release me
A N O V E L
J . K e n n e r
B A N T A M B O O K S N E W Y O R K
1
A cool ocean breeze caresses my bare shoulders, and I shiver,
wishing I’d taken my roommate’s advice and brought a shawl
with me tonight. I arrived in Los Angeles only four days ago, and
I haven’t yet adjusted to the concept of summer temperatures
changing with the setting of the sun. In Dallas, June is hot, July
is hotter, and August is hell.
Not so in California, at least not by the beach. LA. Lesson
Number One: Always carry a sweater if you’ll be out after dark.
Of course, I could leave the balcony and go back inside to the
party. Mingle with the millionaires. Chat up the celebrities. Gaze
dutifully at the paintings. It is a gala art opening, after all, and
my boss brought me here to meet and greet and charm and chat.
Not to lust over the panorama that is coming alive in front of
me. Bloodred clouds bursting against the pale orange sky.
Blue- gray waves shimmering with dappled gold.
I press my hands against the balcony rail and lean forward,
drawn to the intense, unreachable beauty of the setting sun. I
regret that I didn’t bring the battered Nikon I’ve had since high
school. Not that it would have fi t in my itty- bitty beaded purse.
And a bulky camera bag paired with a little black dress is a big,
4 J. K e n n e r
fat fashion no- no.
But this is my very fi rst Pacifi c Ocean sunset, and I’m determined
to document the moment. I pull out my iPhone and snap
a picture.
“Almost makes the paintings inside seem redundant, doesn’t
it?” I recognize the throaty, feminine voice and turn to face Evelyn
Dodge, retired actress turned agent turned patron of the
arts— and my hostess for the evening.
“I’m so sorry. I know I must look like a giddy tourist, but we
don’t have sunsets like that in Dallas.”
“Don’t apologize,” she says. “I pay for that view every month
when I write the mortgage check. It damn well better be spectacular.”
I laugh, immediately more at ease.
“Hiding out?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re Carl’s new assistant, right?” she asks, referring to
my boss of three days.
“Nikki Fairchild.”
“I remember now. Nikki from Texas.” She looks me up and
down, and I wonder if she’s disappointed that I don’t have big
hair and cowboy boots. “So who does he want you to charm?”
“Charm?” I repeat, as if I don’t know exactly what she
means.
She cocks a single brow. “Honey, the man would rather walk
on burning coals than come to an art show. He’s fi shing for investors
and you’re the bait.” She makes a rough noise in the back
of her throat. “Don’t worry. I won’t press you to tell me who.
And I don’t blame you for hiding out. Carl’s brilliant, but he’s a
bit of a prick.”
“It’s the brilliant part I signed on for,” I say, and she barks
out a laugh.
The truth is that she’s right about me being the bait. “Wear a
cocktail dress,” Carl had said. “Something fl irty.”
r e l e a s e m e 5
Seriously? I mean, Seriously?
I should have told him to wear his own damn cocktail dress.
But I didn’t. Because I want this job. I fought to get this job.
Carl’s company, C- Squared Technologies, successfully launched
three web- based products in the last eighteen months. That track
record had caught the industry’s eye, and Carl had been hailed as
a man to watch.
More important from my perspective, that meant he was a
man to learn from, and I’d prepared for the job interview with
an intensity bordering on obsession. Landing the position had
been a huge coup for me. So what if he wanted me to wear something
fl irty? It was a small price to pay.
Shit.
“I need to get back to being the bait,” I say.
“Oh, hell. Now I’ve gone and made you feel either guilty or
self- conscious. Don’t be. Let them get liquored up in there fi rst.
You catch more fl ies with alcohol anyway. Trust me. I know.”
She’s holding a pack of cigarettes, and now she taps one out,
then extends the pack to me. I shake my head. I love the smell of
tobacco— it reminds me of my grandfather— but actually inhaling
the smoke does nothing for me.
“I’m too old and set in my ways to quit,” she says. “But God
forbid I smoke in my own damn house. I swear, the mob would
burn me in effi gy. You’re not going to start lecturing me on the
dangers of secondhand smoke are you?”
“No,” I promise.
“Then how about a light?”
I hold up the itty- bitty purse. “One lipstick, a credit card, my
driver’s license, and my phone.”
“No condom?”
“I didn’t think it was that kind of party,” I say dryly.
