TIGHT
tīt/ adjective
Copyright © 2015 by Alessandra Torre
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Editor: Madison Seidler
Proofreader: Jonathan Rodriguez, Perla Calas & Janice Berry
Cover Design: Judi Perkins
Cover Image: Maksim Gorbunov
Formatting: Erik Gevers
ISBN: 978-1-940941-58-5 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-940941-59-2 (paperback)
www.alessandratorre.com
Contents
Titlepage
Copyright
Warning
Note
Dedication
Chapter 1 - 6 months before
Chapter 2
Chapter 3 - Kitten
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6 - Kitten
Chapter 7
Chapter 8 - Brett
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12 - Kitten
Chapter 13
Chapter 14 - 5 months, 3 weeks before
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17 - Kitten
Chapter 18 - 5 months, 1 week before
Chapter 19
Chapter 20 - 4 months, 2 weeks before
Chapter 21 - 4 months before
Chapter 22 - Kitten
Chapter 23
Chapter 24 - 3 months, 2 weeks before
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27 - Kitten
Chapter 28
Chapter 29 - Brett
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32 - Brett
Chapter 33 - 3 months before
Chapter 34 - Brett
Chapter 35 - 6 weeks before
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38 - Kitten
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41 - Brett
Chapter 42 - Kitten
Chapter 43 - 3 weeks before
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46 - Kitten
Chapter 47 - 2 weeks before
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50 - Kitten
Chapter 51
Chapter 52 - Brett
Chapter 53 - 2 days before
Chapter 54 - Kitten
Chapter 55
Chapter 56 - Kitten
Chapter 57
Chapter 58 - Kitten
Chapter 59
Chapter 60 - Kitten
Chapter 61 - Kitten
Chapter 62
Chapter 63 - Kitten
Chapter 64
Chapter 65 - Kitten
Chapter 66 - Brett
Chapter 67
Chapter 68 - 1 month after
Chapter 69 - 3 months after
Chapter 70 - 4 months after
Chapter 71 - 4 months, 3 weeks after
Chapter 72 - 1 year, 5 months after
Notification
Author’s Note
This book is a bit different than my others.
It doesn’t follow quite the same formula.
It will take you to some edges, but I don’t push you over.
Promise.
Note:
This book was inspired by “Still,” a novella in the Bend Anthology, which was banned from Kindle in May 2014. Many of the initial Brett/Riley scenes in this book came from that novella. If they seem familiar, that is why.
To Joey.
You are in every hero.
Our love in every story.
6 months before
tight (tīt)
(adj.) close-fitting, especially uncomfortably so.
I didn’t belong here—not in a loud casino, smoke curling up the walls, disappearing into discreet vents. Flip-flops shared space with sequins and diamonds, the crowd a mix of sandy tourists and high rollers, eighteen-year-old spring breakers polka-dotting the mix with their wide eyes and slurred steps, the alcohol hitting their virgin systems hard. We were at a craps table, a game that none of us understood, yet the Asians to our right were grinning and gesturing like we were hitting the mother lode, so we blew on dice and moved markers, and our chip stack continued to grow.
Chelsea. She’s the reason we were all there. Six of us split between three rooms, the four hundred dollar nightly rate generously taken care of by Mr. McCrory, Chelsea’s father and the king of the Atlanta carwash market. Chelsea’s big day was two weeks away, so there we were, in Nassau, bachelorette-partying our country asses off.
I didn’t belong there. I belonged on my front porch, sunning my toes on the railing, a sweet tea next to me, a magazine on my lap, Sugarland on the radio. That was how I’d spend a week off. Not in that loud place, with Tammy’s hand digging into my shoulders, her fresh manicure biting imprints into my sunburned skin. There was a bump of bodies behind me, and the curve of the table cut into my still-gorged-on-seafood stomach. Ouch. I gazed longingly at the stool holding up the cigarette-smoking female to my right. My feet were on fire, four hours in a-size-too-small-but-they-were-on-sale heels taking their toll in the most painful way possible.
I gathered my chips and turned to Megan, the bit of a girl to my left, her platinum curls bouncing excitedly at some aspect of this gamble that we didn’t understand. “I’m gonna head upstairs,” I yelled, my mouth as close to her ear as I could manage without swallowing her chandelier earrings.
“What?” She glanced down at her wrist, the fake Rolex we all—with the exception of Chelsea—had gobbled up from the first roadside stand where the taxi driver had stopped. It glittered impressively at me, and I fought a glimpse downward to see if my own looked as good. “It’s only ten.”
“My feet are killing me.”
She looked down. “You got a long way to walk to the room.”
She wasn’t kidding. My brain groaned at the thought of the trek before me. Through the casino, through the shops, down a flight of stairs, through a second lobby, up twelve floors via elevator, and then down a thousand feet of hallway. “I know. That’s why I’m leaving while my soles still have a little bit of life left in them.”
She leaned in, lowering her voice. “Chelsea will be pissed.”
I shrugged, craning my neck till I saw the future bride’s over-highlighted head. I leaned in, gave Megan a quick peck on the cheek, then hobbled over to Chelsea. “I’m heading up to the room,” I called out.
