Disengaged: A Dangerously Forbidden Love Affair Read online

  Disengaged

  Copyright © 2016 Jamie Magee

  All Rights Reserved

  Edited Amy Donnelly

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book. This purchase allows you one legal copy for your own personal reading enjoyment on your personal computer or device. You do not have the right to resell, distribute, print or transfer this book, in whole or in part, to anyone, in any format, via methods either currently known or yet to be invented, or upload this book to a file sharing program. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Where To Find Jamie Online:

  authorjamiemagee.com

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  Other Books by Jamie Magee

  “Web of Hearts and Souls”

  Insight (Book 1)

  Embody (Book 2)

  Image (Book 3)

  Vital (Book 4)

  Vindicate (Book 5)

  Enflame (Book 6)

  Imperial (Book 7)

  Blakeshire (Book 8)

  Emanate (Book 9)

  Exaltation (Book 10)

  Whispers of the Damned (Book 1)

  Witness of a Broken Heart (Book 2)

  Synergy of Souls (Book 3)

  Redefined Love Affair (Book 4)

  Derive (Book 5)

  Rivulet (Book 1)

  Disavow (Book 2)

  A Lovers Revolt (Book 6)

  ~

  (Adult Paranormal Novels)

  Edge Series

  Drakon

  Deathly Royal

  ~

  Contemporary Novels:

  Impulsion

  Friction

  Deploy

  Disengaged

  PSALM 112:4

  Light dawns in the darkness for the upright; he is gracious, merciful, and righteous

  Mom, this was the last novel I wrote before Heaven stole you, and the one novel that I could not wait for you to read. Thank you for teaching me that faith not only walks with darkness, but also shines through. There is always a way when the heart is both willing and stubborn.

  ONE

  The devil is as mouthwatering as the sin he spins. An infatuating man drenched in charm and unthinkable charisma. Those were the famous words my grandmother spoke every time a pretty boy with all the right words and charm would knock on my door.

  She wanted me to keep my guard in place. To always see the good and evil in people. “Look under the mask we all put out for the world to see...”

  I assumed I did. I could read a boy’s gaze without even trying. Sometimes I would choose the wild ride, other times I flashed a bashful smile and left them in my wake. It just depended if I was in the mood to ‘fake it until I made it’ or not. The truth was, no boy had ever caused a burning explosion of emotions inside of me.

  The morning my story began, my dilemma was that my grandmother never once told me how to resist the undeniable pull of such a dangerous boy. One who not only had magnetism dripping from every alluring feature of his movie screen visage; but, who also caused more than an explosion of emotions inside of me. I felt downright nuclear at first glance, that much is true.

  I did question it, but had my doubts that Slayton Winslow was any kind of real devil. He lacked charm and charisma for one, and for the longest time, I thought he lacked the ability to speak at all.

  Now after what I’ve done, I’m sure I’ll never hear him say a word again. I’ll never stare into his gray eyes and wonder how I was going to catch my breath long enough to answer whatever blunt, more than likely rude, question he’d lay at my feet.

  ***

  I hated living in the city. I hated the never-ending noise, the smells, and the sense of never being alone and totally alone at once. Hate is a strong word I guess— ‘strongly dislike’ would be the term my grandmother would’ve corrected me to use.

  God, I miss her.

  I missed her little blue house set just off a country road that was walking distance to her church and the store. The only two places she bothered to go on the regular. Her mangy dog, the sound of her voice tossing out a scripture to match every decision set before her, even the simple dresses she wore. I missed feeling like I belonged, like no matter what I did I’d be forgiven. She was the only parent I really had. And I lost her.

  My mother overdosed a few months after having me. She was only sixteen. My father was a jarhead. He ran from us—and his responsibilities—to hide deep in the Marines until one day they had enough of him too. He’d show up every once in a while. I’d see him in the distance, watching me play. Sometimes he’d stay for a few weeks, but then he’d vanish and life would go back to the way it was.

  When I was seventeen, my grandmother went to be with the Lord she spoke to daily. Once I said my final goodbyes to her, I was left with my father to take care of me. It was like looking at a man that I knew to be my father but was really nothing more than a stranger. I’d never felt more alone in my life, that much was true.

  The move north was tragic. I left a boyfriend behind; to give him some credit, he waited nearly a month before he replaced me. I had a handful of friends back home, too. Girls I grew up with and could tolerate well enough. It might not have been a great life, but it was what I knew, and it was over.

  It might’ve been easier on me in the city if I had a chance to make any friends at school; but three months before graduation wasn’t enough time for me to figure out my locker combination much less remember a name or two. The blazing, long, boring summer followed those last three hellish months of high school.

  The windows in our apartment let in cooler air than the window unit or the shoddy central air that always filled the room with the stench of stale cigarettes. My dad hated having the windows open. He hated anyone being able to see in at all. Sometimes I was sure he hated the sun itself.

