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His Touch (Pine Grove #4)
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Don’t be afraid. Let him touch it.
My life is one disaster after another.
Steam Alert!! His Touch is super hot!! It’s an over the top dark romance and is only recommended for readers 18+. If you love a gorgeous a–hole that gets what he wants, this book is for you!! It’s a safe standalone novella with no cliffhanger, no cheating, and a guaranteed HEA. Enjoy!!
Note: All my books are standalones and can be read in any order.
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I hear the front door crash open and I curl tighter into myself. I’ve been in bed for a couple hours now but sleep’s been hard to come by.
Dad’s drunk again. I shouldn’t be surprised since he’s drunk pretty much every night these days, but lately it’s been worse somehow. Like he’s trying to avoid something. He comes home stumbling drunk, eyes bleary, body sweating, and he’s angry.
He’s so damn angry.
I touch my eye where he punched me a few nights ago. It’s still bruised and I’ve avoided going out into public, just because I can’t answer the questions. It’s not the first time he’s hit me but it’s the first time he didn’t apologize for it afterward, and that’s more terrifying than anything else.
My father’s not a good guy. I know it, everyone knows it. Ever since my mom died ten years ago, he’s gone down into this deep spiral of gambling and drinking. I know he’s in debt to people but he never talks about it.
I get out of bed and sneak out into the hallway. I don’t know why I still live in this big, old house with that asshole. I should get out of here, find my own way, get a job, get a life, but I just…
I can’t. I didn’t go to college, I have no real-world experience. I have nothing. My father made sure of that, over and over. He won’t give me any cash, won’t let me get a decent job. I’m twenty as of last week and it’s time for me to get my own life, but I’m afraid that if I leave this place, he’ll wind up dead a few weeks later. Maybe of alcohol or starvation or… worse.
The house is big and old with ancient wood floors that creak under the slightest pressure. I avoid the worst boards and sneak to the staircase. This house has been in my dad’s family for generations and it’s the only reason we’re still surviving. If he had to pay rent or a mortgage, we’d end up out on the street. As it is, he can barely afford the taxes on this property, let alone basic house maintenance.
I sneak down the steps. I hear my dad grumbling something and a crashing noise. He grunts and there’s another crash.
And a voice cuts in through the otherwise quiet house.
I freeze on the stairs. I don’t know that voice. Nobody else should be in the house, and hearing another man’s voice scares the shit out of me.
“Who’a’you?” dad slurs.
“Are you Joey Martin?”
Dad grunts. “Fuckin’ yes. I’m fuckin’ Joey. The fuck you doin’ in my fuckin’ house, you fuckin’ prick?”
There’s another crash and my dad grunts. My heart leaps into my chest as I sneak down the steps, looking out over the bannister and into the living room.
My dad’s down on his knees, trembling. Standing above him is a man wearing all black and pressing a gun to my father’s forehead.
“Joey Martin,” the man says, his voice deep and almost sultry. “You owe Dean Fish a lot of money.”
“I… I… I can pay,” Dad says, sounding slightly more sober. “I can pay. I just need time.”
“You’ve been given time.” The man sighs, rubbing his temple with his free hand. “You know why I got out of the killing business, Joey?”
Dad blinks. “I… I don’t know.”
“It’s messy. And it started to weigh on my fucking conscience. Can you imagine, a killer with a conscience?”
“You don’t have to do this,” Dad says quickly. “I can pack my bags. I can leave. My daughter, you can have her.”
The man’s eyes go hard. I clench my fists, angry that my dad would sell me out so easily.
“Have her?” the man echoes. I look closely at him and I’m surprised to find he’s actually kind of… attractive.
Like, really attractive. Lean face, muscular body, confident ease, thick dark hair. He looks more like a model than a murderer.
“Yeah. You know. Take her. I’ll skip down, disappear, you can… have her. She’s pretty.”
The man groans. “Fuck. You just made my job so much easier.”
He pulls the trigger. My dad’s head explodes and his body crumples onto the carpet.
I can’t help it. I let out a scream before clamping my hands over my mouth.
My dad’s dead body, his head broken into pieces, doesn’t move a muscle.
But the murderer turns in my direction and lets out another long sigh.
“Of course you’re home,” he says. “And of course I didn’t wear a fucking mask.” He starts walking toward me.
I get up and run. I turn back upstairs and bolt for my room, not thinking, not caring about my dead father. Part of me is happy the guy killed him, happy that I’m finally free.
Except I don’t think I’ll stay free for long, not if he gets his hands on me.