“I knew I liked you.” She glances around the balcony. “What
the hell kind of party am I throwing if I don’t even have one goddamn
candle on one goddamn table? Well, fuck it.” She puts the
6 J. K e n n e r
unlit cigarette to her mouth and inhales, her eyes closed and her
expression rapturous. I can’t help but like her. She wears hardly
any makeup, in stark contrast to all the other women here tonight,
myself included, and her dress is more of a caftan, the
batik pattern as interesting as the woman herself.
She’s what my mother would call a brassy broad— loud,
large, opinionated, and self- confi dent. My mother would hate
her. I think she’s awesome.
She drops the unlit cigarette onto the tile and grinds it with
the toe of her shoe. Then she signals to one of the catering staff,
a girl dressed all in black and carrying a tray of champagne
glasses.
The girl fumbles for a minute with the sliding door that opens
onto the balcony, and I imagine those fl utes tumbling off, breaking
against the hard tile, the scattered shards glittering like a
wash of diamonds.
I picture myself bending to snatch up a broken stem. I see the
raw edge cutting into the soft fl esh at the base of my thumb as I
squeeze. I watch myself clutching it tighter, drawing strength
from the pain, the way some people might try to extract luck
from a rabbit’s foot.
The fantasy blurs with memory, jarring me with its potency.
It’s fast and powerful, and a little disturbing because I haven’t
needed the pain in a long time, and I don’t understand why I’m
thinking about it now, when I feel steady and in control.
I am fi ne, I think. I am fi ne, I am fi ne, I am fi ne.
“Take one, honey,” Evelyn says easily, holding a fl ute out
to me.
I hesitate, searching her face for signs that my mask has
slipped and she’s caught a glimpse of my rawness. But her face is
clear and genial.
“No, don’t you argue,” she adds, misinterpreting my hesitation.
“I bought a dozen cases and I hate to see good alcohol go
to waste. Hell no,” she adds when the girl tries to hand her a
r e l e a s e m e 7
fl ute. “I hate the stuff. Get me a vodka. Straight up. Chilled.
Four olives. Hurry up, now. Do you want me to dry up like a leaf
and fl oat away?”
The girl shakes her head, looking a bit like a twitchy, frightened
rabbit. Possibly one that had sacrifi ced his foot for someone
else’s good luck.
Evelyn’s attention returns to me. “So how do you like LA?
What have you seen? Where have you been? Have you bought a
map of the stars yet? Dear God, tell me you’re not getting sucked
into all that tourist bullshit.”
“Mostly I’ve seen miles of freeway and the inside of my
apartment.”
“Well, that’s just sad. Makes me even more glad that Carl
dragged your skinny ass all the way out here tonight.”
I’ve put on fi fteen welcome pounds since the years when my
mother monitored every tiny thing that went in my mouth, and
while I’m perfectly happy with my size- eight ass, I wouldn’t describe
it as skinny. I know Evelyn means it as a compliment,
though, and so I smile. “I’m glad he brought me, too. The paintings
really are amazing.”
“Now don’t do that— don’t you go sliding into the polite
conversation routine. No, no,” she says before I can protest.
“I’m sure you mean it. Hell, the paintings are wonderful. But
you’re getting the fl at- eyed look of a girl on her best behavior,
and we can’t have that. Not when I was getting to know the real
you.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I swear I’m not fading away on you.”
Because I genuinely like her, I don’t tell her that she’s
wrong— she hasn’t met the real Nikki Fairchild. She’s met Social
Nikki who, much like Malibu Barbie, comes with a complete set
of accessories. In my case, it’s not a bikini and a convertible.
Instead, I have the Elizabeth Fairchild Guide for Social Gatherings.
My mother’s big on rules. She claims it’s her Southern up-
8 J. K e n n e r
bringing. In my weaker moments, I agree. Mostly, I just think
she’s a controlling bitch. Since the fi rst time she took me for tea
at the Mansion at Turtle Creek in Dallas at age three, I have had
the rules drilled into my head. How to walk, how to talk, how to
dress. What to eat, how much to drink, what kinds of jokes to
tell.
I have it all down, every trick, every nuance, and I wear my
practiced pageant smile like armor against the world. The result
being that I don’t think I could truly be myself at a party even if
my life depended on it.
This, however, is not something Evelyn needs to know.
