A Special Obsession Read online

  A Special Obsession

  A M Hargrove

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Quote

  Prologue

  1. Special

  2. Special

  3. Weston

  4. Special

  5. Weston

  6. Special

  7. Special

  8. Weston

  9. Special

  10. Weston

  11. Special

  12. Weston

  13. Special

  14. Weston

  15. Special

  16. Weston

  17. Special

  18. Weston

  19. Special

  20. Weston

  21. Special

  22. Weston

  23. Special

  24. Special

  25. Weston

  26. Special

  27. Weston

  28. Special

  29. Weston

  30. Special

  31. Weston

  32. Special

  33. Special

  34. Weston

  35. Special

  36. Special

  37. Weston

  38. Weston

  39. Special

  40. Weston

  Epilogue

  A Sneak Peek at Obsessed With Vivi

  About The Author

  Stalk Annie

  Published By AM Hargrove, LLC

  Copyright © 2017 A.M. Hargrove

  All rights reserved.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  Cover by Sara Eirew

  Photography by Wander Aguiar

  Models: Zack Salaun and Bahar S.

  Editing by Paige Smith and Meagan Burgad

  This book is dedicated to those who took the first steps in standing up for and believing in themselves.

  Acknowledgments

  This is always the difficult part … naming all the people who have helped with this novel.

  First I want to thank Terri, my writing partner and bestie, for all the plot discussions, ideas—good, bad, ugly, what have you—sex scenes, laughter, anxiety, crazies, Walter moments, and way too many more to name. I think we even got divorced a time or too. But then we reconciled and all’s good. I have no fucking idea what I would do without you. Truth!

  Next is Nina Grindstead and Social Butterfly PR. The hours spent on the phone talking, texting, FB messaging, creating ads, blah blah blah, and then holding my hand and telling me what I need to do—there aren’t enough words or pages to say it all. Nina, if I ever got a tattoo, it would be your name. Okay, just kidding because that’s a little more than creepy, but you get me.

  My betas!! I FLOVE every one of you. Seriously. And I mean that. Thank God for all of you. It’s never fun rewriting a character but you make things so much better—EVERY TIME! Love all of you equally, alphabetically, I think! For this one, it’s Ana, Andrea, Heather, Kristie, Nina, and Terri, of course. Many hugs and smooches to you all.

  I’d also like to thank Red Coat PR and their team for all they do—Rick and Amy, Terrie, Mary Beth, and Julie. You guys rock.

  Thank you Paige Smith and Megan Burgad for your editing services and all the back and forths. It was worth every pass.

  I’d like to send out my thanks to Sara Eirew for creating this delicious cover. I don’t know how she does it, but she takes a gorgeous picture and adds her artistic touch to produce exactly what I want.

  Finally, a huge thanks goes to Wander Aguiar for his amazing photography skills, and to models Zack Salaun and Bahar S. for inspiring this novel. The moment I saw this photo, I knew an interesting story was lurking within it. The wheels started churning and soon I developed a story idea that quickly turned into three. So thank you for the creative momentum!

  If you want to stay up to date with my latest releases, subscribe to my newsletter here. And don’t worry about your inbox getting flooded. That won’t happen. In fact, you might wonder where the hell I am. You may also want to join Hargrove’s Hangout on Facebook. It’s my reader group. We have some crazy moments, a few giveaways, nothing too outlandish.

  “The course of true love never did run smooth.”

  -Shakespeare

  Prologue

  Special

  The text had me scrambling to get out to L.A. I wasn’t sure what I’d find when I arrived, but she’d been my best friend since first grade, and we swore always to be there for each other, no matter what. I knew she’d been through every avenue to tame her addictions, but the demon of drug abuse invaded her soul like the devil it was. None of the interventions had worked, and two years ago when I finally walked away, I’d been determined to stay out of her messy life of addiction. It had broken my heart worse than anything, but it was tough love, or that’s what they say.

  Except life isn’t always what it seems. The old saying about walk a mile in my shoes nailed me right in the gut when I was caught off guard by her call a few weeks ago.

  “I’m in trouble, Spesh.”

  This was nothing new for Sasha. Drugs had caused her all kinds of trouble since we were teenaged girls.

  “What kind?”

  “The real bad kind.” Her voice shook, and it scared me something fierce.

  “Sasha, you talking the kind where you need to get help again? Like the hospital kind? Because you know I don’t have much money to spare since I just opened the bar.”

  “I wish. I don’t need your money. It’s way worse than what you’re thinking. I did something really stupid this time.” She cleared her throat. Her voice had an edge to it I’d never heard before.

  I scooted forward in my seat and asked, “What’s going on?”

  “I…I—” There was a loud banging in the background. “I gotta go.”

  “Sasha, wait.” It was too late. She’d hung up on me. Sighing, I stared at my phone for a full minute before getting back to work, but I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Something was up, and I questioned whether or not I should call her parents. Then I recalled what happened the last time I did. They told me never to mention her name again. Nix that idea. So I played the waiting game. One day turned into two, with at least a dozen of unanswered texts.

