Can't Go Without Read online

  Can’t Go Without

  Copyright © 2014 by Angelisa Stone

  Cover and interior designs by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats

  https://www.facebook.com/FictionalFormats

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.

  This novel, Can’t Go Without, is a work of fiction, fabricated only in the author’s mind and heart. Names, characters, places, and events are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  All rights reserved.

  The Ghost of Scandals Present

  Tristan

  Leah

  Tristan

  Leah

  Tristan

  Leah

  Tristan

  Leah

  Tristan

  Leah

  Tristan

  Leah

  Tristan

  Leah

  Tristan

  Leah

  The Ghost of Scandals Past

  The Ghost of Scandals Future

  Tristan

  Leah

  Tristan

  Leah

  Tristan

  Leah

  Tristan

  Leah

  Tristan

  Epilogue—Tristan

  About the Author

  Heartfelt Gratitude To:

  “Emotional, dynamic, and wickedly sexy, Angelisa Stone weaves a captivating romance.”

  —Skye Jordan, NYT and USA Today bestselling author

  This book is dedicated to my oldest daughter. There are so many things in our lives that we get rid of and walk away from, never looking back—for the pain that was caused is too great and too powerful to face again. However, there is beauty and love in this world that is worth holding onto with every fiber of our being. That beauty and love can most certainly be found in family, and family is the one thing we can’t go without.

  I wish that the people who really want to reinvent themselves and make up for their mistakes find the courage and strength to do so. So many people let past mistakes and poor choices define who they are for the rest of their lives. It’s never too late to become the person you’ve always wanted to be.

  This novel, Can’t Go Without, is a work of fiction, fabricated only in the author’s mind and heart. Names, characters, places, and events are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  “Just shut your mouth,” I growl, angry with her again. “I get so fucking sick of you talking when you should just be sucking me off, for Christ’s sake.”

  Amber doesn’t say anything; she merely drops her gaze and falls to her knees as she unzips my pants, an act that occurs nearly every day during her lunch hour. However, my lunch hour doesn’t start until after she swallows, wipes her mouth, and leaves my office. Just another one of the perks of being the boss.

  I have to admit Amber’s oral techniques have improved drastically in the last month or so. Out of all the assistants I’ve had, I’d probably rank her fifth; the rating would be much higher if she ever just shut the fuck up and stopped her incessant yapping. Last week, her kid was sick, and her husband was out of town. Wasn’t my problem, but yet she didn’t care—had to unload that shit on me just seconds after I unloaded on her chest. Damn, it’s hard to get good help these days.

  “Tristan?” Amber garbles, as her tongue travels my length. I look down at her, noticing with a cringe just how long Amber’s dark roots are on her overly bleached blonde hair. Maybe I should give her a raise to get that shit fixed. Eh, not my problem either, but it’s a little distracting to look at such trash when I’m trying to get my rocks off.

  “Damn it, what?” I ask, losing concentration, yet again. It’s hard to finish when a skank who means absolutely nothing is deep throating you in your office.

  “Can we… maybe… go away some weekend or something. I could lie and tell Bruce that I have to go to a convention or a retreat… something like that?” Amber asks. The very question sends my dick hiding for cover, retreating like a turtle diving back into its shell.

  “Uh, yeah, right after I promote you to Queen of the Staplers,” I say, backing away from her. “Just forget it. I’ll handle this myself today.” I sit up in my seat, zipping my pants as Amber continues to pout on her knees.

  “Tristan, come on baby, I can make you so happy,” she promises with a nerve-grating whine as she runs her nails along my thighs.

  Just then my office door swings open, and my father bellows “Tristan, Jesus Christ, how much fucking money are you going to cost this company?”

  Noticing Amber on her knees in front of me, my dad’s face changes to the darkest shade of raging-crimson I’d ever witnessed on a human being. “Son-of-a-bitch, Tristan, do you ever fucking learn? Get out!” My dad points to the door’s exit while Amber cowers behind my desk.

