Oblivion: Surrender

OBLIVION SERIES: SURRENDER

By

Cristina Salinas

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Cristina Salinas on S
MASHWORDS

Oblivion Series: Surrender

Copyright © 2013 by Cristina Salinas

Cover by Joleen Naylor

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental.  The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Adult Reading Material

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To my dearest friends, thank you for encouraging me until the very end.
To my cousin Jessica, thank you for great moments and for inspiring me. Your support continues to guide me.

Enjoy this romance novel.

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OBLIVION SERIES: SURRENDER

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Prologue

“M
ICHAEL!” I shriek. The current is too strong. We’re being pulled away from each other to opposite sides of the river. I can’t see him anymore! I fight the current and swim to land as hard as I can, knowing it’s the only way to survive. I almost reach a log but all of a sudden, the river thrashes in my face.

I’m
pulled underneath the surface, unable to swim to the top because a malignant presence is holding me back. Ghostly black shadows cloud my visibility, wrapping around me as if they were human arms, fondling my breasts, forcing me to surrender. I can’t move to find Michael as obscurity becomes my recurring nightmare.

Chapter 1

O
h god…Yes…Yes!
My convulsing body disintegrates under the relentless rhythm of the vibrator.
Jesus.
I sink my teeth into the softness of my pillow, muffling my erratic gasps of ecstasy. Taking slow and deep breaths, I begin to relax my racing heartbeat and turn off the vibrator, resting it on my stomach.

It
’s hot pink elongated hardness shimmers hot and sticky fluid, proudly displaying my orgasm; just in case I had any doubts as to how well it worked. I don’t. It’s my comfort, self-control, and I need it continually. For a year, it has become a fundamental part of my life. Without it, I don’t know what I would do. I don’t know how I would stop myself from fucking the first man who barely fits my preference list.

Sighing, I rub my palm over my swe
aty forehead, acknowledging the secret reality I have to live with: I am a sex addict, according to the diagnosis of Dr. Harvey. According to my definition though, I’m just a compulsive sex freak, born shortly after my fiancé Michael Derrick Reinhart vanished in the depths of the Connecticut River, almost two years ago.

I cringe at the rush
of memories. My inner turmoil is sometimes more than I can bear. I made one stupid mistake…The official police reports had declared the case closed after two weeks of failed searches, and my own sister gave up hope then. Nobody believed I could somehow feel he was still alive.

Full of despair over losing Michael, I believed a one night stand would ease my
agony. The problem began when it did help, and I lost control of my actions. It was Dr. Harvey who suggested I purchase a vibrator to stop me from falling back into old habits. Getting up to wash off my sex toy, I decide not to focus on the dreadful past that brought me from Hartford to the blazing city of Miami.

After all, I do have a plan to search for Michael
, but I’ll have plenty of time to focus on it soon. I can’t let my frozen heart melt with the wrath of anger again. While washing the vibrator, a sudden thundering noise of pots and pans unwillingly sneaks a smile onto my face. My sister Juliette is making a racquet in the hallway.

“Alyson! Are you up yet?” she
knocks on my door. “How do you plan to succeed as a hotel manager if you don’t answer your own boss’s phone call? I answered, and he wants you up and running in an hour! Get moving!”
An hour? Where’s my cell-phone…Dammit!

I take
the quickest shower of my life and nearly stumble into Juliette who graciously has French toast, scrambled eggs and black coffee waiting for me at the table. “Thank you!” I hug her, sit down at the table, and clasp my favorite silver necklace on. Breakfast is delicious.

“I can’t believe
I left my cell-phone in the living room. It’s not like me” I murmur while debating over two makeup palettes. Then again, most things just aren’t me anymore. Not that my sister knows the half of my barbarous secrets. I can’t even think of losing her too. As I open a dark brown eye shadow compact, Juliette shakes her index finger.

“
That’s too bold for your clothes. Give me a second! I have just what you need!” she promptly runs to her bedroom across the hall. Oh the benefits of living with a professional makeup artist. A moment later, Juliette takes an angled brush and highlights my cheekbones with a medium rose hue.

My siste
r’s skin like mine is tan, though her green eyes are the brightest shade of jade our family has ever seen. Our parents used to say that Juliette inherited our paternal grandmother’s eyes while I kept our maternal grandfather’s hazel. “Perfect” Juliette grins at her work of art. She takes my cell-phone out of her pocket and puts it on the table. “Was he mad because I didn’t answer?” I ask nervously.

“
You
did
answer” Juliette smiles mischievously and then furrows her eyebrows. “He’s so rude and short, I couldn’t even put in a word. Apparently the general manager has some unexpected out of state business she can’t put off. He just wants you in the office before she leaves today.”

“Oh? Did he
mention what kind of business?”

“I think it has to do with a
business conference. I didn’t understand all of it. Maybe today will be your big day.” Juliette throws a wadded napkin at me. After a month of beginning my internship at Caravana Hotel & Resort, I grimace at the thought of finally meeting Mr. Jerk
in person.

Jerk
is the nickname the staff members have given the owner, Mr. Stevenson. I’m not the type of person to believe ear to ear gossip. If Mr. Stevenson is really the demon boss, I’m not afraid, and want to find out for myself.

