Julie Kenner's Blog, page 35
April 9, 2017
Countdown to Damien & Anchor Me! Day 9
Sooooooo close to more Damien! We’re starting Chapter Three on Day 9 of the countdown to Anchor Me (the fourth full-length book in the Stark series!) … and that means another snippet for you!
I hope you enjoy … and come back every day before release day (April 11) for more of the countdown!
***
(If you missed yesterday’s post, you can find it here.)
Chapter Three
“Nikki!”
Damien’s voice—tense, afraid—seems to wrap around me. Something tangible that, maybe, I can cling to. That I can use to pull myself back.
“Sweetheart? Baby? Come on. That’s it. You can do it.”
I feel the warmth of his body surrounding me. Cradling me. His words are soft with encouragement, but the gentleness only hides an undercurrent of fear. I imagine his face in front of me, coming in and out of shadows.
Then I realize that it’s not my imagination. Instead, my eyelids are fluttering open, my body trying to return to normal even though my mind is still lost in this odd netherworld where time seems so painfully slow and Damien’s arms so deliciously warm.
“That’s it, baby. You’re going to be fine.” I see the worry that tightens the lines around his mouth. That sharpens the amber of one eye and transforms the onyx depths of the other into a hopeless abyss. Then he turns to speak to someone else, his voice low and strained. “Where the hell is the damned ambulance?”
“On its way. I think I can hear the siren.” Caroline stands behind him. Her brow is furrowed, and she’s twisting her hands. Farther back, Misty clings to her little boy, her expression pinched, and I wonder if she is concerned about me or about what her new neighbors will think.
I hear the approach of sirens, too, and despite the summer heat, my skin prickles from the ice water that suddenly floods my veins, the chill pushing me all the way into consciousness. With a vague sense of wonder, I realize we’re back on the front lawn. But I have no idea how we got here.
“What happened?” My voice is raspy, but it’s enough to send relief washing over the three faces around me.
Carolyn steps forward, and though she puts her hand on Damien’s shoulder, her eyes are on me. “Nikki, sweetie, it’s going to be okay. It’s probably just the heat. Nothing to worry about at all.”
I try to push myself more upright. It’s harder than it should be—I’m light-headed and unsteady—and when I see fresh worry on Damien’s face, I stop trying and simply let him hold me. “I fainted?” Of course, I did, but the thought is so startling that I can’t help but state the obvious as a question.
“You scared the crap out of me,” he says.
“I’m okay now.” I speak firmly, as if saying the words will make them true. Then I try to shift to my knees so that I can push myself all the way up to standing, but Damien holds me down.
“No, you don’t.” He holds me firmly in place. “Sit and rest until the ambulance gets here.”
I grimace at the thought of being examined here on Misty’s landscaped front lawn. “Honestly, it’s not like I got bit by a rattlesnake or suddenly came down with Ebola. I just got light-headed. It’s no big deal.”
“It is to me,” he says, and with those simple words, my argument dies on my tongue. I’m fine—I know that I’m fine—but Damien needs the reassurance, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to fully erase the fear from his eyes.
***
Be sure to pop back tomorrow to continue reading Chapter Three of Anchor Me, available April 11. Grab your copy now!
And if you’re just now meeting Nikki & Damien, why not grab of copy of Release Me, the book that started it all!
The post Countdown to Damien & Anchor Me! Day 9 appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
April 8, 2017
Countdown to Damien & Anchor Me! Day 8
Sooooooo close to more Damien! We’re continuing Chapter Two on Day 8 of the countdown to Anchor Me (the fourth full-length book in the Stark series!) … and that means another snippet for you!
I hope you enjoy … and come back every day before release day (April 11) for more of the countdown!
Note: If you’re coming at this page from Facebook, click HERE to jump immediately to where the snippet left off.
***
(If you missed yesterday’s post, you can find it here.)
Chapter Two … Continued (Day 8)
Behind us, I hear Misty speaking to Damien. “I’ll wipe off his hands before he gets in the car. And feel free to look around as much as you want. It’s kind of a maze in there, though. We haven’t unpacked a thing.”
Caroline and I pause, and I watch as Misty hurries off after Andy, who’s running as fast as his little legs will allow toward the Rolls Royce. Damien turns but hesitates before walking toward us, his expression unreadable. Then he cocks his head just slightly, and when his brows rise in inquiry, I see everything he’s not saying aloud. I’m sorry. Are we okay?
The fist around my heart loosens, and I draw a breath, wait a beat, and then extend my hand. For an instant, relief flickers in his eyes. Then his expression clears, and he joins us, locking his hand with mine.
