All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

Naomi & Bradley –It All Comes Down… Vodka & Vice, The Series
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ASIN: B01F6BXGV2

Original artwork by architect and artist, James Nutt
[email protected]

https://www.behance.net/JamesNutt

Cover design by Carol’s Cover Design
http://carolscoverdesigns.com

Chapter
One
The rift…

NAOMI

New York City, Wednesday, February 3rd

My philosophy has always been, if they want to run, open the gate. Dog, cat, boyfriend, or husband; if they don’t want to be with you, so be it.

I know I sound cynical. I am cynical. Through and through. Skepticism saturates my skin, sarcasm floats deep in my light gray eyes, suspicions are woven into my long blonde hair, and distrust clogs my heart.

I believe it’s better to take an honest look down the road, prepare yourself, before that dark villain named Heartache joins you. Why let him hit you with a surprise attack, shoot you in the back with poison arrows, and pierce your heart? Everyone knows he’s capable of crushing your soul inside his mighty closed fists.

At least when you expect it, the shock value is missing.

When I paired up with an extremely handsome man, I wasn’t wearing lead-covered glasses. I could see how other women looked at him, and then glanced condescendingly at me. The message in their eyes evident.

“You think you can hold
him
?”

My internal response was, “I’m not sure how I got him in the first place.”

Thus knowledgeable, and believing myself prepared, I entered into our romantic relationship half-heartedly, counting the days until he left me for someone more attractive.

I always struggle to hold a rather large piece of my heart safely packed in ice, blanketed in frost, expecting the sudden breakup and the melancholy thaw, the slow drip of slush-covered pain.

Perhaps that’s what keeps Bradley with me. My man, a gorgeous, model perfect, mysteriously dark Russian, with charisma twinkling in his slightest glance. I suppose it might be that he never wholly has me, making me a challenge, or an unmet goal left to win.

I know that my cryptic allure will die off, melt like snow on his tongue soon enough. I try not to think about the end, losing Bradley, though I suspect it’s coming. It rapidly approaches on tiptoes, with gossamer wings, but it looms nevertheless, and there’s no stopping it. Doomsday hovers over our shared bed as if biding its time, watching, waiting for an opportunity.

To stall off the inevitable, I do not nag, ask him probing questions, or spy. Not once have I searched his drawers, scanned his phone, or dangled my fingers inside his discarded pants pockets.

I give Bradley plenty of room and freedom to run, hoping the imaginary corral gate will remain closed with him still circling inside its perimeter, too happy to notice the unlatched exit. I ignore Bradley’s nights out with his friend Manny, who I abhor. A man slob, reckless, insatiable, a horny stalker of anything wearing a skirt. My mind rotates like the cylinders in a revolver when I think of those two handsome men out together in bars and clubs. Still, I don’t try to stop Bradley from going, or complain when he sometimes doesn’t return until morning.

My handsome boyfriend loves my cooking. I enjoy his surprised smile, as he tastes each new ingredient I try. For knowing this relationship is only temporary, I put in an abundance of effort to please. I do not expect Bradley to come home for dinner at any set time, and then shout at him if he’s late. That is a play my mother starred in and I have no desire to perform her role.

Sometimes I catch Bradley looking at me in his special way, or feel his hand on my hip at night, softly caressing my skin, and I think, all is well. We are happy. Enjoy today and do not fear tomorrow. Bradley loves me. He tells me so often.

My mother also told me she loved me every night, as she tucked me into bed, before she left me alone, sometimes for days, while she went sailing. Without a crumb of food in the house.

Lately, Bradley has been especially attentive, and I’ve forgotten my warnings and let myself hope. That sharp beaming ray of anticipation covers me when I watch him return to our loft each evening. Even his careless stacks of magazines, dirty clothes, and notepads of booking dates do not bother me with their clutter. It’s proof that he lives here and that he’s coming back home.

I began to live high in the stratosphere, and dare to picture a future for us.

That was why, when it happened, I nearly missed it.

The signs begin when Bradley informs me that he needs to work out more, not only in our building’s exercise area, but he wants to join a professional gym, someplace trendy called CrossFit Sports Center. Somewhere more in the heart of the city close to his booking agent. He mutters about kickboxing, trainers, and flashes a chart crammed with classes and times before my surprised eyes.

Bradley, my live-in boyfriend, eater of fries and drinker of beer suddenly wants his body to resemble the Norse mythology god, Thor.

His face is already perfection. Chiseled chin, thick luxurious hair, and wonderful blue eyes.

It seems impossible that he can get his form even more improved, without becoming a supernatural being.