She waved her hand dismissively, her eyes glued to the table, the movement of our Asian coaching staff leaping in the air dominated her attention, her own voice whooped at an ear-splitting crescendo.
Great. I moved before my words registered and her attention changed to me, weaving through crowds of people as fast as my raw feet would take me, opening my purse and dumping my handful of chips into it.
Past blackjack. I could do this. It wasn’t really that bad if I didn’t pause long enough for my feet to bitch.
Past poker. Damn, there were a lot of tables. I kept my eyes focused forward, like I did when I felt like I would faint. Step, hobble. Step, hobble. I could do this, as long as I was going the right way.
Past more blackjack. Crap. Were these the same tables I passed before? Or different ones? Maybe the others were in a high-roller portion of the casino. These must be different. They had to be different. I looked for a sign, an arrow, a member of the casino staff. The blister on the back of my right heel was now competing with my left pinky toe, which I’d
be willing to bet was bleeding.
Past slots. This had to be right. I was jostled out of place by an overweight white woman who shot me a dirty look. Almost turned my ankle and busted my ass. Great. Just what I needed. An injury to accompany my pansy-ass feet.
There was an exit before me, and I craned to see over the heads blocking my view. Please lead out of the casino. Please lead into the lobby by the shops, please ... Oh, thank God. I almost cried with relief when the crowd parted, and I entered the smoke-free arena that was the rest of the hotel. Bathrooms to my left, a seating area on my right. I walked like my ninety-year-old grandma and collapsed into the closest chair, working off my heels with trembling fingers, and moaned when the heavy stilettos dropped to the tiled floor. Sweet Jesus. I flexed my feet and leaned back in the chair, closed my eyes and covered my face for a moment, rubbing gentle patterns into my hairline as I tried to massage away the headache that had built over the last two hours. Aspirin. I’d get to the room, take aspirin, and draw a bath. Soak my feet and create enough bubbles to make Mr. Clean jealous. The prospect brought a smile to my face, and I let my hands drop. Took a moment to breathe, to relax.
Finally, it was quieter, away from the madness of the casino.
I couldn’t believe it was only Friday. I got off early, our bank manager unhappy with the request, yet unable to bitch too loudly, seeing as I was the only FA at our small town chain. FA is fancy country talk for Financial Advisor. In a big city I’d manage large portfolios, dispense stock advice, buy and sell quotients like Ben Affleck in Boiler Room. But in our small town? An hour from Atlanta, where Sunday sermons focus on rain prayers, and where the average household income lay right on the forty-five thousand dollar mark? My days were spent selling mutual funds, life insurance, and doing the I’m-not-qualified-for-this job of will creation and estate planning. Nothing that couldn’t wait till Monday morning, when my raw feet and hung over self would crack open the doors of Smith Bank & Trust at the ungodly hour of 7:30 AM.
I picked up my right foot and examined the damage done by my stilettos. Stilettos that were uglier by the minute, trotting their pretty selves straight into my trashcan at their current rate of travel. Too bad I didn’t pack many other options. Fancy shoes took up a very small corner of my closet. Sensible black grandma heels dominated the rest of said closet floor. Paired with my tan nylons, they helped to complete the too-sexy-for-a-date vibe that I rocked ninety percent of the year. Maybe I couldn’t pull off the cute strappy heels, sexpot in a minidress look. Maybe that ability set sail at age thirty. Maybe, at thirty-two, I should invest in some ballet flats and sundresses. I saw a lot of the minivan moms with that look. And they looked comfortable. They certainly didn’t have the fire engine red feet that were currently screaming a slow death beneath my fingertips. I gingerly pushed on the bubble on my back heel. Uck. I could almost hear liquid squishing in it.
White fuzziness. It was thrust in my line of vision, interrupting my new fascination with the chipped polish on my big toe. I focused on the white, fluffy soft slippers coming into view. Thick ones, where you’d sink an inch into a pillow top bed of comfort, a brand I’d never heard of embroidered along the top. I looked from the shoes, up a tan arm, my eyes tripping and already drooling over clean nails, a strong hand, a Rolex ten times more authentic than mine, a muscular forearm, rolled sleeves, a jaw I’d nibble to death, and a face that competed with easy superiority against any celebrity I had previously strummed myself off to in recent memory.
He smiled, a rueful grin that may have just burst my heart. I worked my jaw, trying to formulate speech, glancing back and forth from the slippers to his face.
“Would you like these?” His voice. Sandpaper over the hull of a yacht. A combination of roughness and polish.
I swallowed. “The slippers?” Of course the slippers. What else would he be talking about?
A surprised look crossed his face. “You’re Southern. From ... Alabama?”
“Florida. Just south of the Georgia border.” I winced. I couldn’t hide the drawl; it dragged through my words with such ownership, as if the Southern notes were fused through every syllable.
He nodded slowly, still holding out the slippers. His other hand moved, reaching across. “I’m Brett.”