“Where exactly are you living?” she asks.
“Studio City. I’m sharing a condo with my best friend from
high school.”
“Straight down the 101 for work and then back home again.
No wonder you’ve only seen concrete. Didn’t anyone tell you
that you should have taken an apartment on the Westside?”
“Too pricey to go it alone,” I admit, and I can tell that my
admission surprises her. When I make the effort— like when I’m
Social Nikki— I can’t help but look like I come from money.
Probably because I do. Come from it, that is. But that doesn’t
mean I brought it with me.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty- four.”
Evelyn nods sagely, as if my age reveals some secret about
me. “You’ll be wanting a place of your own soon enough. You
call me when you do and we’ll fi nd you someplace with a view.
Not as good as this one, of course, but we can manage something
better than a freeway on- ramp.”
“It’s not that bad, I promise.”
“Of course it’s not,” she says in a tone that says the exact
opposite. “As for views,” she continues, gesturing toward the
now- dark ocean and the sky that’s starting to bloom with stars,
“you’re welcome to come back anytime and share mine.”
r e l e a s e m e 9
“I might take you up on that,” I admit. “I’d love to bring a
decent camera back here and take a shot or two.”
“It’s an open invitation. I’ll provide the wine and you can
provide the entertainment. A young woman loose in the city.
Will it be a drama? A rom- com? Not a tragedy, I hope. I love a
good cry as much as the next woman, but I like you. You need a
happy ending.”
I tense, but Evelyn doesn’t know she’s hit a nerve. That’s why
I moved to LA, after all. New life. New story. New Nikki.
I ramp up the Social Nikki smile and lift my champagne fl ute.
“To happy endings. And to this amazing party. I think I’ve kept
you from it long enough.”
“Bullshit,” she says. “I’m the one monopolizing you, and we
both know it.”
We slip back inside, the buzz of alcohol- fueled conversation
replacing the soft calm of the ocean.
“The truth is, I’m a terrible hostess. I do what I want, talk to
whoever I want, and if my guests feel slighted they can damn
well deal with it.”
I gape. I can almost hear my mother’s cries of horror all the
way from Dallas.
“Besides,” she continues, “this party isn’t supposed to be
about me. I put together this little shindig to introduce Blaine
and his art to the community. He’s the one who should be doing
the mingling, not me. I may be fucking him, but I’m not going to
baby him.”
Evelyn has completely destroyed my image of how a hostess
for the not- to- be- missed social event of the weekend is supposed
to behave, and I think I’m a little in love with her for that.
“I haven’t met Blaine yet. That’s him, right?” I point to a tall
reed of a man. He is bald, but sports a red goatee. I’m pretty sure
it’s not his natural color. A small crowd hums around him, like
bees drawing nectar from a fl ower. His outfi t is certainly as
bright as one.
10 J. K e n n e r
“That’s my little center of attention, all right,” Evelyn says.
“The man of the hour. Talented isn’t he?” Her hand sweeps out
to indicate her massive living room. Every wall is covered with
paintings. Except for a few benches, whatever furniture was
once in the room has been removed and replaced with easels on
which more paintings stand.
I suppose technically they are portraits. The models are
nudes, but these aren’t like anything you would see in a classical
art book. There’s something edgy about them. Something provocative
and raw. I can tell that they are expertly conceived and
carried out, and yet they disturb me, as if they reveal more about
the person viewing the portrait than about the painter or the
model.
As far as I can tell, I’m the only one with that reaction. Certainly
the crowd around Blaine is glowing. I can hear the gushing
praise from here.
“I picked a winner with that one,” Evelyn says. “But let’s see.
Who do you want to meet? Rip Carrington and Lyle Tarpin?
Those two are guaranteed drama, that’s for damn sure, and your
roommate will be jealous as hell if you chat them up.”
“She will?”
Evelyn’s brows arch up. “Rip and Lyle? They’ve been feuding
for weeks.” She narrows her eyes at me. “The fi asco about the
new season of their sitcom? It’s all over the Internet? You really
don’t know them?”
“Sorry,” I say, feeling the need to apologize. “My school
schedule was pretty intense. And I’m sure you can imagine what
working for Carl is like.”
Speaking of . . .
I glance around, but I don’t see my boss anywhere.
“That is one serious gap in your education,” Evelyn says.