  He worked at a club every night and slept during the day. Which club I couldn’t say. He answered most of my questions with a grunt, or a sluggish lift of his shoulder. My father was afflicted, as his mother would say. “He’s in the devil’s chains. The drinks’ taken him. If you look close enough, you’ll see em’ though.”

  She was right. There were times when I was trying to be useful, cleaning up or dropping hints about a job I wanted or a school I thought of going to, that I’d see my real father. It was a look in his eye, a sober grin. The moments were fleeting, but they bonded us in some strange way. He was my father, the last soul on earth that shared any kind of blood with me. I had to love him, right?

  I truly think it amazed him that I turned into a normal functioning human being. I was nothing like my mother or him. I wasn’t a prude either, but I let him think I was to some degree hoping it would earn me enough trust to explore the city. It didn’t. If anything it fueled his paranoia. There were a few people in our building he was okay with me hanging out with. But as far as venturing out without him it was a solid ‘no.’

  ‘No’ had never been a word I cared for, at least not when it has zero reason or rationale. So, I rebelled in the smallest of ways. I
opened the windows he wanted closed. I climbed out onto the fire escape, and up to the roof. I walked to the bodega down the street. Every day, I took another step forward, plotting my next move. All the while trying to figure out what I was going to do now that I was ‘all grown up.’

  My ventures landed me in trouble more than once. Apparently, I resembled my father enough that I was recognized. I had his lean frame, willowy features, and eyes so blue that they were nearly colorless. Most times, when I was busted, he confronted me in our flat and only the neighbors were subject to the show, the sound of anything and everything, sometimes me, slamming into the wall.

  Other times I’d lose track of time and would be sitting outside writing in my journal when he woke up or came home hours early from wherever he went each night. If he was really lit, he wouldn’t bother to hide how hard he pulled me inside or mask his words much less his tone. Most times he walked me inside like we were both edging around a minefield, and to hear him talk I’d swear we were. “Do you have any idea what could happen to you out there? You think there’s not a punk that doesn’t have a score to settle with me and wouldn’t think twice about using you to do so?”

  I’d always lacked imagination, or so my creative writing teachers had said. So whatever demons my father was outrunning were lost on me. I told him as much. I fought back. Hell yes, I did. I might not have gotten far with it, but every time I showed any kind of resistance he sobered. Well, I guess you could call it sobering. He’d pull me to him and beg for forgiveness—he’d even cry. Our bouts earned me privileges that should’ve been mine from day one. Like going outside when I wanted.

  I did listen to his warnings. I understood that the club he worked at was far from legit, much like the people who hung there. And I knew was he had more than a few enemies he was outrunning, both real and imaginary. So when he asked for me to stay away from certain blocks or let him or someone know where I was going—I listened. If he told me not to eat somewhere, to keep my drink covered, or never hold eye contact longer than I had to—I listened.

  None of those precautions were solid enough to keep me out of Slayton Winslow’s line of fire. Or maybe it was just some jacked-up, twist of fate that tossed me in his lion’s den. As long as I live, I will never forget the moment I met him.

  I’d talked my father into letting me get a job. I knew I had to find my way in the grown-up world that was slowly creeping into my reality. He was wary about me working for Mrs. Jin at her family’s dry cleaning business but gave in after one of our more physical fights—the kind of fight that had me holding a pack of ice to my lip with one hand, and my suitcase in the other.

  It was a rather horrid job. Hot—too damn hot. It didn’t matter how thin my tank was or how short my shorts were, I stayed slick with sweat; but I liked it. I was making my own cash and at the end of the day, I was tired enough to not care that I was slowly starting to loathe my life.

  It was just before dawn the first time I saw Slayton. I don’t even know why I decided to look back when I heard a distant door open; the sound wasn’t any more alarming than the vague sirens in the distance, or the rush of an empty train clamoring down the tracks on its way to pick up sleepy passengers.

  Nevertheless, something drew my gaze over my shoulder. At first sight, my breath halted as a zing of adrenaline soared down my body coiling at the base of my belly.

  Damn.

  His black tank clung to his towering, ridged body. His arms were so lean and strapped with muscle that they flexed with the littlest effort. He was fastening his belt, setting the buckle to keep his loose jeans in place. Even though every move was measured, on purpose, it was clear he had no desire to stay where he’d been. The deep breath he took and his revolted expression said as much.

  When the door opened behind him and long feminine arms reached around his broad shoulders, a pang of jealousy stirred the bile in my gut, which was ludicrous. I’d only known the boy existed for seconds. Instinctively, I judged every sharp, angelic—yet fierce—feature on his visage.

  He drew his brow together in contempt as he stepped forward. Without ceremony or a glance back, he lifted a smoke to his full lips and clicked his lighter, the glow of the flame in the soon to be dawn light reflecting on his face made the simple act of breathing all the harder for me. He wasn’t a good-looking boy. He was beautiful. The kind of person that made it hard to look at them because you felt like you were breaking some kind of law. I’d never come close to anyone like him. Which said a lot, I might not have had a host of ex’s, but every one of them could turn a head in the small town I was raised in.

