Longing: Club Inferno (19 page)

To Mary and Tracy for all the inspiration and reading my crazy stuff at a moment’s notice.

Heat

Longing

P
HOTO:
E
XPOSURES WWW.EXPOSUREMAX.COM

Jamie K. Schmidt has more than thirty stories in publication. In addition to sexy contemporaries, she writes a paranormal romance series featuring dragons and has coauthored a book with
New York Times
bestselling author and ex–porn star, Jenna Jameson.

Jamie holds a bachelor of arts degree from the State University of New York at New Paltz in secondary-education English. She’s also held various jobs as a call-center manager, a Tupperware consultant, a paralegal, and finally, a technical writer for a major corporation.

An avid knitter and jewelry maker, Jamie is never bored. She can often be found on the computer with a mug of tea, flanked by her chiweenie dog and fluffy white cat. You can follow her on Twitter at
@Jamiekswriter
or on her author page on Facebook. When she’s not writing or crafting, Jamie loves playing games, everything from board games to strategy card games to console and online MMORPGs.

www.jkschmidt.com

September 23, 2014, is the first day of autumn, and there is nothing like cool weather to encourage us to curl up and read a good book—that we need any additional encouragement, right? Here are some great Loveswept book ideas to help you fall into the new season.

USA Today
bestselling author Mira Lyn Kelly’s new Dare to Love series debuts with
Truth or Dare,
a fabulous contemporary romance that fans of Jill Shalvis will adore. Laura Drewry returns this month as well with the witty and tender romance
Prima Donna,
featuring a sexy love-shy doctor. Debut author Claudia Connor introduces the McKinney brothers in
Worth the Fall,
where readers meet widowed mother Abby and Navy SEAL Matt, both seeking forgiveness and looking for a way to start over. A book I’m sure readers will devour is
Control
by Laura Marie Altom—runaway Ella escapes an abusive marriage, dot.com billionaire Liam is used to having control, and together they are explosive. Coinciding with the World Series, Katie Rose gives us The Boys of Summer with
Bring on the Heat,
introducing Chase and Darcy, (or is it Lydia?) in this mistaken-identity love affair. And if the weather gets a little too cool, heat it up with
Longing
by Jamie K. Schmidt, a lighter take on erotic romance, but don’t be fooled, Anya and Clint are hot!

Lastly, don’t miss the newest Flirt title: Lauren Layne’s
Broken.
The second book in her Redemption series tells the story of a girl with secrets, a guy with scars, and a love that could save them…or destroy them.

I hope you don’t miss these stories that will warm your heart and make you blush a little too! And share your favorites with friends—we all need a little cuddle-up time with a good book. Until next time…

~Happy Romance!

Gina Wachtel

Associate Publisher

By Laura Marie Altom

Available from Loveswept

I was dead.

Withering at a dead-end job. Hiding from a dead marriage. Suffocating in a dead town.

Maybe that’s why when I studied the scruffy-haired guy who’d just ordered a hot dog from me at the Walmart snack bar, I sensed a connection. Because, honestly? As he sat in a far booth messing with his iPhone, waiting for his meal, he looked dead too. Skin pale—like he’d spent the past year in a cave. Stubble too long to be on purpose. Jawline not quite square enough, nose not quite straight enough. Even his clothes weren’t quite right. His red plaid shirt hung too loose on his rangy frame. His ass could’ve earned bonus points, but even his jeans missed the mark.

But then who was I to talk?

Sporting my blue Wally World vest, two-day-old ponytail, and a hairnet, I was hardly a great catch. Besides, I’d already been caught and had been paying for it every day since.

Despite the guy’s faults, something about him kept luring my gaze from the roller grill to his broad shoulders. It’d been forever since I’d been attracted to a guy on any level. To say my ex had done a number on me would be the understatement of the century. He’d taken my wide-eyed belief in happily-ever-afters that’d been instilled by a lifetime of Disney and shredded me, heart and soul. Now there was nothing left.