I should stand. It would be the polite thing to do. Stand and shake his hand. But I didn’t. I didn’t think my feet could handle it. I just reached out, shook his hand with a firm grip, like my daddy taught me, and met his eyes. “Riley.”
I didn’t know what about that exchange he found funny, but his mouth widened, and I got another devastating look at his teeth. God, I’d love for him to nibble my skin. Tease my neck, take the other, more sensitive parts of my body and wreak havoc on them. I shivered at the thought and pulled my eyes from his. Took the slippers from his hands. “You carry around slippers?”
“I saw your hobble across the casino. It caught my eye. I wandered out, wanted to make sure a man didn’t take advantage of your ill state.”
“By what? Swooping to my rescue with ridiculously comfortable slippers?”
If possible, his grin widened. “Yes. You should probably avoid me from this point forward.”
Having no intelligent response, I pretended to distract myself from the conversation, working the soft cotton over my injured feet and sighing with relief when they were on. “Where did you get these?”
He tilted his head to the right. “The store next door. They carry matching robes if you’d like to complete the look.”
I laughed. “No, I’m good.”
“I would have offered to carry you, but it didn’t seem appropriate. When I saw that you had sat down ... How far do you have to go?”
“My room.” I waved a hand dismissively in the direction of our room. “Coral Towers.”
He frowned. “A bit of a hike.”
“It was.” I wiggled my toes. “A lot better now. Please sit down.” I gestured to the seat next to me. Pulled open my purse and dug through the chips there, saw him, out of my peripheral, remain standing. Okay. I collected all of the green chips I could find. Six total. Sixty bucks’ worth. I closed my purse and held out the handful, watched Brett eye my closed fist. “Go on, open your hand,” I urged.
He did, wincing when I dropped the chips into his palm. He frowned, rolling them over in his palm and holding them back out to me.
“They’re for the slippers.” I clasped the top flap of my purse, ignoring the insistent press of his fist in my personal space. I batted off his hand. “Take it.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“I don’t want your charity. Please.”
“It’s not charity.” Stubbornness entered his voice, and I fought the urge to smile.
“It’s giving me something for nothing ... that’s charity.”
“I’ve had the pleasure of your company.”
I sniffed in a manner that would, most certainly, make my grandmother roll over in her grave. “For five minutes? Please.”
“Then let me accompany you the rest of the way to your room. Just to make sure you arrive safely.”
I sighed. A big dramatic one—one that gave no hint to the fact that I hadn’t got laid in almost two years, hadn’t been on a date in almost half that time, and had never looked into a face as gorgeous as this man’s. “Just to the door?”
His mouth twitched. “Just to the door. Then you will have properly compensated me for the slippers and will be forced to accept your hard-earned chips back.”
“They weren’t that hard-earned,” I grumbled, heaving to my feet, suddenly aware of the height at which my yep-definitely-too-old-to-wear-this minidress had risen. I worked it back down, looking up a moment too early and catching his eyes on my legs. My hands froze, his eyes catching my own. He should have brushed it off, looked away, but instead he held my gaze and grinned, a slow, sexy smile that grabbed ahold of my arousal lever and pushed that baby all the way up. Damn. This man and his fuzzy slippers, his bad boy smile and roaring
confidence ... I didn’t belong anywhere within miles of him. My blistered feet and I were way too vulnerable for the train wreck to which we were headed. Because I knew what would happen when we got through the long walk to my room. All he would have to do is tilt his head, grin that naughty smile, and my ass would tumble over itself in a haste to do anything and everything he wanted.
I reached up and accepted his outstretched hand. He smiled down at me, our heights thrown off by my lack of heels. Oops, my shoes. I crouched, scooping up my heels, my eyes suddenly friendly to their sparkling straps, their impossible heights that I was naïve to think I could handle. I gripped his hand and shuffled forward, the soft pat of the slippers quiet on the tile floor.
“Feel free to lean on me,” he said, looking down on me with a smile. “And if you need to be carried...”
“I’ll be fine.” I grinned. “Promise.”
He tugged gently, and we moved, through the shops, my hand foreign in another hand, and I released his arm and gripped his bicep instead, marveling at the strength, fighting the urge to squeeze and test the hard muscle.
“Are you here alone?”
I glanced over, our hands separated eight paces back, when the contact had become awkward. “No. There are six of us. Bachelorette party.”
I might have been mistaken, but I felt as if he stumbled slightly, a hitch in his step. “Yours?”
The three martinis from dinner made that question much more humorous than it should’ve been, and I giggled. “Me? No.”
“A boyfriend?” We arrived in the lobby, and he reached out, placing a firm hand on my arm, making sure I made the journey down the short bank of steps without incident.
I shook my head. “No.” I looked over. “Is there a Mrs. Brett?”
He chewed on his bottom lip as he met my eyes, the first bit of indecision that I’d seen on his face. And damn, it was a hot look. He should rock indecision more often. The bite of white teeth combined with a tight jaw, rough stubble paired with intense eyes. “I wouldn’t be escorting you if I was attached.”
I looked away from his face, breaking the connection before I tackled him to the ground and had my Southern way with him. We reached the elevators and stopped, his finger pressing the button.