  “Amber, get back to work—now!” Chet O’Donnell orders. Amber scrambles to her feet, ducks her head in shame, and scurries past my father thoroughly mortified.

  “Thanks man, I owe you one,” I say, standing and tucking in my shirt. “Didn’t know how I was gonna get that bitch outta here without promising her a trip to Cabo.”

  “This isn’t fucking funny Tristan. When in the Hell are you going grow up?” my dad asks, his eyes darkening in fury.

  “Easy now, we’re all good here—”

  “Listen to yourself. ‘We’re all good,” my dad mimics, grinding his teeth. “I own you, Boy. I own every fucking piece of you. You need to keep that shit in your pants,” my dad says, handing me yet another written complaint from human resources. “I don’t know how many more episodes of your sexual indiscretions I can keep under wraps.”

  Glancing over it, I chuckle immediately. “Gabi? Ah, Gabi was just a fun night out. Don’t worry,” I say, recalling the best hump day I‘d had in a while.

  “Are you listening to yourself? Did you lose all mental capacity? Maybe you just really do think with your dick,” my dad says, slamming his hand down on my desk, rattling the contents of my desk. “Gabi is suing you—suing us—for sexual harassment. Says you promised her a promotion and never fulfilled your promise.”

  Laughing, I explain, “Technically, that isn’t exactly the way it went. I did offer her a promotion if she could fulfill one menial task.” Checking my phone, I realize I’m nearly late for my lunch hour basketball league.

  Continuing, “I told her that if she could get me off four times in five hours that I’d promote her to an executive assistant. She couldn’t do it,” I chuckle, remembering how pissed she got when the timer on my phone went off. “Dumb bitch didn’t even realize that she already is an executive assistant,” I joke, rolling my eyes at Gabi’s stupidity.

  I’m not sure who’s more ignorant, Amber or Gabi. It’s a toss up. I bet I could get them to agree to a pretty hot threesome. Those bitches can’t form thoughts of their own; I could just dictate what I want.

  Realizing that my dad wasn’t relaxing, I add, “I mean, Dad, come on. It says ‘executive assistant’ on her name plate.”

  “Tristan! This is serious! I worked my ass off for this company and one of your whores is going to end up owning it one of these days! I can’t—”

&nbs
p; “Fine, I’ll send her some flowers, take her to dinner, let her suck me off again, and it’ll all be good,” I promise, sliding my tie off as I grab my gym bag, ignoring the increasing anger emanating from my father.

  “You don’t understand. I’m done. You’re done,” my dad says as he walks over to my laptop, closes it, and yanks it from the charging station. “I can’t keep cleaning up your messes, kid. It’s getting old—real fast.”

  “Oh so what? You’re ‘letting me go,’ Dad? Should I clean out my desk and turn in my employee badge and keys?” I laugh, grabbing two water bottles from the mini bar in the corner of my office. “I told you; I’ll handle it. Gabi won’t sue. Amber won’t either,” I add.

  Walking over to my dad, I hand him a water bottle and say, “None of these bitches are gonna sue. They just want some validation. They want to believe they’re not really the whores that they’re acting like. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You don’t get it. I want you to take some time off. Resign your position—for now. Maybe, I’ll bring you back when you can keep it in your pants and when you realize that this isn’t all a game, Tristan.”

  “You can’t be serious—”

  “I’m dead serious. You’re a ticking time bomb, and I don’t want my company, my pride and joy to be the fatality of your wayward lifestyle,” my dad explains. “The alcohol, the drugs, the whores, they’re all going to blow up—”

  “I don’t fucking do drugs,” I argue.

  “Well then, trumpet the fanfare. My alcoholic, womanizing son doesn’t do drugs!” my dad snidely remarks.