Except for the fear, I really did feel dead inside.

Only, what didn’t make sense is that this guy—this
not even hot
guy sporting scruffy dirty-blond hair—had stirred some long-buried emotion inside me. Kind of like how outside, brutal October wind skittered brown leaves clattering across the parking lot. For an all-too-brief moment, that wind lifted them to graceful flight, making them believe in a forever summer, only to ultimately, cruelly, slam them into the corners of the cart corral, where they’d lie forgotten and trampled until one day dissolving to dust.

I’d been to the circus and seen the strings. When—
if
—I was with a guy again, it’d be on my terms. For damn sure, no emotion would be involved. I’d never again give a guy the chance—the privilege—of even visiting my innermost world.

Needing this guy out of my snack bar, needing to rid myself of the voodoo his mere presence stirred inside, I focused on the roller grill, willing the sensor light to blink. When it finally did, I grabbed a paper food tray, then tonged his dog into a steamed bun, wishing my coworker and partner in crime, Willow, was there. She’d have cracked a dirty joke and instantly had me feeling better.

“Thanks. Got any wasabi mustard?” he asked after I’d stepped out from behind the counter to set his food on the brown laminate table.

Considering our locale of Rose Springs, Arkansas—AKA, the middle of butt-fuck nowhere—I didn’t even try hiding a smile. “Seriously?”

“A guy can hope.” He reddened, then shrugged before blasting me with an insanely slow, insanely perfect white-toothed grin that played Frisbee with my stomach. And his eyes. How had I missed them in my earlier appraisal? They made me think of moss—the velvety, emerald-green kind that stays luxurious and serene through the most vicious winter.

Those eyes…

His lopsided grin…

He made that Frisbee soar.

And so I did something stupid for a girl who
really
needs her job. “The store stocks fancy mustard—you know, like Grey Poupon. Would that be okay?”

“Sure…” He sipped from his Pepsi. Though for the record, he’d ordered Coke, which the snack bar didn’t carry. Meaning, I’d already once let him down. “Thanks. But you don’t have to go to any trouble.” He wagged a mustard packet. His hands were large and nails well groomed for these parts, where most men worked dirty jobs. “The regular stuff will be fine.”

What if your smile makes me want to find fancy mustard?
I couldn’t remember the last time a customer had even met my gaze, let alone considered whether or not they’d be trouble. “Sit tight.” For some unfathomable reason, I flashed a shy grin of my own. “I’ll call in a favor.”

Back behind the counter, I dialed the grocery department’s extension. Once I had Nathan on the line, I reminded him how many free scoops of neon nacho cheese I’d gifted him with during my six months on the job.

“Fancy mustard’s on the way,” I soon said to my customer.

“You’re awesome. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

While I stood wondering what to do with my hands, he fished his wallet from his back pocket, pulled out a twenty, then offered it to me. “For this level of service, you deserve a great tip.”

At first, I got all excited because with that much money I could afford milk, bread,
and
the big package of all-beef bologna. But then my pride kicked in, reminding me that even though this guy’s offer was kind, I now earned my own way. “You’re sweet, but we’re good.”

“You sure?” His gaze narrowed. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have guessed he was appraising me, but then that would have been silly. Why would he take so much as a second look? Back in the day, I’d been crowned homecoming queen and Miss Stonewall County. And everyone had told me I was pretty enough to be a model. And then I’d married a real live prince and he’d proceeded to use and abuse me in an unspeakable manner. And no one—not even my parents—had believed me. And ever since, I’d portrayed myself as being as ugly on the outside as I felt inside.

Swallowing bile, then the black knot lurking at the back of my throat, I nodded, willing my pulse to slow. I was safe. All that was behind me. I was a whole state west of Blaine, and just as soon as I earned the money, I’d move even farther. It’d cost my engagement ring to purchase a new identity in a Memphis back alley. Worth every penny, and then some.