“Hey”,
Juliette clicks her fingers to snap me out of my thoughts. Without me noticing, she’s refilled her coffee mug and eaten half a piece of toast. I have the bad habit of blocking out the outside world when I’m in deep thought. “Fern and I might go out for burgers tonight. Do you want to come?” She asks.

“Sure, count me in.”

Juliette’s eyes twinkle like neon fireflies. Six years of dating my best friend Ferdinand and the look on their faces is still one of teenagers. He moved with us from Hartford to be with Juliette and also to broaden his musical horizons. When I glance back at Juliette, her face is plastered with a sly grin—clearly a bad sign that she is about to say something I don’t like. “Can you imagine if your boss turns out to be a juicy mango like my Fern but with a bad case of neurosis?” Oh no, not
this
so early in the day.

“You know I don’t want
to talk about this.” I smile weakly and grab my things. I have to get out of here. Juliette’s eyes instantly soften. “I’m sorry, Ali. I didn’t mean to bring it up again. I just worry about you. I mean, you haven’t gone on a date since we moved here. Mark is still head over heels for you and supposed to visit next week. He’d love to take you out.”

“I’
m not interested.” I roll my eyes, suppressing a sick laugh. The concept of ‘
courting
’ is completely foreign to me. I don’t specifically go out on ‘
dates
’ with anybody; especially not with Ferdinand’s younger brother.

“But one
date won’t hurt you—”

“
That’s enough!” I raise my voice. As much as I love my sister, Michael’s death is not something we’ll ever agree on. I am about to walk out the door when I feel her soft touch on my shoulder. “Don’t get mad at me”, she whispers. I sigh deeply and turn around to hug her. “I’m not mad okay? I love you. Don’t worry so much about me, I’m fine. Right now, my career is most important to me.” Juliette nods and kisses my cheek, “Okay, I love you too.” Her expression is dubious, but thankfully she doesn’t mention anything else.

*****

The drive to Caravana Hotel is only 20 minutes from the apartment complex-- counting there isn’t a traffic jam choking the interstate. Thankfully, I’ve been given a break today, and the roads are as clear as the Miami sky. With my windows rolled down, I brake at a red light; momentarily breathing in the paradise I’ve unconsciously ignored for the past year and a half. A cool breeze sweeps loose hair strands off my forehead.

Not even in the midst of the earliest daylight does
the city of Miami Beach hold back its ultraviolet sex appeal. Curvaceous females catwalk the crowded sidewalks like top models, attracting the looks of muscular men who spend their days working out to suit their counterparts. Cloudless days and swaying palm trees play matchmakers along the edges of sandy white beaches.

Miami is definitely t
ropical New York City at its very best. Exhaling a breath, I float back to my reality and step on the gas. I know that Connecticut will always be my permanent home because Michael’s future search investigation and its possible outcomes keep my residence here temporary. If it weren’t for the cross I have to bear, I’d definitely consider Florida my new home.

In the back of my mind,
I know I’ve been too caught up thinking about the list of private investigators I found and what their total costs may be. I must admit however—my salary as an intern manager at Caravana Hotel & Resort is more than what I initially expected. Within a few a weeks, I have saved enough to start making phone calls and possibly appointments.

Turning right onto Bleighton Lane, I pull
into Caravana’s parking garage 10 minutes before 9:00am. As I search for a parking space on the second level, I happen to notice Gabrielle’s indigo convertible stationed next to a rare sight: A majestic
Maybach Landaulet
. My mouth opens wide in disbelief. Wow! Someone has spectacular taste and enough money to live comfortably for the next three lifetimes.

Driving around to the other side of the lot, my thoughts suddenly drift to the most risqué sexual encounter I have experienced to this day. I park my car in front of an EMPLOYEES ONLY door which leads directly to
the management office and momentarily close my eyes, reveling in the vivid memory. We’d just gotten out of a rock concert that had ended past midnight and were walking in the middle of an abandoned trailer park.

Fear wasn’t an emotion I felt at the time. Behind some of the trailers, ransacked cars with broken locks were as lifeless as the property itself.
My ‘
date
’ and I snuck into the backseat of one of the cars and let our needs take over.

I remember my nails digging
deep into his back and in the car’s upholstery as his endless pounding sent us over the brink of exhaustion several times. A sudden pang of shame and guilt invades the memory and snaps me out of my thoughts.

I menta
lly slap myself. Why am I sitting here, reminiscing how cheap I was? It doesn’t do me any good to remember sex with men I never knew the names of. Opening the door to the management office, a small voice greets me from the back room. “Alyson, I’m so glad you’re here!” she says. Gabrielle Orwell is Caravana’s general manager.

She’s a petite brunette with a high sense for fashion. Judgin
g by the quick sound of clicking heels, I can hear she is rushing. “Good morning”, I reply as I store my purse inside my desk. Turning on my computer, I glance at Gabrielle who is pacing towards me with a stack of papers in her hand.

Her formal sunshine dress is eye catching.
“I’m sorry you had to be here earlier on such short notice, important business executives from Chicago want to meet with me right away”, she hands me the paperwork. They’re still warm from being printed.