Flawed

  Flawed is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2017 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney

  Excerpt from Lovegame by Tracy Wolff copyright © 2016 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9781101884881

  Cover design: Caroline Teagle

  Cover photograph: AS Inc/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: Tori

  Chapter 2: Miles

  Chapter 3: Tori

  Chapter 4: Miles

  Chapter 5: Tori

  Chapter 6: Miles

  Chapter 7: Tori

  Chapter 8: Miles

  Chapter 9: Tori

  Chapter 10: Miles

  Chapter 11: Tori

  Chapter 12: Miles

  Chapter 13: Tori

  Chapter 14: Miles

  Chapter 15: Tori

  Chapter 16: Miles

  Chapter 17: Tori

  Chapter 18: Miles

  Chapter 19: Tori

  Chapter 20: Miles

  Chapter 21: Tori

  Chapter 22: Miles

  Chapter 23: Tori

  Chapter 24: Miles

  Chapter 25: Tori

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Tracy Wolff

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Lovegame

  Chapter 1

  Tori

  “So, how rough do you like your sex?”

  Not sure that the guy across from me actually said what I thought I heard, I lower my menu a little and peer over the top into the faded-blue eyes of Stephen Blake, mild-mannered accountant by day and—it appears—closet BDSM enthusiast by night.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, keeping my voice deliberately vague just in case I did hear him wrong. We are only twenty minutes into our first date, after all. And it’s a blind date at that.

  “I’m a fair to middling guy, myself. Some spanking, a cat-o’-nine-tails here and there, maybe a St. Andrew’s cross—with shackles, not handcuffs, because they don’t provide much room for my woman to squirm around when it hurts. Oh, and I do have a new bullwhip I’d like to try. Along with the standard nipple clamps and ball gags, of course.”

  “Of course,” I answer, because who doesn’t like a good nipple clamp and ball gag?

  Oh yeah. Me. I don’t like nipple clamps or ball gags. And while I don’t mind handcuffs when the mood is right, I sure as hell am not letting anyone near me with a bullwhip.

  “And needles,” he continues, completely oblivious to the sarcasm in my answer.

  “Needles.” I can’t believe this is happening.

  “I’m into blood play,” he explains, mistaking my repetition of the word as a call for further clarification. “Nothing too severe, obviously, but needles through the nipples are definitely a favorite. No water sports, obviously—”

  “Obviously.” Jesus Christ.

  I reach for my glass of cranberry juice and down it in a couple of quick swallows, wishing even as I do that it were something stronger. This is what I get for trying to clean up my act. Stuck at a table with the nerd version of the Marquis de Sade in a navy-blue suit with a pin-striped tie and not even a drop of vodka to cushion the blow.

  “And breath play. Have you ever tried it?” His own breath hitches a little as the subject visibly arouses him. “There’s nothing quite like wrapping your hands around your partner’s throat while they come. Watching as their eyes go frantic at the lack of air, then a little glazed as they start to float away—”

  “I have to go to the bathroom.” I stand up so fast my chair makes a screeching noise across the designer concrete floor of this very upscale restaurant that the “very serious, very nice” Stephen has taken me to.

  “I bet.” He eyes me knowingly. “Do you want me to follow? I’m happy to take care of—”

  “I’m good, thanks. I’ve been potty-trained since I was two.” I grab my clutch off the table then start to walk past him, but he grabs my wrist before I can take more than a couple of steps.

  “Take a picture while you’re in there.” His voice has gone all dark and authoritarian—and definitely not in a sexy way. “And send it to me.”

  Eeew. “Of me going to the bathroom?”

  “Of you getting yourself off. That is what you’re going to do, right?” Before I know what he’s going to do, he’s pulled my hand into his lap and rested it on what turns out to be his not-very-impressive erection. Not that that is exactly a surprise. Then again, at this point in the date, I’m not sure anything could surprise me. “While you’re gone, I can get myself off to it right here.”

  I squeeze hard enough to make him gasp—again, not in a good way—before twisting out of his grip and trying to pretend the thought of him jacking off to anything about me hasn’t scarred me for life. Then I reach for his untouched Jack and Coke and down it in one long gulp.

  Tomorrow is soon enough to start cleaning up—if I’m over the trauma of this dinner by then, that is.

  “Exciting, isn’t it?” he says when he can talk without squeaking. “When you’re done, take your panties off and bring them to me. I want to know what you smell like when you come.”

  I nod jerkily as I walk toward the restroom—and then right past it and into the kitchen.

  “Hey!” someone in a little white coat says, looking up. “You can’t be in here.”

  Unfortunately, it’s not the right kind of little white coat—and there’s no straitjacket in sight. More’s the pity. Nice-guy Stephen could definitely use one.

  Then again he might take it for some wild new BDSM fetish and ask me to photograph him as they strap him in…at this point, who the fuck knows? Either way, I’m not sticking around to find out.

  “Don’t worry, boys. I’m just passing through.” I snatch a couple of apple slices off the closest workstation as I breeze toward the back door and then out into the mild San Diego night.