“Culture— and yes, pop culture counts— is just as important
as— what did you say you studied?”
“I don’t think I mentioned it. But I have a double major in
r e l e a s e m e 11
electrical engineering and computer science.”
“So you’ve got brains and beauty. See? That’s something else
we have in common. Gotta say, though, with an education like
that, I don’t see why you signed up to be Carl’s secretary.”
I laugh. “I’m not, I swear. Carl was looking for someone with
tech experience to work with him on the business side of things,
and I was looking for a job where I could learn the business side.
Get my feet wet. I think he was a little hesitant to hire me at
fi rst— my skills defi nitely lean toward tech— but I convinced him
I’m a fast learner.”
She peers at me. “I smell ambition.”
I lift a shoulder in a casual shrug. “It’s Los Angeles. Isn’t that
what this town is all about?”
“Ha! Carl’s lucky he’s got you. It’ll be interesting to see how
long he keeps you. But let’s see . . . who here would intrigue
you . . . ?”
She casts about the room, fi nally pointing to a fi fty- something
man holding court in a corner. “That’s Charles Maynard,” she
says. “I’ve known Charlie for years. Intimidating as hell until
you get to know him. But it’s worth it. His clients are either celebrities
with name recognition or power brokers with more
money than God. Either way, he’s got all the best stories.”
“He’s a lawyer?”
“With Bender, Twain & McGuire. Very prestigious fi rm.”
“I know,” I say, happy to show that I’m not entirely ignorant,
despite not knowing Rip or Lyle. “One of my closest friends
works for the fi rm. He started here but he’s in their New York
offi ce now.”
“Well, come on, then, Texas. I’ll introduce you.” We take one
step in that direction, but then Evelyn stops me. Maynard has
pulled out his phone, and is shouting instructions at someone. I
catch a few well- placed curses and eye Evelyn sideways. She
looks unconcerned “He’s a pussycat at heart. Trust me, I’ve
worked with him before. Back in my agenting days, we put to-
12 J. K e n n e r
gether more celebrity biopic deals for our clients than I can
count. And we fought to keep a few tell- alls off the screen, too.”
She shakes her head, as if reliving those glory days, then pats my
arm. “Still, we’ll wait ’til he calms down a bit. In the meantime,
though . . .”
She trails off, and the corners of her mouth turn down in a
frown as she scans the room again. “I don’t think he’s here yet,
but— oh! Yes! Now there’s someone you should meet. And if you
want to talk views, the house he’s building has one that makes
my view look like, well, like yours.” She points toward the entrance
hall, but all I see are bobbing heads and haute couture.
“He hardly ever accepts invitations, but we go way back,” she
says.
I still can’t see who she’s talking about, but then the crowd
parts and I see the man in profi le. Goose bumps rise on my arms,
but I’m not cold. In fact, I’m suddenly very, very warm.
He’s tall and so handsome that the word is almost an insult.
But it’s more than that. It’s not his looks, it’s his presence. He
commands the room simply by being in it, and I realize that Evelyn
and I aren’t the only ones looking at him. The entire crowd
has noticed his arrival. He must feel the weight of all those eyes,
and yet the attention doesn’t faze him at all. He smiles at the girl
with the champagne, takes a glass, and begins to chat casually
with a woman who approaches him, a simpering smile stretched
across her face.
“Damn that girl,” Evelyn says. “She never did bring me my
vodka.”
But I barely hear her. “Damien Stark,” I say. My voice surprises
me. It’s little more than breath.
Evelyn’s brows rise so high I notice the movement in my peripheral
vision. “Well, how about that?” she says knowingly.
“Looks like I guessed right.”
“You did,” I admit. “Mr. Stark is just the man I want to see.”
2
“Damien Stark is the holy grail.” That’s what Carl told me earlier
that evening. Right after, “Damn, Nikki. You look hot.”
I think he was expecting me to blush and smile and thank
him for his kind words. When I didn’t, he cleared his throat and
got down to business. “You know who Stark is, right?”
“You saw my resume,” I reminded him. “The fellowship?”
I’d been the recipient of the Stark International Science Fellowship
for four of my fi ve years at the University of Texas, and
those extra dollars every semester had made all the difference in
the world to me. Of course, even without a fellowship, you’d
have to be from Mars not to know about the man. Only thirty
years old, the reclusive former tennis star had taken the millions
he’d earned in prizes and endorsements and reinvented himself.