Nathan arrived with the mustard. He wore roller skates and skidded to an impressive backward stop alongside me. “Here you go. You owe me a cherry Icee when I’m off.”

“Sure.” I clutched the plastic bottle, wishing, praying, to one day feel normal again. “Just bring your own cup. Mine are inventoried.”

“Will do.” He eyed the lone customer, then me. Did he think we were together? Nathan had asked me out a couple times, and I’d always gone, being sure to keep things casual. I liked having him as a friend but was afraid of making him mad—which only proved how messed up I truly was.

As fast as Nathan had appeared, he was then gone.

“Do I get any of that?” The stranger nodded toward his mustard, jolting me from my thoughts.

I looked at him and those serene, smiling eyes and, for the first time in forever, felt the tiniest glimpse of the girl I used to be. Why? What was it about this stranger that made me want to at least try rejoining the world?

“Please?” His gentle coax nudged me back to reality.

I set his condiment on the table, then cautiously backed a safe distance away. “Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” He broke the safety seal. Used those big hands of his to squeeze twin golden lines on either side of his dog. In the process, a chunk of hair kept falling over his left eye. Grinning up at me, he blew it out of the way. He had no idea how sexy his unattractiveness truly was. And those eyes. How easily I could lose myself in that verdant green.

Then reality crashed around me when I remembered to answer his question. “I don’t know.” Only, I did know why I’d apologized. The psych books I’d checked out of the library told me all about how naive I’d been, ignoring all the classic signs of being in an abusive relationship. Too bad identifying issues doesn’t necessarily change them.

“Ma’am? I need two slices of pepperoni, three cherry Icees, and a coffee.” It was Halloween and a frazzled mom approached the counter with two rowdy kids. One wore a Spider-Man costume and the other the Incredible Hulk. Hulk couldn’t have been much older than three, which was why his growls were cute as opposed to annoying.

“Sure,” I said to my customer. To this guy I didn’t know, but strangely wanted to, I waved good-bye. “Duty calls.”

He nodded. “I understand. Thanks again for the mustard.”

“My pleasure.”

The middle and elementary schools down the road must’ve let out, as an hour passed with a steady line of costume-wearing kids. Somewhere during a sticky flood of Icees and nachos and more Pepsis than I could count, my stranger left. And for some unfathomable reason, that made me sad.

By the time nine rolled around, I was more than ready to close for the night. Though the manager preferred I hold over the popcorn to use for the next day, I thought that was gross, so I discreetly scooped it into a trash bag, then wiped down the machine. By nine thirty, I’d cleaned everything else and was more than ready to retire to my shithole apartment.

Funny thing was, though, as crappy as the place was with its lumpy furniture and constant reek of the neighbor’s fried onions, it was mine. No one hurt me. I got halfway decent sleep—I feared a full night’s rest would never again be part of my life—and best of all, since all utilities were paid, I could always leave the lights on. Never again would a man catch me in the dark. Bad things happened there.

I tugged my thrift-store almost-white coat from my locker, slung my equally ratty purse over my shoulder—the Louis Vuitton Blaine had bought me on our Paris honeymoon had long ago been sold to pay my first month’s rent—then set off to wait for Willow, who, since I didn’t have a car, was usually kind enough to drive me home.

“Boo!”

“Jesus…” I’d just exited the storeroom when Willow jumped at me from alongside the swinging door. Evidently well into the Halloween spirit, she sported a neon pink witch hat and a twist-top bottle of Mountain Dew that I suspected from her boozy smell was loaded with vodka. She knew nothing about my past, and now I couldn’t quit shaking. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry. I was going for more of a sexy witch vibe than scary, but I suppose I could switch it up and be Stripper Strawberry Shortcake?”

Though my pulse still raced, I couldn’t help but laugh. She always had that effect on me.

“Does that smile mean you’re good with the stripper costume? You could be Stripper Smurfette. That way we’d match.”

I linked my arm with hers and sighed. “Willow, my love, has anyone ever told you you’re a straight-up mess?”

