Authors: Violetta Rand
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Sports, #Romance, #Contemporary, #New Adult & College
Loving Lucas
Advance Reader's Copy — Not for Sale
Loving Lucas
A Lies & Leather Novel
Violetta Rand
Loveswept
This is an uncorrected eBook file.
Please do not quote for publication
until you check your copy against the finished book.
Tentative On-Sale Date: July 28, 2015
Tentative Publication Month: July 2015
Tentative eBook Price: $2.99
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Loveswept, an imprint of Penguin Random House
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019
Loving Lucas
A Lies & Leather Novel
Violetta Rand
Loveswept
New York
This is an uncorrected eBook file.
Please do not quote for publication until you check your copy against the finished book.
Loving Lucas
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 © 2015 by Violetta Rand
Excerpt
from
Winning Mason
by
Violetta Rand
copyright
©
2015
by
Violetta Rand
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.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book
Winning Mason
by Violetta Rand. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eBook ISBN 978-1-101-88370-9
Cover design: [TK]
Cover illustration: [TK]
www.readloveswept.com
Prologue
Everything needs to be perfect. Connor loves beef roast, potatoes, and sautéed vegetables, so that’s what I’ve prepared. We’re celebrating his birthday a little early because he’s going out of town next week, competing in a flat track race. Even his mother closed her bakery early so she could help me with everything. As soon as he turns into the driveway, we scramble to our respective hiding places. I scan the dining room table one last time, pleased with its festive appearance; with Connor it’s important to make sure everything is perfect. I’m so anxious I’m shaking . . . I never know what to expect with him these days; the slightest little things can set him off. And even though he doesn’t like surprises, not even happy ones, I’m confident he’ll like this because it’s for his birthday.
The candles are lit and his present is in plain sight: the 5' × 5' poster of one of his most memorable American Motorcycle Association wins, with Connor at the finish line at the California Nationals.
God,
I hope he likes it.
I kill the lights and slip behind the drapes, then hear his heavy footsteps coming up the walkway. As the front door opens, I nervously smile—praying he’ll be pleased.
“Karlie?” he calls.
Of course I don’t answer.
“Karlie?” He sighs, stomping into the dining room. “Why’s it so dark in here?”
We jump out from our hiding places, yelling, “Surprise!”
At first he looks confused, then he frowns.
“Happy early birthday.” I rush over to give him a big hug, noticing he smells like a distillery.
“I’m exhausted, Karlie. I’m going to take a quick shower, eat, then head back to the shop.”
“For what?” Another round of drinks with his friends? A fresh paint job on one of his race bikes? I’m so disappointed, but I try to keep my negative feelings to myself.
“Damn it, Connor,” his mother says. “Can’t you forget about racing for two seconds and act normal?”
“Don’t start, Mom.”
“If Karlie won’t say something, I will.”
“And I’ll tell you the same goddamned thing I’d say to her.” He throws his lunch box on the table—it lands on top of his cake. I wince, knowing I’ll never be able to fix the frosting. “If you can’t handle my lifestyle, get the fuck out.”
“Don’t talk to your mother that way,” I snap, shocked and angry at his disrespect. Not that this is unusual behavior for him; in fact the longer we’re together, the more mean and nasty he’s become.
His hands tighten into fists.. He gazes at the table, then back at me. “How about we just eliminate the problem?”
With one violent sweep of his hands, dishes hit the floor and food splatters everywhere.
I can’t move. Hours of preparation and loving care wiped out by my selfish boyfriend. Cake and food are now splattered all over his poster, and tears begin to sting in my eyes. Even his usually vocal mother is speechless. That was the moment I knew I had to find a way to escape this turbulent household before he ruins my life or, worse, hurts me.
“Now clean it up,” he commands, disappearing down the hallway.
Chapter One
Three months later . . .
I’m a prisoner. My cage is a luxurious thirty-two-foot Thor motor coach and Connor is stretched out on the leather couch by the only exit. If I try to sneak out, he’ll wake up. And I don’t want to suffer the humiliation of another one of his explosive tantrums. I’m standing between the bedroom door and living area, arms crossed over my chest, music and laughter filtering through the open windows. It’s ten o’clock, the races are officially over, but the partying just started.
I peek out the closest window, catching sight of the bonfire. It lights up the nighttime sky like fireworks. My friends are drinking and having fun, and I’m stuck inside with my homicidal boyfriend who loses it when I smile at another guy. I carefully weigh my options, considering the consequences. With Connor, everything comes with a price.
I sniff the air, smelling cigar smoke and barbeque. A tradition I hate missing. Michael Samos travels to Cuba every year and smuggles the finest cigars over the border, saving a box for the last weekend of the races. I can taste the citrusy twang already. However, what I crave most is the camaraderie, the feeling like I belong somewhere. Sitting in utter silence while Connor sleeps off his post-race buzz sucks. And I’ve already exhausted the DVD collection in the bedroom. If I watch
Fast and Furious
one more time I’ll puke.