  Finally after five days, she called again. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Sasha, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

  “If I tell you, it could put you in a real bad place too.”

  What the hell does that mean? I took a frustrated breath. “Do you want me to come out there and bring you home?”

  “I’m scared. I think I’m gonna die.”

  “Sash, don’t say that.”

  “No, no, listen to me. I know you’re probably thinking I’m overreacting, Spesh, but I swear I’m not. I need you to do something for me. There’s this, this thing … if something happens to me.” Panic laced her voice.

  “You’re talking crazy now.” I tried to calm her, but she kept insisting something terrible was going to happen. Only
she wouldn’t give me any information and then she hung up.

  Another week passed before I got an emergency text.

  I need you to come here. Please! There are some things you need to know. My apartment. As soon as you can. Hurry!

  And that was it. I tried to call, but her phone went straight to voicemail. I almost called the police, but something warned me not to. That was how I found myself running through LAX toward the rental car buses. I had to get to my best friend—the girl who I’d known as long as I could remember—to see what had gone so terribly wrong.

  When I finally parked in the lot of her apartment complex, I checked my phone. I wanted to make sure this was it. My GPS directed me here, and even though it didn’t surprise me to see how seedy it was, I rubbed my arms as my skin itched with fear. My heart pounded out a rock-hard beat that traveled up to my cheekbones and almost made my teeth rattle. The sun had long since set, and it was more than a little creepy walking up the rusty metal steps leading to her second floor apartment. Wasn’t she scared living here? I damn sure would be.

  When I got to her door, I held up my fist to knock, but one touch pushed the door open. It was pitch-dark inside, so I reached in and felt the wall next to the door, hunting for a light switch. When I flipped it on, the sight froze me in fear. Her apartment had been completely trashed. I didn’t get farther than the doorway, but everything in her tiny living area was in shambles. Broken pieces of furniture lay in scattered piles, and her couch had been ripped apart with the stuffing torn out. The scene was so frightening, I hightailed straight back to the car.

  “Sasha, what in the hell did you do?” I murmured.

  On a scale of zero to ten, my anxiety level was at one hundred.

  About a couple of months back, Sasha had texted me a number to call in case anything happened to her. At the time, I thought she was overreacting; now I wasn’t so sure. The person who answered gave me explicit instructions. I was supposed to go directly to this individual’s home and not stop or speak to anyone. It was imperative I do exactly as she said. I was to monitor my rearview mirror to make sure no one was following me. If I thought I was being tailed, I was to continue driving until I reached a point of safety. When I finally made it to the destination safely, I could never have imagined in a million years what I was stepping into. Sasha could never have prepared me for this, for what awaited me, or for what I would gain in the process. I didn’t know whether to scream or to jump for joy. But I did know one thing. My life would never be the same again.

  1

  Special

  Three Years Later

  Jeb leans over and asks, “Special, what are we gonna do about that one?” He gestures toward the corner booth, which holds the imposing figure of an extremely inebriated man. His head rests flat on the table, forehead planted firmly in place, and it’s obvious he’s not going anywhere, any time soon.

  “Aw, fuck. Who kept serving him?” I ask.

  “Josie. I think she was hoping … you know.” He waggles his thick brows.

  “Dammit. I’m gonna have a talk with her. She keeps hoping with every guy who walks in this bar. This isn’t a damn whorehouse.”

  Jeb chuckles. “Yeah, you better talk to her real quick then, ’cause her attire has been leaning more toward hooker than waitress lately.”

  Running a hand over my sweaty hair, I shake my head in disgust. “The hell. I’ve been so busy, I honestly haven’t noticed. That bad, huh?”

  “Spesh, I don’t know how she works in those damn shoes she wears. You’d think she was working the strip in Vegas.”

  “Oh, God.” The groan I let out lasts for a minute. I’m frustrated because it’s difficult getting good help these days, and I’m working my ass off keeping this bar running. Not that I’m in financial trouble. It’s the opposite. Business has been fantastic, and that’s the problem. I need good, reliable staff, not the kind that are here to pick up men.

  “Maybe you should cut back on the hours you serve food,” Jeb suggests.

  “You know that’s where I make a ton. It’s a cash cow. When the customers have too much to drink and need some food to soak up the alcohol, they turn to the late night menu.”

  “Yeah, but you’re running yourself ragged.”

  “No, shit. That’s because I can’t seem to find solid help, besides you.” I check the time; it’s two forty-five in the morning. “Let me finish cleaning up back there,” I gesture toward the kitchen, “and then maybe that dumbass will rouse enough so we can order him an Uber or something.”

  “All right. I’ll get the bar taken care of.”

  When I’m done making the stainless steel in the kitchen gleam, I step back up front. Jeb is standing next to the booth where the dude is passed out.

