Christ, if I wasn’t sitting down I would be hip thrusting like my vagina had taken control, like Seth Green in Idle Hands. 

It’s been months since I last saw him. 

Tristan Michael Taylor, my soulmate. The breaker of my heart and wetter of my panties.

He’s standing there casually—one hand in his pocket, and the other loosely holding a beer withjust his sexy fingers.  His gray dress slacks are perfectly pressed and creased, hugging every inch of his powerful thighs. The light blue, long-sleeved button up shirt looks perfect with his light tan complexion, blue eyes and blond hair. 

He’s the full package—fuckable edition. 

My name is Rebecca Jane Michelson and I’m twenty-five years old. I’m a hairdresser, and according to the crazy hot matrix,I’m completely crazy. 

This is an accurate assessment. 

I have jet-black hairand disturbingly light blue eyes that are almost white. I wear dark blue contacts that make them look more like normal, average, everyday blue.  

I’m fluffybecause cupcakes are life.  

My knockers are legendary double D’s that I have a love/hate relationship with. Shirts never fit right, and button up shirts? Please. Hello wardrobe malfunction!

My parents got divorced when I was four.  My mom, Donna, got custody of me, and my dad had partial custody of my brother, Carter.  My mother was devastated when my dad filed for divorce. There was no warning, no fighting, no scared anticipation; just kisses and dancing in the kitchen, and then divorce. 

After the dust settled and the divorce was finalized, Mom moved us hours away from Denver to a cabin in Red Feather, Colorado. The years immediately following the divorce were probably some of the hardest years of my life.  Not physically, but emotionally.  Mom checked out. I had all the necessities—a roof, a bed, food, and a safe place to sleep. Physically, she was there, but emotionally and mentally, she was absent. 

She used to be a first-grade teacher so she homeschooledme. She was my teacher, not my mom, which I suppose parents need to be to homeschool children, to an extent.  She would hand out my lessons for the day, and then go to the living room to stare out the window.  

Then one day we went to the store. When we came back out with a cart full of groceries, she froze when she noticed we had a flat tire, and she broke—just lost it.  I was nine, almost ten, and never in my life had I heard f-bombscome out of my mother’s mouth. She beat the shit out of the tire and the driver’s side of the car with a crowbar, cursing Dad and everything else that she could think of. That was when she met my stepdad,Roger.  

One second, she had the crowbarin her hands, and the next, she was wrapped up in Roger’sarms. I stood with my hands on the cart, crying.  I was scared and feeling left out, tobe honest, then Roger looked over Mom’s head and motioned for me to come over. When I did, Mom pulled me into the huddle. 

I felt super awkward, balling and hugging Mom with this man I didn’t know.  Then he made me laugh. 

“Man’s an assclown if he let’s not one, but two beautiful girls go. Man’s dumber than a dog on hump day.”  

I laughed, even though I really didn’t understand what he said. Mom pulled back and barked out, “Language!”

His lips quirked and he said, “Yes, ma’am.” It was when he said that, that I noticed the change in Mom’s eyes.  There wasn’t necessarily a happiness, but amusement, surprise, and oddly enough, relief. His cheeks burned bright red. Seeing as he wasa paleas shit redhead,it was plain to see.  He cleared his throat and changed the tire, butbefore he could walk off, Mom invited him to dinner. He came that night, and pretty much every night after that. They got married just six weeks later in a small ceremony, with Roger’s brother Davis as a witness.  

The next eight years were some of the best of my life.  The schoolwas awesome, we had Roger, and Mom was smiling again.  I made friends, raised hell, went to parties, and found my calling. 

For as long as I can remember, I was always fixing my mom’s hair, cutting my doll’s hair, fixing my friend'shair for prom.  I decided on cosmetology school, and then decided on Denver, since my older brother Carter lived there. 

Carter is six years older than me and a total badass, but after the divorce,it was rare that he came to Red Feather, and the older he got the less we saw him, until he stopped coming altogether. To say Carter was shocked to see me on his doorstep was an understatement.

 It took me damn near twenty minutes to haul my ass out of the car and knock on his door, I was so nervous.  I really should’ve paid attention, then I might have noticed the multitude of cars, the music, and the laughter coming out of the house.  I knockedlike I was the hounds of hell coming to drag his ass to the deep end.  He jerked the door open, and with a smile on my face, my arms open and ready for a hug, he dashed all hope of a beautiful brother/sister reunion. I mean, he just fucking stomped that shit into the fucking dirt. 

“Look,lady, I’m sorry. But seriously, I’m a one and done typeof dude.  If I wanted a repeat, I would’ve given you my actual number and not the number to the animal shelter.” He tried to slam the door in my face, but I smacked it with both hands so hard, he lost hold of it and it smacked against the wall. I stepped inside, pissed as hell. You see, I have a short fucking fuse. 

I got right up in his face—well, his chest, since he’s gigantic—and shouted, “You fucking bastard! Do you not recognize your own sister! Who else would have the same cursed eyes as you!”

My mouth has a mind of its own. I probably could have said something with a bit more couth, but alas, I’m only me. Runawaymouth and all, everyone in his house that night burst out laughing. That single incident is probably the most embarrassing moment of my life. 

That was also the night I fell in love. Not lust, not infatuation, but head over ass in fucking love.  

I met my soulmate. 

It was the night I met Tristan.  Everything around me—the laughter, the whispers—blanked out of existence.  There was nothing but him, with his blond, close-cropped hair, blue eyes, and muscles stacked on top of muscles.  I wanted to weep withjoy. 