  “I’m far from being an alcoh—”

  “I’m not going to sit here and debate what you are and are not. I just know you’re a cancer to this company, and you are officially ‘on leave’ as of right now,” my dad says. “Grab your shit and get the fuck out of my office.”

  “Your office?”

  “Yes, my office. All of it’s mine. This place, this place right here, is the only thing that ever meant anything to me, I’m certainly not going to stand back and let you run it into the ground,” my dad states, glaring at me.

  Only thing that ever meant anything to him?

  Seeing my expression, he says, “Awww, now you don’t think you mean shit to me—do you? Awww, isn’t that just adorable? You’re just as delusional as your homeless-hippie brother and spic-loving sister.” My father picks up a mint, pops it into his mouth, and walks out of my office with a sneer.

  Fuck it. Chet O’Donnell can keep his fucking job and shove it straight up his flabby, cheating ass. I couldn’t give two shits. I’m damn sick of sucking his ass and trying to please that man. It’s futile. All of it.

  “Sh, sh, sh, don’t talk, Baby, don’t talk,” Samuel whispers, covering my mouth. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna—ahhhh—yeah that’s it.”

  I glance at the clock, noticing that Samuel broke his personal record, lasting seven full minutes before announcing to me that he was going to finish with a loud, repulsive grunt. It’s a damn good thing that sex doesn’t mean much to me; otherwise, this relationship would be doomed. Luckily for me, or him, or both of us, that Samuel likes fast, easy sex, and I couldn’t care less about mind-blowing sex. Our relationship is based on mutual respect, common values, and faithful companionship.

  Mind-blowing sex is just that; it blows your mind, and you can’t think about anyone or anything else in a rational, productive matter. It gets you all messed up, wreaking havoc on every part of your life. No thank you. I’m so over trying to achieve multiple orgasms while some guy searches for my G-spot like he’s searching for the Holy Grail. It just doesn’t work; it doesn’t happen. What Samuel and I have works, so no complaints here.

  Once a week, Samuel climbs on top of me, and he pumps and thrusts, while shushing me to be quiet, so he can get off. Sure, it lacks romance and mystery, but it’s exactly what I need and want in my life. It’s comfortable and predictable. We’re comfortable and predictable.

  “Hey Baby, can you hand me my glasses?” Samuel asks, raking his hands through his mussed hair. “I have a meeting early tomorrow morning with a new artist. I need to read over some paperwork. Can you finish on your own?” Samuel asks.

  “Nah, I’m good tonight. Not really up for it,” I admit, rolling over to my side of the bed.

  We’ve fallen into an easy, secure routine. Most nights after he’s ejaculated, I just roll over, grab my vibrator, and take care of myself. It’s not really a big deal—just a means to an end. We see sex for what it is. Sex is a release, a way to get inside and massage your inner tensions and worries in places a 100-dollar an hour masseuse can’t reach.

  Samuel and I aren’t naïve or delusional enough to believe that sex is a way to connect, to feel, or to, dare I say it, “make love?” I can honestly say that I’ve never believed in that fictitious fairytale anyway. Making love and falling in love is about as believable as the proverbial G-spot, Santa Claus, and the fucking tooth fairy all rolled into one big fabrication to make people feel better about themselves.

  “Leah, are you really going to see that douchebag tomorrow?” Samuel asks, flipping through the contract.

  “Yes, I’m glad to be done with all this shit and just move the fuck on,” I repeat for the nine hundredth time. Hearing his sigh, I pull the pillow around my head, hoping to drown out whatever lecture he’s about to give me.

  “I just don’t see the problem with keeping the money. It was over two years ago since you last saw any of them—three years since that night,” he groans. “It’s not like one person in that entire O’Donnell family is hurting for cash.”

  I don’t even respond, don’t even give him the satisfaction of knowing I heard him. It took me quite a while to admit to Samuel what I’d done, how I’d gotten enough money to open my art gallery and get my career to take off. When I told him the truth, about the blackmail, about the lies, and about accusing Tristan of rape, Samuel looked at me in a whole new light.