Caroline looks between us, then smiles so brightly that I have to wonder if she’s picked up on the tension. Not that I’m about to ask. Instead, we continue to the house. “How many times did I walk you home when you and Ollie were little?” Caroline asks as we step onto the porch. “Or come over here to drag Ollie back home when you two spent the day in your pool?”
“A lot,” I say, letting the memories distract me. The truth is that Ollie rarely came over here. When we were allowed to play together, we both preferred his house. Only in the dead of summer did we stay here to enjoy the pool, and then only after my mother had assured herself that I was covered head-to-toe with sunscreen. God forbid the beauty queen get a sunburn or freckles.
“Go on, sweetie,” Caroline says. “I’ll wait for you two out here.”
I nod, and when Damien squeezes my hand in silent support, I realize how clammy my palms have become. The door is already ajar, so I use my free hand to push it open. I swallow and then, before I can lose my nerve, I step over the threshold.
I hesitate, not sure what I expected. Memory-shaped ghosts drifting down from the ceiling? My mother’s face looking back at me from the hall mirror? Her voice ordering me to go to my room and rest because it’s almost nine o’clock and I need my sleep before that weekend’s pageant?
But there is nothing. It’s just walls. Just tile and hardwood, paint and wallpaper. I feel my body relax, and when I meet Damien’s eyes, the corner of his mouth curves up in a smile of understanding.
“Where was your room?” he asks as we move through the foyer to the open-style living area.
“That way.” I point to the long hallway that leads off to the right. “My mom was in the master bedroom, all the way on the other side of the house. But Ashley and I were both down here.”
“Show me.”
“I doubt it’s going to look anything like what it did when I was here,” I say, but I’m already heading that way. I’m right, of course. The walls are a plain, flat white where they had once been a pale pink. I’d wanted lime green. Something funky and fun and a little bit obnoxious. A counterpoint to the so-good-they’re-smarmy manners and perfectly proper clothes that had been foisted on me for my entire life.
My mother, of course, had vetoed that plan, because little girls who win pageants are the kind of girls who love pink. Girls who follow the rules. Who don’t make a fuss or cause trouble.
Girls who don’t have opinions of their own.
At least that’s what every word out of my mother’s mouth seemed to imply. I’ve learned better since, and I know several women I respect who’ve done the pageant circuit. But back then, I had my mother in my head. And every time I won a pageant, I had to wonder what that said about me. Was I truly that boring and empty-headed? Was that really all I was good for?
I remember going to Ashley, curling up among the pile of pillows on my big sister’s bed and whispering that I hated our mother. That I hated pink. That Mother was mean and I wanted my walls to be my walls and it wasn’t fair and why couldn’t I ever do anything I wanted, and on and on and on.
“Do you know what she did?” I ask Damien, after I’ve told him all of that. “She came home from school the next day with a tiny jar of lime green paint she’d swiped from the high school art department.” I blink back the tears that have gathered with the memory. “She told me I needed some green, and so we painted a tiny green square right behind my bedside table, and then we took a pencil eraser and wrote our initials in the paint. It would have been right about here,” I say, leading him to the far side of the room and pointing to a pile of boxes.
He bends, moves a couple of the boxes aside, and then crooks his finger for me to join him. I do, then suck in a breath when I see what he’s found. It’s been covered, but I can still clearly see the hint of a green square beneath the flat white. And in the middle—more texture than image—are the initials NF and AF.
My knees go weak, and I let myself slump to the ground, Damien’s arms going around me to cushion my fall.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” I murmur, my back to his chest.
“I’ll never be anywhere else.”
I nod, acknowledging the simple truth that is the shining miracle of my life as I lean back against him, grateful for his warmth and strength.
“I don’t want to remember,” I admit. “And yet just being here—it’s all coming back. Good. Bad. It’s crashing over me like waves. All these memories, and I don’t have the strength to stop them coming.”
“Then don’t,” he says. “Let go, baby. Let the tide take you. I’ll be your tether. I’ll always pull you back home.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, lost in the magic of his words. In the promise that he will always protect me. That he’ll always love me.
A shiver cuts through me. Not from a chill. Not from fear. But from the simple realization that I should have known that kind of all-encompassing, unrelenting love from my mother. But I’d had to find it in my sister. In my friends.
In Damien.
“My mother didn’t have a clue,” I whisper. “Not even an inkling of how to be a mother.”
The tears flow freely now as I recall the day I got the phone call that Ashley was dead. My mother’s flat voice that she’d killed herself. And not flat with regret or mourning, but with disapproval. As if Ashley hadn’t lived up to expectations.
