Written By Fate

  Tug of War

  By K. Larsen

  Edited, Produced, and Published by Writer’s Edge Publishing 2013

  All rights reserved.

  © 2013 by K. Larsen.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Other Books by K. Larsen

  30 Days

  Committed

  Saving Caroline

  Dating Delaney

  Tug of War

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  About the Author

  Tug of War

  He screams, shaking me more. I snap my eyes closed and pretend I’m anywhere else. His hands release my shoulders abruptly and as my eyes snap open I feel myself lose my balance. Stumbling to find my footing, I miss the next step and tumble. His hate-filled eyes watch every hit to the stairs that my body takes before I crumple at the bottom in a pile of skin and bones.

  I’m Clara Lord. I own Bloodline’s Tattoo Parlor, have a filthy mouth, no filter, and a really strong objection to bossy idiots, pet names, and wealthy men. You will hate me, love me, or love to hate me, but either way, it doesn’t matter. Everything I touch turns to crap and it’s all my fault.

  Bars & Barf

  Eventually I’ll get to the bar--hopefully before last call, but at this rate my chances are looking slim. I should have done what Marg did and ordered two drinks, knowing how busy the club would be on a Friday night, but I didn't. I’m sweaty from dancing with my girls in the throng of people crowding the dance floor. Without warning my hair is swept off my back and over my left shoulder. Hanging to my shoulder blades, it’s hot and heavy, so the movement creates a breeze on my neck that feels good, but who the hell just touched me so intimately? I stiffen as warm breath blows over my shoulder.

  “Could I interest you in a drink?” comes a deep, rough voice in my ear. I swing around shooting steel daggers and find myself eye level with a broad chest. Tilting my head back, I look up to an extremely handsome, tan, chiseled face.

  “Excuse me?” I snap. He smirks. My snarky inner bitch already hates him.

  “I’d like to buy you a drink.” His deep vibrato sends chills down my spine which surprises me.

  “Oh?” I ask and quirk a well-groomed eyebrow at him.

  “Yes, what would you like?” he asks. I want to smack the smug look off his face. I hate arrogance and entitlement, and this dude oozes both.

  “I’d like to not be manhandled by a stranger,” I say snarkily.

  “My apologies, but I’ve been watching you and I couldn't resist.” He steps closer to me.

  “Creepy,” I quip, taking a step back. Mystery man reaches out, grabbing me at the elbow.

  “Let me get you a drink,” he pleads a little more sternly.

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” he questions, looking amused.

  “Persistent, aren’t we?” My voice is laced with disdain.

  “Yes. I’ve been called that.” He grins. His eyes lighten slightly with his smile. He really is attractive.

  “Give me one good reason,” I offer sarcastically. The corners of his mouth drop and his brows furrow.

  “You intrigue me,” he says finally.

  “That’s hardly a good reason, Mr...” I snort and wait. His lips twitch.

  “Mr. Napoli. And I’d like to get to know you, Ms...” he counters.

  “Lord. Ms. Lord. You don’t know me but I can assure you I’m stunningly average in all areas of life,” I inform him.

  “I beg to differ,” he argues. Man, this guy is relentless and totally hot for himself. Anyone who thinks so much of themselves must be a catch, I snicker to myself sarcastically. Stepping in close to him I place my hand on his hard chest and smooth his tie with my hand. Who wears a suit to a club anyways? He grins at the contact and his eyes go dark as if I’m his prey. I fist the tie and tug gently until his tall firm frame bends to my five-foot-four level and I bring my mouth to his ear. “You can differ all you like but only I know the truth,” I purr. Releasing his tie, I turn on my boot heel and stalk back to my girls, fuming about that stupidly hot, “I’m so full of myself I could get any girl and I will” jerk. I plop down in my chair irritated and start ranting.

  “Remind me why they don’t offer clubs that only let women in?” I ask sarcastically. Two dolled up ladies stare at me wide-eyed.

  “Uh...what?” I ask, noticing their faces.

  “Do you have any idea who you were talking to?! What did he want?!” Marg screeches.

  “He wanted to buy me a drink and who the hell is he?” I bark back.

  “Clara...do you live under a rock? That’s Dominic Napoli, real estate mogul, one of Boston’s ten most successful businessmen under forty. Didn’t you read the article I emailed you?” Amanda asks and looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. I did read it, but I read it because she wrote it, I didn’t really absorb or pay attention to the photos or why those guys were worth reading about. She knows I could give a crap about rich men.

  “I guess I skipped his bio?” I say and shrug, still not sure why it’s that awesome that I met him. Sure he’s successful, but I don’t care about money and prestige. I’m not that into appearances and mingling with the right people. Been there, done that.

  “Ladies, Mr. Napoli sends his regards. Please enjoy the wine,” the bartender interrupts us, placing a very expensive bottle of white wine on the table with three glasses.

  “Man, what a jerk!” I cry in frustration.

  “Shut up, Clara,” Amanda hisses, horrified. Marg ignores me and dives into the wine.

