Chapter One
David woke up with an empty bottle of beer in one hand and a blonde in the other.
Groaning, he shifted on the bed and winced at the flash of pain in his gut and the sudden pounding in his head. Apparently oblivious to his pain, the blonde snuggled closer to him and he glowered down at her bleached hair. He couldn’t even remember her name, although he could remember other things about last night with painstaking detail.
During their few minutes of sex, David had been vicious, desperate and cruel.
Because more than sex, what he’d wanted—what he’d needed—was to kill someone.
His eyes darkened when he remembered the sordid, sorry events of last night.
He’d unexpectedly seen her, after one whole year of trying futilely to do so.
She’d been making out in a busy Manhattan nightclub. Someone else’s hand had been crushing her breast through her shirt, his tongue tasting her mouth—the mouth of the woman David had planned to marry. The woman he loved. And she’d been making out. There. For everyone to see. For David to see. Making out. With a faceless, nameless asshole whose heart David wanted to rip out of his chest.
David had been drunk—which was nothing new. He’d spent little to no sober hours during the past year.
He’d never expected to see her, especially since she’d made it her life’s mission to avoid him now. And yet there she was, Evie Mathews, his Evie Mathews—who should have been Evie Hawthorne by now—in a noisy nightclub featuring scantily clad ladies locked inside cages that hung from the ceiling. Huddled in a smoky, dark corner of the club, she’d been putting out for that bastard, in public, in a way she’d never put out for David.
Even from afar, he’d seen the exact moment her hand disappeared into the waistband of a well-worn pair of jeans and slowly began to fondle the man’s dick underneath. She actually touched the bastard’s filthy, sorry excuse for a cock—and David saw it all, saw the way she stroked that hideous thing with her dainty little hand.
The same soft, fragile hand David had held and kissed as if it were something holy. The same hand that had rubbed David to climax hundreds of times. The same hand that, even while busily occupied touching someone else’s privates, still managed to crush David’s heart like a tin can. Watching that little hand move under those jeans, stroking up and down, made his own cock push hard against his underwear, desperate for her attentions…for her touch.
David remembered the evening too vividly…
Walking around in a dazed, drunken stupor, a blonde on each arm and a beer in each hand, David lazily alternated swigs from one to the other. It would have probably been an okay night if he hadn’t seen her. Hell, it would have been an okay night if he didn’t still love her. But he did see her, and he did love her, and he knew right then and there that he was going to fucking kill that son of a bitch sitting with a stiff cock beside her.
All hell broke loose when David lunged at him. Glasses crashed to the floor, the table toppled over and people screamed. All David knew was that someone had to die that night. It wasn’t enough to sink his fists into the bastard’s gut. Not enough to introduce his knuckles to his mean, fat jaw. Not enough to wrap his hands around the jerk’s thick neck and squeeze with all his might.
The damned bastard was strong. And sober. Unlike David’s sorry drunken state.
David took a punch to the stomach, one which made him fold over in pain. He jerked backward when a beefy fist landed on his jaw, blood spilling from his lips at the blow. David shook from the effort it took just to remain standing—and then his eyes met the man’s gaze. Either David was killing that sorry motherfucker, or he’d be glad if the bastard killed him and put an early end to his sorry, miserable life.
Evie was shouting, her words barely getting past the roaring in his ears. She wasn’t shouting the
David woke up with an empty bottle of beer in one hand and a blonde in the other.
Groaning, he shifted on the bed and winced at the flash of pain in his gut and the sudden pounding in his head. Apparently oblivious to his pain, the blonde snuggled closer to him and he glowered down at her bleached hair. He couldn’t even remember her name, although he could remember other things about last night with painstaking detail.
During their few minutes of sex, David had been vicious, desperate and cruel.
Because more than sex, what he’d wanted—what he’d needed—was to kill someone.
His eyes darkened when he remembered the sordid, sorry events of last night.
He’d unexpectedly seen her, after one whole year of trying futilely to do so.
She’d been making out in a busy Manhattan nightclub. Someone else’s hand had been crushing her breast through her shirt, his tongue tasting her mouth—the mouth of the woman David had planned to marry. The woman he loved. And she’d been making out. There. For everyone to see. For David to see. Making out. With a faceless, nameless asshole whose heart David wanted to rip out of his chest.
David had been drunk—which was nothing new. He’d spent little to no sober hours during the past year.
He’d never expected to see her, especially since she’d made it her life’s mission to avoid him now. And yet there she was, Evie Mathews, his Evie Mathews—who should have been Evie Hawthorne by now—in a noisy nightclub featuring scantily clad ladies locked inside cages that hung from the ceiling. Huddled in a smoky, dark corner of the club, she’d been putting out for that bastard, in public, in a way she’d never put out for David.
Even from afar, he’d seen the exact moment her hand disappeared into the waistband of a well-worn pair of jeans and slowly began to fondle the man’s dick underneath. She actually touched the bastard’s filthy, sorry excuse for a cock—and David saw it all, saw the way she stroked that hideous thing with her dainty little hand.
The same soft, fragile hand David had held and kissed as if it were something holy. The same hand that had rubbed David to climax hundreds of times. The same hand that, even while busily occupied touching someone else’s privates, still managed to crush David’s heart like a tin can. Watching that little hand move under those jeans, stroking up and down, made his own cock push hard against his underwear, desperate for her attentions…for her touch.
David remembered the evening too vividly…
Walking around in a dazed, drunken stupor, a blonde on each arm and a beer in each hand, David lazily alternated swigs from one to the other. It would have probably been an okay night if he hadn’t seen her. Hell, it would have been an okay night if he didn’t still love her. But he did see her, and he did love her, and he knew right then and there that he was going to fucking kill that son of a bitch sitting with a stiff cock beside her.
All hell broke loose when David lunged at him. Glasses crashed to the floor, the table toppled over and people screamed. All David knew was that someone had to die that night. It wasn’t enough to sink his fists into the bastard’s gut. Not enough to introduce his knuckles to his mean, fat jaw. Not enough to wrap his hands around the jerk’s thick neck and squeeze with all his might.
The damned bastard was strong. And sober. Unlike David’s sorry drunken state.
David took a punch to the stomach, one which made him fold over in pain. He jerked backward when a beefy fist landed on his jaw, blood spilling from his lips at the blow. David shook from the effort it took just to remain standing—and then his eyes met the man’s gaze. Either David was killing that sorry motherfucker, or he’d be glad if the bastard killed him and put an early end to his sorry, miserable life.
Evie was shouting, her words barely getting past the roaring in his ears. She wasn’t shouting the
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