His tennis days had been overshadowed by his new identity as an
entrepreneur, and Stark’s massive empire raked in billions every
year.
“Right, right,” Carl said, distracted. “Team April is presenting
at Stark Applied Technology on Tuesday.” At C- Squared,
every product team is named after a month. With only twentythree
employees, though, the company has yet to tap into au-
14 J. K e n n e r
tumn or winter.
“That’s fabulous,” I said, and I meant it. Inventors, software
developers, and eager new business owners practically wet themselves
to get an interview with Damien Stark. That Carl had
snagged just such an appointment was proof that my hoopjumping
to get this job had been worth it.
“Damn straight,” Carl said. “We’re showing off the beta version
of the 3- D training software. Brian and Dave are on point
with me,” he added, referring to the two software developers
who’d written most of the code for the product. Considering its
applications in athletics and Stark Applied Technology’s focus
on athletic medicine and training, I had to guess that Carl was
about to pitch another winner. “I want you at the meeting with
us,” he added, and I managed not to embarrass myself by doing
a fi st- pump in the air. “Right now, we’re scheduled to meet with
Preston Rhodes. Do you know who he is?”
“No.”
“Nobody does. Because Rhodes is a nobody.”
So Carl didn’t have a meeting with Stark, after all. I, however,
had a feeling I knew where this conversation was going.
“Pop quiz, Nikki. How does an up- and- coming genius like
me get an in- person meeting with a powerhouse like Damien
Stark?”
“Networking,” I said. I wasn’t an A- student for nothing.
“And that’s why I hired you.” He tapped his temple, even as
his eyes roamed over my dress and lingered at my cleavage. At
least he wasn’t so gauche as to actually articulate the basic fact
that he was hoping that my tits— rather than his product— would
intrigue Stark enough that he’d attend the meeting personally.
But honestly, I wasn’t sure my girls were up to the task. I’m easy
on the eyes, but I’m more the girl- next- door, America’s- sweetheart
type. And I happen to know that Stark goes for the runway supermodel
type.
I learned that six years ago when he was still playing tennis
r e l e a s e m e 15
and I was still chasing tiaras. He’d been the token celebrity judge
at the Miss Tri- County Texas pageant, and though we’d barely
exchanged a dozen words at the mid- pageant reception, the encounter
was burned into my memory.
I’d parked myself near the buffet and was contemplating the
tiny squares of cheesecake, wondering if my mother would smell
it on my breath if I ate just one, when he walked up with the kind
of bold self- assurance that can seem like arrogance on some
men, but on Damien Stark it just seemed sexy as hell. He eyed
me fi rst, then the cheesecakes. Then he took two and popped
them both in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, then grinned at
me. His unusual eyes, one amber and one almost completely
black, seemed to dance with mirth.
I tried to come up with something clever to say and failed
miserably. So I just stood there, my polite smile plastered across
my face as I wondered if his kiss would give me all the taste and
none of the calories.
Then he leaned closer, and my breath hitched as his proximity
increased. “I think we’re kindred spirits, Miss Fairchild.”
“I’m sorry?” Was he talking about the cheesecake? Good
God, I hadn’t actually looked jealous when he’d eaten them, had
I? The idea was appalling.
“Neither of us wants to be here,” he explained. He tilted his
head slightly toward a nearby emergency exit, and I was overcome
by the sudden image of him grabbing my hand and taking
off running. The clarity of the thought alarmed me. But the certainty
that I’d go with him didn’t scare me at all.
“I— oh,” I mumbled.
His eyes crinkled with his smile, and he opened his mouth to
speak. I didn’t learn what he had to say, though, because Carmela
D’Amato swept over to join us, then linked her arm with
his. “Damie, darling.” Her Italian accent was as thick as her
dark wavy hair. “Come. We should go, yes?” I’ve never been a
big tabloid reader, but it’s hard to avoid celebrity gossip when
16 J. K e n n e r
you’re doing the pageant thing. So I’d seen the headlines and
articles that paired the big- shot tennis star with the Italian supermodel.
“Miss Fairchild,” he said with a parting nod, then turned to
escort Carmela into the crowd and out of the building. I watched
them leave, consoling myself with the thought that there was
regret in his eyes as we parted ways. Regret and resignation.