  “I told him I didn't want a drink from him and what does he do? He does it anyway. This,” I gesture to the wine, “is sneaky and backhanded. Now it doesn't matter if I said no, he’s made it look all good-natured. Pompass ass.”

  “Shut up and drink,” Marg laughs.

  “Fine, but it’s consumption under protest,” I state and relax a little. What I really want to do is strut over to that cocky jerk and hand him his bottle of wine back while giving him a piece of my mind. What part of “no means no” is so hard to understand?

  Icona Pop’s “I Love It” starts. This is my jam. I flat out love this song and I immediately jump up, snag the bottle of wine, leaving both girls screeching, and hit the dance floor. Shrugging at each other, Amanda and Marg follow and the three of us jump around shouting the words to the song and shaking our hips.

  Taking a pull directly from the wine bottle, I notice Mr. Napoli watching from the VIP section. He’s really quite handsome; it’s a shame, really. If he’d been that handsome and an average Joe maybe he would have gotten lucky tonight, but my pure hatred of wealth and all that comes with it makes him off-limits. I toss my head back and take another pull before passing the bottle to Marg as “Wild Ones” starts and I lose myself in the music. Three son
gs later Amanda tugs on my arm, wanting my attention.

  “What’s up?” I shout above the music.

  “Marg and I want to hit up The Harp.”

  “‘Kay, let’s go!” I shout back and follow them to our table to collect our things. The wine bottle passes between the three of us again, polishing it off. I have a serious buzz at this point which was my entire goal for tonight and tomorrow night. I’m only in town for the weekend and wanted a wild girls’ weekend with my two favorite ladies. I haven’t seen them in forever but work brought me back to Beantown finally, so I’d emailed them both, seeing if they were up for a couple nights on the town with me.

  “How’s Alliecat and Sawyer?” Marg asks.

  “Allie’s amazing, per usual, and Sawyer,” I sigh. “Sawyer is the only reason I was able to come. I don't know what I’d do without him.” Amanda and Marg shoot loving looks at me before we head into The Harp.

  “God! I missed this place,” I squeal. “Is The Zoo playing tonight?” I ask. Marg and Amanda both double over laughing at me. “What?” I ask.

  “Do you really think eight years later they’re still playing here?” Amanda chuckles.

  “Oh. Right. Guess it’s been a while.”

  “Yeah, ‘a while’ is an understatement, Clara,” Marg quips at me.

  “I know, I know, but you guys know why I had to leave,” I say and throw my hands up in defense.

  “Yes, we do and we understand. We’re just happy to have you for the weekend, babe!” I get double-teamed by my girls in a giant hug and can't help but giggle with them. It really has been too long. I’ve missed out on a lot in their lives. We e-mail, text, and call, but it’s not the same really and Lord knows they’ve missed out on my life. It is what it is though, and I did what I had to do and never looked back and I’m happy with my life now.

  Cramming into a table for two, we order three beers and wait for the band to come on. “So how was the exhibition today?” Marg asks.

  “It went really well. I mingled with some other people in the Virginia area, too. Hopefully it will drum up some new business.”

  “Is the shop turning a profit that you can live on now?” Amanda inquires.

  “Yeah, it has been for a while. We’re really starting to get busy. Sawyer and I might need to bring in a third artist. That was the other part of coming to the show today, I wanted to scope out some talent.”

  “Well it sounds like things have really come together for you. I’m happy,” Marg says and smiles approvingly. It’s nice to know they support me. Eight years ago, hell, five years ago, if you’d asked me if I would be running my own shop and making money doing it I would have laughed in your face.

  “Thanks.” I smile.

  “Any of you ladies care to dance?” a stocky guy with a bad teenage mustache asks. I snort and shake my head “no” while Marg looks like she wants to hide under the table and never look at his face again, and Amanda, oh boy, she looks like she’s ready to give the guy hell.

  “You have balls, I’ll give you that. What are you? Eighteen? Twenty? How’d you get in here? The street lights are on it’s past your bedtime.” She flicks her wrist, shooing him away as I burst into laughter. “What?” she asks. “We’re cougars but we still have standards.” She giggles.

  “Cougars? Seriously, since when does thirty-two put you in cougar territory?” I chortle.

  “When the boys hitting on you are a decade or more younger than you. That’s when,” she replies.

  Marg finally lifts her eyes. “Is creepy mustache gone?” We all double over with laughter as we sip our beers.

  As the band steps onto the stage and starts to play their nineties cover songs, I think back to when this was the norm in my life. College had been a blast and these two girls had been my partners in crime for four years and some change. I really did miss them and having time to just be crazy and wild and free. Marg tugs me to my feet and stumbles a little. I’m really glad I wore my cowboy boots instead of heels. Sure, I probably stick out like a sore thumb, but I’m comfortable, can dance, and will still be able to walk home without my feet feeling like they are bleeding. “Hey Jealousy” ends and “Laid” starts and I can’t help but be swept away in the moment. I feel carefree and eighteen again.

