Over 400 Pages
Standalone Novel
New-Adult Romance / Sports Romance
I don’t make excuses for how I live my life. I drink. I party. I meet guys.Technically speaking, I’ve only ever had a single actual one-night stand. I get hot, I get bothered...and then something stops me.You could say it started when I was sixteen. I was nowhere near this wild back then. I had a steady boyfriend I dated for two years but, whoa, once he deflowered me, we did it like rabbits. Mornings, afternoons, evenings. I’ve tried to think if there was ever a day we didn’t do it at least once after that, and I don’t think there was. (There was that one Christmas, but I remember we snuck out into the back and squeezed one in just before Clarissa appeared in her skimpy Santa suit for dad.) But it wasn’t sex to me, it was love. I was so naive.
Content Warning: Not intended for readers under the age of seventeen.
The Debt Collector
I pay my debts, and I expect others to.
I was raised in the slums of London, I knew nothing of privilege. My father was murdered when I was seventeen. Morty figured my father's passing meant I would automatically take on dad's debts. I refused.
And I paid for that refusal.
So did my sister.
So now I fight. All I know how to do is fight. The best cash is in the states, so that's where I am now. A big fish called Vito came along offering me a "favor" when I arrived.
Another debt.
I paid for that one too.
I knew Kyla Hensley would be trouble when I met her. But I wanted her. I could see through the falsehood of her wannabe-slutty clothes and her sexy legs. So I chased her.
Besides, trouble is my middle name.
Kyla Hensley
I was brought up in privilege, but I lacked everything else. My father is a business tycoon who buys and sells and doesn't care who gets rolled over in the process.
I never knew my mother, and all I have of her is a photo with a note scrawled on the back in French saying "I'm sorry." The only Female Figure I had growing up is my dad's wife who is a bleach blond with seven boob jobs. We never bonded.
I drink. I party. I meet guys.
But I wasn't always like that.
I've had a string of lovers in the last few years, the worst and most recent of which was Vince Somerset. My best friend Vera was dating a guy called Rory Cansoom who is the opposite of Vince in so many ways, and yet so the same.
She and I hit the road for the summer, getting away from the two college psychos and just trying to have some fun.
But there's a funny thing about trouble, the more you run from it, the more it finds you.
Which is when I met the Debt Collector.
It was only supposed to be sex. He made that clear. I made that clear.
That's all it was supposed to be.
I never expected to fall in love. I never expected to fall so deeply, madly, uncomfortably in love with a man who is wrong, so wrong for me.
And yet...so unbelievably right.
I don’t make excuses for how I live my life. I drink. I party. I meet guys.
Technically speaking, I’ve only ever had a single actual one-night stand. I get hot, I get bothered...and then something stops me.
You could say it started when I was sixteen. I was nowhere near this wild back then. I had a steady boyfriend I dated for two years but, whoa, once he deflowered me, we did it like rabbits. Mornings, afternoons, evenings. I’ve tried to think if there was ever a day we didn’t do it at least once after that, and I don’t think there was. (There was that one Christmas, but I remember we snuck out into the back and squeezed one in just before Clarissa appeared in her skimpy Santa suit for dad.) But it wasn’t sex to me, it was love. I was so naive.
Matt cheated on me, but I think you figured that out by now. He found my best friend a little tastier and I walked in on them while he was doing the aforementioned tasting.
Yeah, my heart was broken, blah blah blah.
I play it down, but likely you’ve been through something similar, so I don’t think I need to elaborate. It was rough.Of course, I did the obligatory weeping, he did the obligatory groveling, my best friend (at the time) did the obligatory You Are Such A Bitch So Just Go Fuck Yourself. Amelia, the closest person I’ve had to a mother, did the necessary hugging and providing a shoulder while I looked for deeper meaning in life and wondered why this had happened to me.It lasted six months, about the usual grieving time.
No, I didn’t date anyone in those six months. Matt was my One True Love and there could Never Be Another Like Him.Six months later, I met Dave.Dave was different.Dave wasn’t love.And although Dave made me feel secure at first, the feeling that this was anything rosy or special flew out the window after he took me up to his apartment and proceeded to slide his hands up my legs, under my skirt, and then thrust one of those hands down my panties and inside me.We hadn’t even kissed yet.Dave was different.And Dave brought about a craving inside me, a craving I haven’t yet been able to word. It’s not sex, although I know I look for it in sex. And it isn’t love. I don’t believe in love.Of course, he dumped me too. Although, that isn’t quite a fair statement. I never loved Dave. He never loved me. We had a tacit agreement, and when the fucking was done, we stopped.
Was I heartbroken? No. Did I miss the sex? Yes.I had gotten to know Dave a bit before hitting the sack with him. It wasn’t long, only a week or so. But I knew enough about him to feel something when he took me to bed. Like I said before, I’ve only done one true one-night stand.It sucked.No, really, it was horrible.
Sure, sure, it was hot and we did it at the back of a club and the thrill of maybe getting caught was there. He was gorgeous (hard and inked and tall and so good looking) but, bleh, something didn’t click for me. Which I found weird. Because, on a scale of one to ten, the sex itself was about an eleven. Better than Matt and right up there with Dave.
But I left there feeling, I don’t know, a little dirty. It’s not even that. I just didn’t like it.
We could psychoanalyze the crap out of this (as if those idiots know anything) and theorize that I’m seeking the illusion of love through the act of sex. Whatever. Truth is, I like the chase, I like the moments before. I like wondering, hoping. I like the first kiss, the first time a new tongue touches mine, the first time a hand slides up my leg...I like firsts. I don’t do well with seconds.
About Rachel Dunning
Rachel Dunning hit the scene in August 2013 and is the author of the highly praised Naive Mistakes Series, Truthful Lies Trilogy, Johnny Series and the paranormal romance series, Mind Games.
A prolific writer, she sticks to stories where Alpha Males aren’t pricks and where women have guts.
She’s lived on two different continents, speaks three different languages, and met the love of her life on the internet. In other words, romance is in her blood.
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