There wasn’t, of course. Why would there be? But that nice
little fantasy got me through the rest of the pageant.
And I didn’t say one word about the encounter to Carl. Some
things are best played close to the vest. Including how much I’m
looking forward to meeting Damien Stark again.
“Come on, Texas,” Evelyn says, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Let’s go say howdy.”
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to fi nd Carl behind me.
He sports the kind of grin that suggests he just got laid. I know
better. He’s just giddy with the anticipation of getting close to
Damien Stark.
Well, me, too.
The crowd has shifted again, blocking my view of the man. I
still haven’t seen his face, just his profi le, and now I can’t even see
that. Evelyn’s leading the way, making forward progress through
the crowd despite a few stops and starts to chat with her guests.
We’re on the move again when a barrel- chested man in a plaid
sport coat shifts to the left, once again revealing Damien Stark.
He is even more magnifi cent now than he was six years ago.
The brashness of youth has been replaced by a mature confi -
dence. He is Jason and Hercules and Perseus— a fi gure so strong
and beautiful and heroic that the blood of the gods must fl ow
through him, because how else could a being so fi ne exist in this
world? His face consists of hard lines and angles that seem
sculpted by light and shadows, making him appear both classically
gorgeous and undeniably unique. His dark hair absorbs the
light as completely as a raven’s wing, but it is not nearly as
r e l e a s e m e 17
smooth. Instead, it looks wind- tossed, as if he’s spent the day
at sea.
That hair in contrast with his black tailored trousers and
starched white shirt give him a casual elegance, and it’s easy to
believe that this man is just as comfortable on a tennis court as
he is in a boardroom.
His famous eyes capture my attention. They seem edgy and
dangerous and full of dark promises. More important, they are
watching me. Following me as I move toward him.
I feel an odd sense of deja vu as I move steadily across the
fl oor, hyperaware of my body, my posture, the placement of my
feet. Foolishly, I feel as if I’m a contestant all over again.
I keep my eyes forward, not looking at his face. I don’t like
the nervousness that has crept into my manner. The sense that he
can see beneath the armor I wear along with my little black
dress.
One step, then another.
I can’t help it; I look straight at him. Our eyes lock, and I
swear all the air is sucked from the room. It is my old fantasy
come to life, and I am completely lost. The sense of deja vu vanishes
and there’s nothing but this moment, electric and powerful.
Sensual.
For all I know, I’ve gone spinning off into space. But no, I’m
right there, fl oor beneath me, walls around me, and Damien
Stark’s eyes on mine. I see heat and purpose. And then I see nothing
but raw, primal desire so intense I fear that I’ll shatter under
the force of it.
Carl takes my elbow, steadying me, and only then do I realize
I’d started to stumble. “Are you okay?”
“New shoes. Thanks.” I glance back at Stark, but his eyes
have gone fl at. His mouth is a thin line. Whatever that was— and
what the hell was it?— the moment has passed.
By the time we reach Stark, I’ve almost convinced myself it
was my imagination.
18 J. K e n n e r
I barely process the words as Evelyn introduces Carl. My
turn is next, and Carl presses his hand to my shoulder, pushing
me subtly forward. His palm is sweating, and it feels clammy
against my bare skin. I force myself not to shrug it off.
“Nikki is Carl’s new assistant,” Evelyn says.
I extend my hand. “Nikki Fairchild. It’s a pleasure.” I don’t
mention that we’ve met before. Now hardly seems the time to
remind him that I once paraded before him in a bathing suit.
“Ms. Fairchild,” he says, ignoring my hand. My stomach
twists, but I’m not sure if it’s from nerves, disappointment, or
anger. He looks from Carl to Evelyn, pointedly avoiding my
eyes. “You’ll have to excuse me. There’s something I need to attend
to right away.” And then he’s gone, swallowed up into the
crowd as effectively as a magician disappearing in a puff of
smoke.
“What the fuck?” Carl says, summing up my sentiments exactly.
Uncharacteristically quiet, Evelyn simply gapes at me, her expressive
mouth turned down into a frown.
But I don’t need words to know what she’s thinking. I can
easily see that she’s wondering the same thing I am: What just
happened?
More important, what the hell did I do wrong?
BUY THE PAPERBACK
(click here to buy the eBOOK)
RELEASE ME
by
J. Kenner
Share this on your favourite network
Posts
