This book, or parts thereof, may not be distributed or reproduced in any form without expressed written permission from the author; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

All character and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real events or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is intended for mature adults only.

Editing done by Mickey Reed
http://www.mickeyreedediting.com/p/freelance-editor.html

Cover Design and Image by Vanessa R. Mickey
http://photographyonthebanks.com/

Image by Shauna Kruze
http://www.kruseimagesandphotography.com/

Cover Models Lance Jones
https://www.facebook.com/LanceJonesTattooFitnessModel

and Sky Kinz
https://www.facebook.com/OfficialSkyKinz

Interior Formatting by Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs
https://www.facebook.com/PinkInkDesignsbyCassy

****When you are done reading, please consider giving a rating and/or brief review where you purchased this book and on Goodreads. Thank you****

A HUGE, HUGE, HUGE thank you to all of my family and friends who have supported me every step of the way on this journey. You are freaking awesome!

Vanessa, who I had originally recruited to be a beta reader and ended up offering to be my cover designer. She is that great! Check her photography biz site…Amazing
http://photographyonthebanks.com/

My beta readers: Steph (my fabulous and beeeeautiful lil sis), Courtney ‘Curly G,’ Heather, Crystal Sanders, Julie Mosher, Shannon Rees, Amy Wingo, and Danielle Meek who read this during the writing process and let me know what was shit and was “the shit.” This book became what it is now because of your help.

My editor Mickey who has helped me to become a better writer through her edits. She tears my books to shreds and helps me build them back up so that the rest of the readers of the world can enjoy it without wanting to vomit. You are also a fabulous motivator and friend.

This book deals with very sensitive topics that affect many men and women around the world that may very well trigger painful memories for some.

This book does not focus solely on these topics, but can be considered uncomfortable for some at times. We all know that I believe in the happy ending. I also believe in writing about real life situations. Life isn’t always rainbows and unicorns.

This book is intended only for mature readers and is not suitable for those under the age of 18. There is language, sex, alcohol and some laugh out loud moments not meant for young eyes.

Please enjoy and thank you for reading.

I punched that asshole right in the nose. Damn right I did. And now my hand hurts like a mother. Whatever. He deserved it. Who the hell does he think he is? I’m not his whore at his beck and call. Oh hell no!

Tristan Holt is an asshole. Not even worth the pain that is shooting through my left hand and up my arm, causing my elbow a ton of discomfort. I never realized how much punching someone would hurt. I guess that is because I’ve never had to punch someone before. I mean, there are plenty of times throughout my day at work where I may or may not have visualized myself serving up a knuckle sandwich to one of my coworkers. And Tristan is a real douche, but I have never acted on it.

Until now.

Lesson learned. Punching someone does, in fact, hurt the one delivering—quite possibly as much as it hurts the one receiving the blow.

I actually felt a hint of remorse at first. It was a fleeting moment, but it was there. He had come to my house in the middle of the night for a booty call. A booty call! Ahhh! I’m so pissed! The nerve of that man thinking that, in a moment’s notice, I would invite him into my bed after what I saw him doing this evening.

My body is wound tight. I feel the tension radiating throughout my body, and all I can do is pace my living room, fists clenched, seething like a madwoman.

Earlier this evening, I went to surprise Tristan at his gym. I dolled myself up in my lacy, black, sexy number and black heels, did my hair out to there, and strolled out wearing nothing but my trench coat as not to give the whole town a preview of what
was
guaranteed to be a sure thing tonight.

I snuck in through the back knowing that the gym was closed for the night and quietly made my way through. He lives in an apartment above the gym, so I knew he would be either there or in his office. Well, I found him in his office—along with a leggy blonde who also had a fashion for lacy numbers.

Before I knew it, I found myself pinned to the wall, holding my breath, and covering my mouth so that I didn’t scream at the top of my lungs.

Asshole.

The leggy blonde—who I will now refer to as Giggles because she giggled incessantly—was well…giggling. Tristan was moaning. How the hell could he have gone from me last night to Giggles in there tonight?

I heard the sound of a zipper followed by a male hiss and a female giggle-gasp. I thought I was going to be sick. My eyes roamed the hall leading to the office, taking in the clothing that was discarded on the floor. Then her lacy bra went sailing through the air in what seemed to be slow motion, like in one of those Bruce Willis action flicks, landing poetically at my feet.

My mouth watered and I could feel the bile slowly trudging up my throat. I needed to get the hell out of there and fast.

I squeezed my eyes closed and covered my ears when she giggled.

Again.

It was time to make my escape. I tilted my head back, opened my eyes, looking to the heavens for guidance, and thought,
God, are you there? It’s me, Holly.
Nothing.
No?
Of course not.

“Leave your message after the beep,” was more like the response I was used to.

I skirted by the office unnoticed only to be captured by Giggles’s lacy bra that had wrapped itself firmly around my ankle and was holding on for dear life. I lifted my leg, doing a one-legged hop, and tried to shake it off, but the damn thing wouldn’t give up. It had me in a death grip. I reached down, grabbed the bra, peeled it from my ankle, and slung it behind me as I ran out the back door.

Fast forward a few hours. Now, here I am, pacing my living room floor, blown away by the audacity of that asshole, and trying to work the pain out of the fist I used to connect with Tristan’s face. Too bad for him that he taught me how to throw a punch in one of our self-defense classes.

Serves him right.

My phone chimes—“dun dun duuuun”—as a text is received. I walk to the counter where my phone rests, pick it up, and stare at the screen.

Tristan: Next time, do you think you can talk to me instead of using your mean fists to unleash your fury?

Are you fucking kidding me? No. Next time, I plan on punching him twice. Maybe three times. And possibly drawing blood.

BOOK: Holly Madison (Sins of the Father, 2)

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