With additional weight training, Bradley would become a prime specimen requiring me to do daily combat to keep him. My future would be pushing away servers, blocking stares of women on the street, standing my ground when admirers of his modeling work shoved me into the background.

Did I want to live my life fighting over a man?

Or love, only to lose?

Each improvement he makes only stacks more anxiety on my shoulders.

Against my mild protests, Bradley begins a Tuesday, and then adds an additional Thursday night workout to his schedule.

I dread the aftermath. The perfect muscles, the rippling biceps, and washboard abs. What I miss is fearing the workouts themselves, or more specifically, Bradley’s exercise partner at the gym.

Her name is Molly.

I skip merrily along in my ignorant way, thinking that perhaps I also need a touchup. To show Bradley I’m not clingy or weak, I sign up for Monday and Wednesday night classes, here in our building, just to see if he misses me.

Bradley claims he does; miss me.

I know I miss his company way too much.

The trouble with loving someone beautiful is that you never feel good enough. It’s like walking around with an anvil hanging over your head. You know about gravity. It is going to fall. You just didn’t know when. After a while, you hope it will just let go and hit you. The tension worse than the bruise.

Or at least I thought so.

A few months ago, Bradley and I began talking about getting married at the end of this year. He instigated the dialogue, repeating our successful eighteen-month run as proof that we are destined to be together forever. I go along with it, thinking it’s some kind of a Man Test. I’m careful to never start the discussion, ask questions, offer possible dates, or buy a bride’s magazine. Marriage is Bradley’s idea. I want to see if it has staying power.

Apparently it doesn’t.

After a month at the gym, Bradley falls silent on the subject of our upcoming wedded bliss.

We are still active in bed. Bradley and I always shared a great lust for each other. Though my face isn’t star born like his, my body does rock. I have everything Bradley claims he loves, the breasts, the ass, the long legs, and the humor. Sometimes he’s too tentative with me and I wish he would take charge. Our nightly sex is becoming predictable, hasty, very unlike him.

With four nights of cardio separating us, I began to notice other changes.

Once, by accident, while sorting towels for the laundry, I opened Bradley’s gym bag and noticed everything was perfectly folded and spotless. I didn’t know where he’d gone last Thursday, but apparently it wasn’t to the gym.

We go to different gyms, but there is a crossover of members who sometimes attend both. They live in our building, but also work downtown. I became friendly with a few of them, the pair of women who sport wedding rings and talk only of female love, and a few guys who enjoy that masculine trip of explaining how the machines work to us inferior women. Though tall, I have a long ponytail, and look younger than my age of twenty-seven.

Weeks ago, I began joking with a guy named Chase, who helps set up a few stubborn machines for me. He’s often lamenting his recent breakup with his girlfriend Molly. He goes on at great length about her, even disclosing her sexual peccadilloes, and revealing her preferences for bondage in the bedroom. I listen as I run on the treadmill, trying not to imagine all the ties, whips, and clamps he insists on describing. When it isn’t too disgusting, it’s either funny or shocking, but always amusing and his monotone voice makes the workout go faster.

Tonight, Chase presses his distress, by adding details about how he lost Molly to some guy named Bradley, at the downtown, CrossFit Sports Center.

The puzzle pieces begin to creep together. I don’t want them to and I try not to think about it, but Chase lays them all out before me, on display, every cardboard shape representing a piece of my breaking heart.

I slyly question Chase, casually mention dates, times, evenings when Molly works out and sure enough, it’s always on Tuesday and Thursday nights, matching coordinating times and evenings when Bradley was late coming home.

There it is, in black and white, the reason the subject of our wedding disappeared into a cloud of disinterest.

Downtown Molly.

I notice the intent way Chase studies my face and I wonder if he knows Bradley and I live together. For how much longer, that’s on shaky ground.

Everything is shifting, as if I am balancing on an ice sheet, as it slowly slides into the North Sea. There’s no stopping it. No way to fight against my fate.

I knew it would happen one day.

I thought I was prepared.

I am not in the least prepared.

The concept of losing Bradley to this sexy, perverse Molly stings like a bullet. I can’t get it out of my mind. I picture them together in some hotel room, laughing over glasses of wine, and enjoying strangely weird foreplay with handcuffs and rope.

Worse, I am about to have reality thrown right into my face like boiling water from a giant washtub.

Other books

Noodle by Ellen Miles

A Christmas Bride by Susan Mallery

The Sky So Heavy by Claire Zorn

The Time of Your Life by Isabella Cass

The Orion Assignment by Camacho, Austin S.

Battle Lines. by Anderson, Abigail

White House White-Out by Ron Roy

The Wild Dark Flowers by Elizabeth Cooke

Timeline by Michael Crichton

A Promise for Her Love by Elaina Lee