I edge closer to the door. Connor flips onto his right side. There’s a night light on in the kitchen. I gaze at his angelic face. That’s what initially attracted me, along with his sense of humor, of which I don’t see that much anymore. But after sixteen months, I know what lurks beneath his tranquil features.
And that’s why I don’t like him anymore.
I take another silent step and then stop. So far, so good. Another few steps and I’m at the door . . . I touch the latch, turn it, and the lock pops.
“Karlie?”
I cringe, not facing him. “
Yes
?” My voice wavers.
“Where the fuck are you going?”
I hear him sit up. “Outside.”
“Get over here.”
The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. And my fight-or-flight instincts insist I obey. But I don’t want to. Instead, I push the door open.
Everything happens so fast. He clamps onto my hips, snapping me backward. I let out a little cry as he lifts me off my feet, slamming me onto the couch. My back hits the padding so hard it knocks the breath out of me. But I still try to roll onto the floor—maybe I can crawl between his legs, making it outside.
“Settle down,” he hisses, gripping my right ankle. “Now.” His nails dig into my flesh.
Tears sting my eyes, more out of fear than pain. “Please,” I beg. “Let me go.”
He laughs, wrapping his fingers around my throat. He applies just enough pressure to let me know he’s in control. “Where, Karlie?”
I raise my chin, my last attempt at defiance. “Wherever I want.”
He squeezes harder, depriving me of enough oxygen to make me feel dizzy. I kick my feet so hard my sandals fly off. I dig my fingernails into the sides of his face.
“Bitch . . .” He lets go accidently and I take full advantage, launching off the couch.
I land on my knees near the steps and fall forward, hanging onto the edge of the first one, ready to scramble out the half-open door. He grips both of my ankles and flips me over, and the back of my head smacks the tiled floor with a sickening thud. It hurts more than brain freeze. I grit my teeth, praying the pain away, only to have it replaced by something far worse. He bends my big toe forward, and fire shoots up my foot.
Oh. My. God.
I bite my bottom lip so hard I taste blood.
I kick frantically as he twists my toe again. “Stop or I’ll break it.”
He means it; I’ve been to the hospital twice in the last year with a broken wrist and a concussion. When the doctors asked what happened, Connor turned on the local-boy charm and told them I crashed at practice. As a local celebrity, no one challenges him; no one suspects him of abuse. Except my friend Marie, but she’s outside with her boyfriend.
“Wh-what do you want?” I ask.
“Where’s the goddamn phone number that prick from Colorado gave you?”
“In-in the trash,” I stutter as fear takes over.
“Not in your pocket?”
I threw it away the minute we got back to the RV tonight. “No.”
“I don’t believe you.” He lets go of my foot, kneeling beside me.
His angry face gets closer and closer. Survival instinct takes over. I fist my hand and punch him in the nose with all the strength I have. He growls, falling back. Somehow I scramble to my feet and tumble down the steps, landing on the hard ground outside. Cool air fills my lungs and I shake my head. That pain at the base of my skull quickly reminds me where I am. I get up and run for the fire to join the others. Halfway there, I hear Connor’s heavy footsteps somewhere behind me.
Oh God.
This is it. I’m going to die tonight.
Breathless and exhausted, I fall to my knees hearing voices and see dozens of feet standing around me. The heat from the flames feels so good against my chilled skin. That’s the effect my boyfriend has on me; it’s 60 degrees outside and I’m as cold as a corpse.
“Karlie,” Connor calls, his boots coming into view in my periphery. “Don’t make this into something it doesn’t need to be. Get up—we’ll talk this out. In private.”
I don’t move. I can’t speak. I’m too busy worshipping the goddamned ground I’m kneeling on, thrilled to be free. Yet I fear that freedom will be short-lived. We’re a tight-knit group, but certain things are taboo in the racing community, interfering with relationship stuff being one of the biggest. And Connor Seville is a hero, a three-time American Motorcycle Association champion; the fact that he graces these unsanctioned races with his presence is reason enough for everyone to overlook his temper. He only participates for the extra money and to keep his local fans happy. His real passion is for the national circuit, where television cameras and sports journalists chase him down for interviews.
He slides around me, resting his hand on my shoulder. I look up, meeting his blue gaze, the firelight making him look ominous. “No,” I say confidently. “We’ll never discuss anything again.”
He chuckles, assessing the small crowd around us. I do the same, wishing Marie were nearby. All I see are
Connor’s
friends. “Never is a long time,” he adds, then palms the top of my head. “You’re all alone, Karlie. Without me, you’re shit.”
He forces my face to the ground and I get a mouthful of dirt. I spit it out, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. When he finally let’s me go, I wobble to my feet, disappointed that no one intervenes on my behalf. Cowards, all of them. “Don’t touch me again, Connor.”