Then I went home and played “Ironic” by Alanis Morissette until my ears bled, because I met him, and then I met his wife. 

Who I wanted to cunt punch. 

Tonight, we’re at Savannah and Shamus’s wedding. I met Savannah when Tristan had called me to see if I could fix the horrible home dye job she had epically fucked up.  I only met her that one time, so I was shocked to get her call about doing her hair for the wedding. 

When Carter told me everything that had happened to them, I was stunned. Apparently, Savannah was kidnapped and suffered a major concussion after she got involved in some cold cases for the Denver police department. The cases, coincidently enough, were connected to Shamus’s case.  What happened to Savannah sucked, but holy hell, poor Shamus. His first wife and the mother of his two adorable kids, Chloe and Aiden, was murdered, and the twins were kidnapped. It took him years to track them down, and only with the help of Savannah and Tristan were they able to locate and rescue them. 

After I agreed to do her hair, I decided it was best that I avoided Tristan at all costs. My plan is simple: comedown to Spartan, do all the hair, then escape to my hotel and attack my bloated TBR list and read until my eyes popped.  

When I told Savannah this, she threatened to drag me to the wedding kicking and screaming.  For a second, I considered telling her where she could shove her threats.  Then her cheeks got red and her hands went to her hips. 

She threw me a ‘mom’ look so fierce, I almost went to my room like a child. 

Needless to say, I came to the wedding. 

I look back at Tristan and let out a discreet moan when he bends over to talk to Shamus’s son, Aiden.  The manhas an ass like two ripe cantaloupes; it’s too perfect for words. 

I’m trying to watch him without being obvious that I'm perving on him.When I first met him, I was a nineteen-year-old girl in an unfamiliar town, and with a less than welcoming brother. I didn’t want to look like a lovesick kid lusting after Tristan, so I tried to keep my feelings secret. He was larger-than-life to me: older, successful, and so handsome. And let's not forget, married. 

I apparently failed in my endeavor to hide my feelings. I’d been in Denver for a month and would make multiple “surprise” visits to Triton Security under the ruse of hanging out with my brother, but I was really there to catch glimpses of Tristan. One day I came in and Carter wasn’t there, and Tristan invited me back to his office. After taking a seat, he proceeded to crush me.  I tried to play it down at the time, make him feel like he wasn’t ripping my heart out when he told me I wasn’t his type, that I needed to look elsewhere because he didn’t date his friend’s siblings. I just smiled and told him I liked staring at his sexy body, that I wasn’t crushing on him. I laughed, shook my head and walked away. When I got home, I OD’d on cupcakesand cried enough tears to fill an Olympic pool.

 For, like, a month. 

I avoided him like the plague after that. I kept in touch with Carter as much as he would let me via phone callsand the occasional visit to his house. I was very much alone. The girls at cosmetology school were less than welcoming, and my brother barely made time for me. So many times I concidered moving to Florida with my mom and Roger, or moving back to Red Feather. The less I saw him, the easier it was to ignore the shattered remnants of my heart. I put the bitches at school on mute and went about my life, such as it was. After graduating, I got a great job right out of school and bought my first house. I was content with moments of happiness, but never ‘float on air’ happy. I hadn’t seen him, spoken to him, or even thought about him (much) for almost two yearswhen he called me about fixing Savannah’s hair disaster. 

I hadn’t heard his sexy voice in so long, I didn’t know whether to cry or masturbate. I girded my loins and was determined that when he came in, I would be cool and not spaz. 

My chill attitude lasted about a second.  

He walked inthe shop and every feeling, every emotion I ever tried to stuff in that secrectbox in my heart came rushing up to the surface. Tears welled in my eyes, and I felt that same drowning sensation that I worked so hard to overcome. He didn’t say a single word. He made eye contact with me for about a second, but it felt like hours. The look on his face before he turned away had my tears drying up, making it easy to shove all those idiotic emotions back where they belonged. He was pissed. Hell, he looked almost enraged. 

After that day, I decided that it was time to really and truly let him go. I finally let the ladies at the salon I worked at, Styles, set me up on some dates. That was an epically bad idea. The first blind date started off great, until he handed me a test of sorts, to find out if I suffered from a multitude of psychological disorders. The second date kept saying, “God damn, I can’t wait to motorboat your tits.” 

I have since moved on to online dating, which is going just as bad. I’ve gone out on a handful of dates from the matchmaking website, and at this point,I’ve decided to bow out of the dating game altogether.  

Also, I’ve decided that I’m going to be a crazy cat lady. 

A burst of laughter to my right has me looking at Savannah, who’s dancing withShamus.  My envy burns bright and ugly. I’m trying, I really am, but there’s an ache in my chest when I look at them. Glancing over at Tristan, myhold on my emotions slips and a single tear escapes, the weight of crushing. I look away, take a shuddering breath and grab my purse. It’s time to escape before I embarrass myself further by turning into a blubbering mess. 

I’m at the side door, and I turn my head for one last look at him. 

For one split second,his eyes connect with mine and I drop the mask, letting every ounce of love and pain show.  Smiling sadly at him, I jerk the door open and slip out, sprinting to my car. Jumping in, I smack the door lock and sit there, trying to catch my breath. Between the tears and my mad dash, I can’t seem to draw a full breath.  

Putting the car in reverse, I look forward at the building and see him come out of the door. I hate him. I wish I’d never laid eyes on him, because I’ve now moved from depressed to pissed. I roll down my window and stick my arm out, flipping him off as I peel out of the parking lot. 

I have only two destinations in mind at this point: a liquor store, and then my hotel room.

“Fuck my life.”