  Mid-song I’m singing my heart out, jumping around wildly, having the best time ever, when two large hands grip my waist. His fingers splay wide, holding me firmly. I feel a tingle course through my body at the contact. My hormones go into overdrive at the long-forgotten feeling of being held by a man like this. I stiffen and stand stock-still, enjoying the sensation before realizing that I have no male counterpart with me. “Don’t Stop Believing” starts just as I whip around to face my grabby fan. “We meet again, Ms. Lord,” Dominic says coyly. His hands are scorching my sides as I stare up into his dark eyes. He’s so attractive. His black hair is perfectly coiffed and his suit looks like it was tailor made just for him. I’m sure I’m staring like an idiot but the beer has officially sent me one-sheet-past-three to the wind and I can’t form a witty retort. Instead I stare dreamily, like a reject, at the chiseled face before me. I can’t be sure but I think I even sigh. He smiles widely at me and I blink.

  Gathering myself, I pull out of his grip and in my drunken stupor stumble backwards, landing on the stage. The lead singer takes this as an invitation and hauls me to my feet. Figuring “what the hell?” I rip the microphone from his hands and start belting out the song. “Working hard to get my fill, everybody wants a thrill. Payin' anything to roll the dice, just one more time. Some will win, some will lose....” The mic is stolen away as the chorus begins and he holds the mic out to the crowd. Amanda and Marg yank me down from the stage, barely containing their laughter at my show.

  “What the hell, Clara?!” Amanda shouts. She can barely contain her laughter.

  “Yeah, Clara, I had no idea you were a rock star,” a booming deep voice calls out. Marg and Amanda spin around and eye Mr. Dominic Napoli as he reaches out, snags my hand, and pulls me to him. I’m stupefied. He’s warm and hard and he smells so flippin’ good. Instead of moving away I stand molded to him.

  “Mr. Napppppoli,” I slur and silently will myself to shut up. “What a pleasuuure.” Amanda kicks my shin, hearing my tone, but I ignore her. I know she’s trying to save me from the verbal diarrhea attack that's about to happen. “Although you are apparently the perfect male specimen,” I drag my eyes from his face down to his crotch and back up lewdly, “I really would appreciate it if you could keep your hands to yourself. Perv.” I can’t help it. I know it’s not the right time but I am really freaking hilarious and I bust out laughing at myself.

  He cocks his head to the side and openly stares at me with curiosity. There’s something about him that makes my skin crawl and tingle simultaneously. A war starts between my brain and my hormones. The rational side of me says to run away, you hate his kind, but my libido screams: it’s been months, he wants you, have a wild night--take him.

  “Ladies, could I convince you to let me give you all a ride home?” He looks back and forth between Marg and Amanda who stand there stunned stupid, looking like enamored school girls. I grunt and give this Dominic character a little shove out of my personal space. “We’re not leaving now,” I growl. I hate being told what to do. It’s a problem.

  “I think you’ve had enough,” he clips.

  “Excuse me? What are you, my father?” I bite out.

  “I think you’ll have a terrible hangover if you don’t quit now.” His arrogance is really, really irritating me.

  “Marg, Manda. We’re leaving. I hate him,” I spout, poke him in the chest, and yank my bag from Amanda’s hand while making a beeline for the door. The cool night air hits me like a brick in the face and suddenly, instead of feeling refreshed, I feel tired and sick. I lean against the building and hang my head, trying to get the spinning to stop.

  “Hey, you all right?” Marg asks, rubbing my arm softly.

  “I don’t feel well,” I
moan pathetically.

  “NO puking in the taxi,” Amanda laughs. She’s teasing, I never puke. Well, not never, but it’s a rare occurrence and I usually can hold it together until there’s a clean bathroom in sight.

  “Hey! I’m no P.J., there will be no puke and throw from this gal.” I point at myself and attempt to laugh.

  “Oh my god! Do you remember that?” Amanda asks and doubles over with laughter at the memory. Our friend P.J. was disgustingly wasted, interestingly enough at the bar we just left, and he threw up in his hand, cupped it, then threw it behind him. He repeated the act until he was finished throwing up. Seriously. Amanda and I had caught him in the act as he stood in the corner discreetly covering his mouth then whipping it behind him. “That was the most disgusting yet hilarious thing I’ve ever witnessed,” I chuckle. A wave of nausea rolls over me, stopping my laugh. I groan and turn away from my friends while I try to fight the impending doom lurking in my stomach.

  “Ew. Are you going to be okay?” Marg asks.

  “Mmhmm...why don’t you head home? I'll text you tomorrow for brunch,” I mutter between deep breaths.

  “Alrighty.... Amanda, see you tomorrow. Love ya, Clara!” she calls, her heels clicking and clacking on the sidewalk as she hails a cab.

  “Offer still stands,” comes that voice that’s like dark chocolate and silk. I want to look up but I can’t move so I stay doubled over.

  “I don't think you want her riding in your car,” Amanda giggles, pointing at me I’m sure.

  “You look tired. Why don't I have my driver take you home and I’ll stay with Clara until she sobers up,” he offers. I want to protest but my stomach is rolling and I need to continue my deep breathing and concentration to keep everything contained.