  I pop an apple slice into my mouth as I pull out my phone and order an Uber. Before I’m done chewing, a black Mercedes slides to the curb in front of me and I climb in. Excellent. At this rate, I’ll be home before that wannabe Christian Grey figures out the picture he’s so looking forward to isn’t coming.

  Then I pull up messages and scroll until I hit my best friend’s name. I type in seven words.

  Me: Chloe Frost, you are a DEAD woman

  It only takes a few seconds before the little dots start bouncing across my screen.

  Chloe: What’s wrong??????

  Me: Nothing

  Me: Oh yeah. Except the super-smart, super-responsible guy you set me up with tonight wants to chain me to a St. Andrew’s cross and choke me until I “start to float away.”

  Me: While I’m wearing a ball gag and nipple clamps

  Me: No big deal

  Chloe: What?!?!?!?!?!

  Chloe: Stephen said that?

  Me: Oh, Stephen said WAY more than that, but even after a year of marriage and a month of law school, I think you’re too innocent to hear it

  Chloe: Oh My God! I’m so sorry! Are you okay?

  Me: I’m fine. Just no more blind dates with psychopaths, okay???? I like a spanki
ng as much as the next girl, but breath play? Really? :/

  Chloe: OMG! He seems like such a nice guy

  Me: That’s what they say about every crazy serial killer EVER!!!!!! Don’t you know anything?!?! If you’d told me that…

  Chloe: Are you home?

  Me: Not yet. Soon. I just left him sitting at the restaurant after his request that I send him a picture of me masturbating in the bathroom

  Chloe: WHAT?!?!?! Eeeeeeeew!

  Me: Exactly. Where do you find these guys???? I mean, the marketing guy was bad, but Stephen is a whole new class of batshit crazy

  Chloe: I’m so sorry!!!

  Chloe: Actually, Ethan found this one. I promise, it will be the last guy I let him pick out for you

  Me: It’ll be the last guy EITHER of you EVER picks out for me. I’m so done

  There’s a pause, and the little dots disappear from my screen. Figuring Chloe got distracted by my new honorary niece—or her sex god of a husband—I’m just sliding my phone back into my purse when it vibrates again.

  Chloe: Ethan wants me to tell you how sorry he is. And he wants to know if you need him to send a car for you

  Me: I caught an Uber. But tell him he owes me a new dress because I’m totally going to burn this one. God knows what cooties I picked up from that guy

  Chloe: He says to make it two dresses and a pair of Loubis. It’s the least he can do

  I grin. Damn, my best friend hit the jackpot when she met that man. If it was anyone else, I’d probably be jealous considering the best I can do these days is Mr. Let-Me-Chain-You-Up-In-My-Red-Room-Of-Pain. But Chloe’s been through so much I figure Ethan is just the universe’s way of trying to get the scales back on some kind of even keel.

  Me: Tell him he’s almost forgiven

  Chloe: Maybe you should stay at Ethan’s and my place tonight, just in case Stephen didn’t get the hint

  Me: I’m fine

  Chloe: Are you sure? You know my house is always open to you

  Me: I know. But I’m going home to take a bath and have a glass of wine. Hopefully the bubbles will wipe tonight out of my memory

  …

  …

  …

  I stare at the bouncing little dots, wishing that Chloe would just say what she wants to say instead of debating it for long seconds. Then again, I already know what she’s going to say, so maybe it’s up to me to put it out there first.

  Me: ONE glass of wine, Chlo, not the whole bottle

  Chloe: I’m not worried

  Me: You’re so worried. But I swear, I’m not backsliding. I’ve got this

  Chloe: I know you do

  …

  Chloe: Maybe you should get out of San Diego for a while. Come up to San Francisco for a visit

  Me: You know I can’t. I have to find a job

  Chloe: You don’t HAVE to find a job. You know you can work at Frost Industries anytime you want. Besides, maybe Ethan can find a job up here for you!!!!

  Me: Ethan is not finding me a job!!!

  Chloe: Why not?

  Me: Because I have some pride

  I graduated a couple of weeks ago, at the end of August, ready to take on the world. Hence the whole clean-up-my-act shtick that I’ve got going on. Too bad the world—and the job market—has been singularly underwhelmed by my presence in it.

  Chloe: :(

  Chloe: I miss you

  Me: I miss you, too

  There’s nothing else to say, so I slide my phone back in my bag. Rest my head against the back of the seat. Close my eyes. I know the Frosts need to be in San Francisco right now—Chloe can’t go to Stanford Law and live in San Diego full-time, after all—but I miss my best friend. And I miss her little girl, Violet, who is the absolute sweetest baby ever. It’s September, so they’ve only been gone a few weeks—and they’ve even been back to San Diego twice in that time, including for my graduation—but it’s not the same. We used to see each other every day, and texting doesn’t feel the same. Not to mention I missed Violet sitting up on her own for the very first time yesterday. Of course Ethan’s baby is doing everything a little early…

  Thank God the Uber pulls up in front of my complex before I can get a full brood going. I shove a few crumpled dollar bills into the driver’s hand for a tip before making my way toward my condo. I know what I should do. I should go upstairs, should pour myself that glass of wine and take a nice, long bubble bath. But my neighbor—and longtime friend, Kathy Styffe—is having her engagement party tonight and I told her I’d stop by if I made it back in time.