  Even with all the combatant thoughts of my grandmother and father’s warnings in my head, I couldn’t look away. There was something painful about him. As rugged as he looked, as striking as he was, there was something mean and hard...something broken under the surface that I swear was screaming my name. Waking me from the fog of my life.

  Before I could look away, walk on, and curse myself for my foolish crush and irrational jealousy, his gaze cast my way. As deeply as he looked at me, the way his lips parted and the flash of shock in his devilish expression paralyzed me.

  The long arms reaching out from the doorframe were persistent, as soon as the girl noticed his attention was taken she stepped out, not bothering to care that the tank she was wearing was pointless, showing more boobs than it was covering, not to mention the lace panties she was sporting.

  Instead of glaring at him, she shot her murderous glance my way. As she stepped forward, he nudged her back. I couldn’t hear what he said to her, but judging by her expression his words may as well been a slap in the face. He’d made it down the steps before two other guys came out from behind the girl like someone had sounded a fire alarm. They were all heading my way. Fight or flight were my only two choices, and flight was looking pretty awesome as I moved to step forward.

  “She doesn’t mean a fucking thing to me, don’t walk away!” The devil himself called after me. His words shocked me enough to halt my strides, and apparently they were enough to confuse the hell out of the boys charging me from behind him, they both stopped and gawked at him.

  The girl in the house cursed me from where she stood, “He came begging for it you nasty whore—and he’ll come again!”

  Wide-eyed my stare flicked from her to the gorgeous devil sauntering my way after ordering his boys to stay put.

  “What gives, Slayton?” one of the guys yelled after him as Slayton ignored their pissed stares and kept moving toward me.

  Slayton...oh that’s hot, my wicked thoughts said as a wave of heat bloomed through me. I wasn’t one who welcomed drama, but I was dumb enough to think whatever trouble this boy came with would be damn near worth it.

  As he moved closer, I was sure he was going to figure out he’d mistaken me for someone else, but his darkness kept creeping toward me. “Just another whore—she’s not you. You know better than to doubt me.”

  I didn’t even have to fake the appalled look on my face. Was this guy for real? I could still hear the ‘whore’ in question calling me every name in the book, until finally Slayton glanced back, ticked his head toward one of the guys that was after me before, which apparently was a silent message to shut her up. One the girl recognized when the guy started coming her way. She slammed the door, only to open it a split second later throwing out a shirt and one of the guy’s shoes.

  Two strides later Slayton was in front of me, his hot, calloused hands framed my face. The smell of smoke and cheap perfume had me sneering and stepping back. His strong hand landed on my hip before his fingers bit into my flesh and crashed me against him.

  Oddly, the impact stilled us both for precious seconds. A burning rush began at the crown of my head and slid down like a tidal wave over my body. My reality was altered, I was sure the sky was falling, and the ground was shaking, everything but him was a thousand miles away. My breath hitched, so did his—but seconds later I was sure he was doing so out of anger.

  “Kiss me,
then get on the fucking bike,” he hissed under his breath.

  All I could do was stare into his steel gray eyes with utter dismay and fandom. I was starting to question if I was awake at all. A question I never had a chance to answer as his lips fell on mine.

  We both stilled. I can’t explain it. I want to say the same bullshit all girls say: time stopped. But I know if I say that, it will rob the way this truly felt. I was asleep—walking through a dull, going nowhere life, clinging to the edge of grief—then the next second I was awake starring in a dangerous role at this James Dean look-a-like’s side.

  God help me.

  TWO

  Once his lips touched mine, I didn’t smell the cigarette or taste the lingering hint of whiskey. I didn’t hear the whore from before shouting down from her window. I didn’t see the guys behind him inching closer to get a better look at me.

  There was only him. His lips were hot and sensual as they moved with mine. The assault on my senses was so dramatic and quick that I was sure I’d faint. As blameless as his kiss was, his body was anything but. When he pressed us closer and slid his hands up my sides, the hard length of his erection made itself known between us. The feel of it only deepened the heat in my flesh all the more. I was trembling like a prude virgin in his embrace, and I hated that I was.

  What the hell is going on!

  Right when I pressed my palms against his chest he gripped my wrists then broke our kiss. I still had zero chance to gather what was going on, he pulled me forward to a bike that was parked by the curb. He never let go of my one wrist, not even when he all but slammed the helmet on my head. He got on the bike then ticked his head for me to slide on behind him.

  “Me or them,” he said in a low, cold tone only I could hear as he let go of my wrist and fired the crotch rocket to life.

  I glanced back at the guys who were with him; they were still a good ten feet away from us. I didn’t get who they thought I was, but I knew any day of the week I’d rather go with Slayton than stay behind with those two and the chick from upstairs.