  “Any luck?” I ask, wiping my hands on my apron.

  “Nope. But he’s not your average poor motherfucker, I can tell you that much.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Jeb laughs. “Check out his watch.”

  A brief inspection gives me no hints. “Okay. What about it?”

  “It’s a Patek Philippe.”

  “Aside from the fact I can’t pronounce it, what, is it like a Rolex or something?”

  He laughs again. “Let’s say you could probably buy a dozen Rolexes for what he paid for that one.”

  I shoot a look at Jeb. “And how would you know? You don’t even wear a watch.”

  He shrugs. “I’ve always had a fascination for them, and the reason I don’t wear one is because I can’t afford the ones I want to own.”

  Jeb is older, maybe in his late forties, though I’ve never asked. When I opened this place a few years ago, he came looking for a job and said he would be my most loyal employee. He’s been with me ever since and has lived up to his promise. I’ve learned a little about him, not a whole lot though, but maybe somewhere in his past he had money. He doesn’t have much now, or at least I don’t think he does. Jeb is a wealth of knowledge, from trivia to how to change the locks on the doors, and he looks out for me. I still can’t believe my luck in finding him.

  He interrupts my musing and says, “But that’s not the only reason.”

  “What else?”

  He holds something up between his fingers and thumb. “Well, holy cow. Now I do know what that is.” It’s a black American Express. Imprinted on it is Weston M.C. Wyndham, V. “Yeah, this dude is definitely Mr. Money Bags. Did you check out his name? So what’s he doing in a place like this? Not that my place is a dive or anything.” And it’s not. But it’s not what you’d call a high-class club, either.

  “Who knows? Maybe he decided to check it out for something different.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that. But most people have a drink or two. They don’t get completely plastered and pass out on the table.”

  “True. So, what should we do?”

  “Did you check him for a wallet or a driver’s license?”

  “Yep, nothing except the AMEX, a key fob, and a big wad of cash,” he says.

  Releasing an exhausted sigh, I make a decision. “Take him to my place.”

  He shakes his head. “Spesh, you can’t do that. He isn’t a stray cat.”

  “Right, but I live the closest.” In the building next door, in fact. “And what are our other options?”

  “It’s not safe,” Jeb insists.

  “Oh, like he’s gonna attack me in this state?” I point at the heap of drunkenness.

  Jeb chuckles. “Yeah, I guess when you put it like that.”

  “Besides, I have his black American Express and his watch as collateral. I do know how to take care of myself.”

  He eyes the guy for a minute. “Oh? How’s that? Are you going to use your vast martial arts skills on him?”

  “Okay. No use in being sarcastic. I’ll pull out my biggest kitchen knife and threaten to kill him.”

  Jeb cocks his head. “Oh, really? What if he happens to turn that knife on you?”

  I hadn’t thought of tha
t, but I’m not going to let Jeb know. “Come on. He’s not a killer. He’s a drunk.”

  “Just for the record, I’m not a big fan of this idea. Knowing you as I do, I won’t talk you out of this though.”

  “Meh, he’ll be fine on my couch.”

  “We could just leave him in here,” Jeb says.

  “Not a chance. With my luck, drunk dude will wake up and try to break himself out of here. Then I’ll have that expense and mess on my hands.”

  “Make him pay.”

  “That’s not the point. Who will I get to fix it on a Sunday?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think of that. Your landlord would be mad as hell too. What if he wakes up and goes crazy on you in your apartment?”

  “I’ll lock myself in the bedroom and call 911. Come on. Help me drag his dead ass to my place. I’m tired and need some sleep.”

  “Okay, but if this goes badly, you call 911, you hear?”

  “I’ll do worse than that. I’ll karate chop the motherfucker in his balls.”

  Jeb shakes his head. “Such a comedian.”

  Getting a tall—at least six feet—drunk, and very solid man out of the bar with hardly any help from him is not easy. He does walk, but his legs keep giving out and we have to poke and prod him like we’re driving cattle. By the time we get him situated on my couch, I’m worn out.

  “Jesus, that was the most difficult workout I’ve ever done.” I wipe my sweaty brow with an arm.

  “You and me both,” Jeb says. “He has to weigh two twenty. Solid as a rock.”

  “Help me get his boots off and you can leave.” We tug and tug until at last his stocking feet peek out at the end of his jeans. I wheeze from the effort. It’s weird that he wears work boots, but I don’t mention it to Jeb. “Thanks for the help. You need to get on home. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  Jeb leaves with a warning in his eyes and I nod. “Don’t worry. I’ll lock my bedroom door and call 911 if I have to.” I slide the deadbolt behind him and head to the shower. The bed is yelling my name. As soon as I finish, I throw a blanket on plastered Weston M.C. Wyndham, V, and head to bed. Since the bar is closed on Sunday, I usually sleep as late as I want. I don’t move again until the sun is high in the sky and my room is bright.