  And since my night was a total bust, I am definitely back in time. Which is why, when the elevator opens, I punch the button for the roof instead of my floor. I helped plan the thing, after all. It’s pretty much required that I at least make an appearance. Besides, the bride is an absolute doll. And so, so excited about this party that the last thing I want to do is hurt her feelings by not showing up.

  One drink, I promise myself as I step out onto the rooftop terrace. One drink, a little mingling, and then downstairs to my comfy pajamas and 10 Things I Hate About You, my total go-to movie on nights when nothing works out the way I want it to. It’s hard to be sad—or annoyed or anything but happy—when a young, beautiful Heath Ledger is charming the pants off the very cantankerous Julia Stiles.

  As I begin weaving my way slowly through the young and beautiful trust fund crowd, I glance around. Get the lay of the land. No doubt about it—the whole roof has been transformed into a darkly elegant wonderland. It looks even better than Kathy and I imagined it would when we were planning it.

  The wrought-iron railings are bedecked with garlands of wine-colored roses twisted through with twinkle lights.

  Each black-linen-covered table has a gorgeous elevated rose centerpiece surrounded by flickering candles in jeweled holders.

  More wine-colored roses crowd the surface of the water, the pool light shining from beneath them and giving them an otherworldly glow.

  Even the cabanas have been given a makeover—their normally heavy canvas curtains replaced by diaphanous ones, tied back with more floral garlands dripping with lights.

  The whole place looks ethereal but sexy—exactly what Kathy wanted for the party.

  Different food stations are set up throughout the roof, with the two bars catty-corner to each other, just as we’d planned. It’s a good design—it keeps the foot traffic flowing and the people mingling—so that there’s a happy buzz in the air as I head toward the closest bar.

  Party etiquette 101: It’s always easier to work a room with a drink in your hand. It loosens you up, makes you more willing to talk, and refreshing it gives you an excuse to get away once the conversation turns boring—which it inevitably will. Especially in this crowd.

  Unfortunately for me, I never make it to the bar. I keep getting stopped by people who want to catch up—I’ve known a lot of the party guests since I was in diapers, so the fact that I’ve pulled a disappearing act for much of the last couple of months hasn’t exactly gone unnoticed. And since the last thing I want to do is explain that I’ve spent the last weeks deliberately avoiding them as I try to clean up my life, the conversations get awkward fast. And since I hate awkward silences more than just about anything, I feel a lot like I’ve hit the first circle of Dante’s hell.

  Maybe that’s why I take the first drink a waiter offers without paying too much attention to what it is. Then the second. Then the third. Because I can’t stand the way everybody is staring me, can’t stand the speculative looks about my private life or the searching looks as they try to figure out what’s wrong with me. These looks—the way they’re studying me—is why I always have a different hairstyle, a different tattoo, a flamboyant outfit or pair of shoes. Give them something on the outside to talk about and they’ll leave what’s happening on the inside alone.

  But tonight, even my hot-pink dress and oil-slick hair with its shades of pink and purple and turquoise on black can’t keep people from digging a little. I deflec
t as best I can, but when someone takes the fourth drink out of my hand and steers me toward the makeshift dance floor at the end of the terrace, I don’t say no. Not even when I realize that the person guiding me through the crowd is none other than Chloe’s brother and my archnemesis, Miles freaking Girard.

  Chapter 2

  Miles

  Tori’s a mess. A gorgeous mess, with her short, multicolored hair sticking up in all directions and her hot-pink bandage dress hugging her gentle curves, but a mess nonetheless. Her brown eyes are blurry, her cheeks flushed, and she’s trembling a little as I pull her onto the dance floor and into my arms.

  Most nights she’d never allow me to touch her—understandable considering she pretty much hates my guts—but tonight she comes along without protest. The fact that she’s so pliable is in and of itself a cause for concern, but the way she’s trembling, the way she lets me mold her body against my own, the way she tossed back three glasses of champagne in under half an hour—yes, I’ve been watching her since she stepped off the elevator—tells me that something’s wrong.

  Not that she’s going to tell me what it is, and not that I’m going to ask. But I’m not going to let my little sister’s best friend get totally trashed, either—not when half the guys here look like they’re just waiting to move in for the kill.

  The second clue I get that something’s not quite right is the fact that she doesn’t say anything to me at all, even after I’ve got her wrapped up in my arms. On a normal day Tori’s a mouthy little thing—one who has no trouble letting me know just how much she despises me—and the fact that she’s keeping her mouth shut right now does more than tell me something’s wrong. It makes me worry.

  The song ends on a whisper and the DJ switches things up, taking us from slow and sexy to fast and hot with the swipe of a finger across his screen. I spin her around a little, move us across the dance floor. Then as the chorus hits, I spin her all the way out before pulling her back in with a sharp tug that has her body slamming into me in the best possible way.