“All the time. I take it as a compliment.”

After hitting the already picked-through costume aisle for Willow’s new look, we wound our way to the front of the store. I lacked the funding for playing dress-up but had plenty of time. Since she was my ride home, I waited with her in the checkout line.

Outside, beneath the parking lot lights’ eerie orange glow, the night carried the sort of damp cold that had always seeped inside me. Angry wind howled, abusing brittle leaves and pitching paper flotsam like a temper-fueled small child. While a heavyset guy struggled to gather strewn mail, a woman chased her runaway cart. In an odd pleasure/pain dichotomy, the haunting, sweet scent of wood smoke rose above the mayhem, almost as if it were the wind’s mother, willing it to hush.

The smoke reminded me of my nearly idyllic childhood. How the few nights my father had been home, if it’d been cold enough, he’d always built a cozy fire.

Willow asked, “You hitting BJ’s with me tonight?”

“Sounds fun, but my lack of cash presents a problem.”

She sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you, if you have good tits, you have free booze. Problem solved.”

“Willow…”

“Yeah, yeah…You’re a good girl, flaunting what the good lord gave ya goes against your religion, blah, blah, blah.”

“It’s not that, I just—”

“No more excuses.” Willow used her keyless remote to pop the locks on the black Dodge Charger her boyfriend let her use. Since I’d never seen this boyfriend—only his gifts—I suspected the guy was more like a dirty old man who got his rocks off nightly with a supple young thing, then went home to his devoted wife. I liked Willow and had plenty of my own filthy secrets, so who was I to judge? “We’re running by my place to get you dolled up, then we’re drinking—and by drinking, I mean getting seriously fucked up.”

I’m not sure what’d gotten into me to make me go along with Willow’s plans, but by the time we hit BJ’s, she’d squeezed me into a red cocktail dress that showed far too much of everything. She’d piled my hair high, then, upon adding red devil horns, declared my costume complete.

We’d pregamed with her cheap vodka, and though after what happened back in Tennessee, I usually didn’t like losing control, tonight, with that stranger’s mossy green gaze lingering in my mind’s eye, more than ever I craved escape.

After a while, being dead was exhausting.

The tricky thing about being dead is that as much as I’d have liked to believe myself wholly and completely numb, that wasn’t exactly true. Every time I took off my bra, what happened was still there. Every time I saw a family, I couldn’t help but wonder if my parents had even tried looking for me after I’d gone. The mossy-eyed guy had unwittingly dredged up everything. He’d served as the temperature conversion on my own personal black lake. Turning me over inside, bringing all the torment I’d so carefully shoved down bubbling to the surface. Only now, swimming through a lovely, ever-rising cheap-vodka fog, with at least the presentable portion of my tits on display, my makeup fierce and hair properly teased and sprayed, I looked no different from any of the rest of the costume-wearing crowd.

For this one night, I was no longer the scared woman-child Blaine had wanted me to be but the empowered woman I was striving to one day become.

Wolf whistles trailed us into the smoky bar.

A cover band blared Warrant’s “Cherry Pie.”

A biker type smacked my ass. It only seemed natural for me to spin on my borrowed heels to scold, “You can look, but don’t
ever
touch.”

He raised his hands in surrender, then blew me a kiss. “I like a spicy bitch.”

Willow tugged me by my right arm. “
Eew.
Come on. The hotter guys are always back in the grunge room.”

BJ’s had once been a grocery store but had since been converted into three adjoining bars, each recognizable by different music. Eighties hair bands took up the former checkout, bakery, and deli sections. Then came a wall, punctuated with three sets of swinging doors. The area that’d once housed rows of canned goods, pet food, sugary kid cereal, and tampons was where the honky-tonk crowd hung. Willow hustled me out of there. In the former stockroom was where we usually played. The music ranged from Alice in Chains to Nirvana to Tool, and Willow was right—the guys were hotter. Not that I usually looked.