  Samuel used to give me those pitiful looks, like he couldn’t believe someone so unrefined and uncultured could make something of herself in the distinguished world of artistic creation and art buying, selling, and collecting. Honestly, for the longest time, I couldn’t understand his attraction to me, Leah Franchetti, struggling artist and art gallery owner. Then, after I admitted my dark secret, he looked at me with a newfound awe and appreciation.

  It’s strange to me how he doesn’t see my desire to pack up that dark, twisted part of my past, and move the Hell on. I’ve been crossing off boxes on the calendar, counting down the days, so damn ready to finally get to this time in my life. And yet, Samuel’s been Hell bent on getting me to reconsider my notions of financial repayment.

  Since the launch of the gallery and my rise to artistic stardom and recognition, the money has been flowing in, nearly hand over fist. I had no idea I could bank this kind of money. I finally have enough dough to pay back the O’Donnells in full with a 20% increase to even cover the interest.

  That is all I really ever wanted. I couldn’t get a bank loan due to my shit credit and lack of a substantial income as a barmaid; I was desperate—beyond desperate. Okay, desperate and fucking pissed off. Yes, there was some vehemence and vengeance spurning my blackmail actions. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” Scorned and destitute? Look the fuck out.

  I hated myself for what I did, for what I had to do to get where I am now. But, I’m also proud of myself for making it all happen. The start was despicable, but my success feels euphoric. Once I return all the money that I accrued through threats and bribery, I’ll gain back my self-respect and be able to move on, away from the O’Donnells and from the visions of Tristan O’Donnell that still haunt me nightly.

  Walking into the restaurant, I know my sister is going to be pissed off. The chick has never been late a minute anywhere in her life. Hell, even when she was born she was five weeks early. I, on the other hand, don’t typically leave my house until it’s the exact time that I’m suppose
d to be somewhere. Nearly lost my waitressing job for always being late. I don’t even want to talk about all the times I got after school detentions or in-school suspensions for being tardy to school or class.

  Man, don’t even get me started on that shit either. It used to make me livid, make my fury ignite. Some lazy, burned out teacher would still be answering her emails or shopping on Amazon by the time I walked in the classroom, like what, two minutes late, and she’d have the audacity to give me a freaking detention for being tardy. The bitch hadn’t even done a thing yet. The hypocrisy of high school is just astounding. Worst days of my life.

  The glares those teachers would give me were strikingly similar to the one my sister is shooting at me now as I meander through the labyrinth of small tables at our favorite deli.

  “For fuck’s sake, just text me when you’re going to be late—is that too much to ask?” Jill asks, rolling her eyes.

  “First of all, I left my phone at the apartment. If I would’ve gone back to get it, so I could text you, then I would’ve been even later. So, you’re welcome,” I announce, kissing my sister on the cheek. “Where’s Shayla?”

  “She ditched us. She’s struggling with her closing arguments,” my sister explained, shaking her head. “It sure would be nice if she won this case… for once.”

  I nod, understanding. Shayla has been the lead counsel on three cases prior and lost all three cases. The work she does on the case, the research, the files, everything, are all totally flawless, impeccable really. But when she gets up there and faces the jury, the judge, and the prosecutor, she just falls apart. If she doesn’t win this case, then her firm isn’t going to let her argue first chair anymore. Shayla will be stuck in a room sifting through discovery and research.

  It doesn’t help that she’s a legalese movie junkie either. Shayla can recite the words to every lawyer movie ever made. The problem is that in those movies, those fictitious lawyers, never lose—like ever. Shayla, she never wins. Unfortunately, Shayla’s forced to sit back, in a blubbering mess of tears and snot, as her client bids farewell to what’s left of his family as he gets carted off to prison. My sister, Jill, has to sit at home, helping Shayla pick up the pieces of a shattered ego and a potentially broken future.