The irony, of course, was that it was expectations and insecurities that had killed my sister. Her deep-seated certainty that she had no clue how to be a wife. That when her husband left her for another woman, it was proof that she was a failure—just like my mother had always said.
She’d killed herself because she’d believed she was nothing. But to me, Ashley had been everything.
“We were sitting here when she told me she was going to get married. On the floor beside my bed. And she said she was going to have a good life and be a better mom than ours.”
My words tumble out as fast as my tears. I love Ronnie and Jeffery, my niece and nephew, but Ashley’s child should have come first. I wanted so badly to be Aunt Nikki. To be the very best aunt ever, just like Ashley had said. “She never got the chance.”
Suddenly, the loss of my sister is like a physical pain in my chest. I turn in Damien’s arms, bury my face against his chest, and sob.
I’d come to this house wanting to exorcise my demons, but now it seems like the ghosts are everywhere.
I gulp in air, then try to force words out past my tear-clogged throat. “Please,” I beg. “Please, can we just get out of here?”
“We’re already gone.” He kisses me gently, then takes my elbow to lead me out of the room. But I just stand there beside him for a moment, hating how weak and fragile I feel. I try to gather myself, determined to get out of this house without Caroline or Misty seeing any evidence of pain on my face.
And yet I can’t manage. My knees are weak. My skin clammy. I start to take a step to the door, but the world seems to turn inside out, and me along with it.
I have only enough time to look up at Damien—to see the worry etched on his face—before the grayness takes over, and I collapse into my husband’s arms.
***
That’s it for Chapter Two!
Be sure to pop back tomorrow to start reading Chapter Three of Anchor Me, available April 11. Grab your copy now!
And if you’re just now meeting Nikki & Damien, why not grab of copy of Release Me, the book that started it all!
The post Countdown to Damien & Anchor Me! Day 8 appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
April 7, 2017
Countdown to Damien & Anchor Me! Day 7
More countdown to Damien! We’re continuing Chapter Two on Day 7 of the countdown to Anchor Me (the fourth full-length book in the Stark series!) … and that means another snippet for you!
I hope you enjoy … and come back every day before release day (April 11) for more of the countdown!
Note: If you’re coming at this page from Facebook, click HERE to jump immediately to where the snippet left off.
***
(If you missed yesterday’s post, you can find it here.)
Chapter Two … continued (day 7)
“We can always give Elizabeth a call for her new address,” Damien says dismissively, as if we call my mother all the time. “To be honest, we came mostly for the house. I’ve never seen Nikki’s childhood home,” he adds, and I’m absurdly grateful that he didn’t tell these women the truth: that it’s me, not him, who’s driving this train. That I want—no, need—to see the inside of the house I grew up in. A house that was never a home. And maybe, just maybe, if I walk through it one last time, I can finally, truly leave it behind.
Damien flashes Misty the kind of smile that always makes me go weak in the knees. “Since we’re here, I wonder if we could go inside?” When she hesitates, he nods toward the Phantom. “While we’re in there, feel free to let that little guy check out the Rolls.”
“Oh!” Her eyes go wide, then she smiles and looks down at the child, who’s plunked himself on the grass and is poking at the ground with a stick.
Damien squats down so that he’s almost eye-level with the boy. “What do you say, Andy? Want to go take a look inside the big car?”
His eyes go wide as he looks up at his mother and then to Damien. Then he nods slowly, apparently afraid that if he shows too much enthusiasm, we’ll all laugh and tell him we were just kidding.
“He’s adorable,” I say, then grin as Damien stands up again beside me. “And he looks like a handful.”
Misty laughs. “You have no idea. Or maybe you do?” she looks between the two of us curiously. “Any kids?”
“Not yet.” I flash my Social Nikki smile. “But we have a niece about his age and a nephew who’s coming up on two.”
Caroline rests a hand on her hip. “Well, I think you need to get busy,“ she says. “I’d love to be Auntie Caroline. Goodness knows Ollie’s isn’t making any progress toward giving me grandchildren.”
“Someday we will,” Damien says as he slides his arm around my waist.
“I certainly hope so.” Caroline smiles fondly at both of us. “You two would make beautiful babies.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Damien adds, as he pulls me closer and presses a kiss to my temple. “Nikki’s going to make an incredible mom.”
I tense, my demeanor shifting from socially friendly to icily polite. This isn’t a conversation I want to have right now. Not with a stranger. Not with Caroline. Not even with Damien, and I’m frustrated that he so seamlessly slid into the role of eager father. We’ve talked about this over and over, and I’d thought we were on the same page. Someday, yes, I want to hold our child in my arms. But neither of us are ready for kids yet. There are too many barriers, too many challenges. And the fact that he’s now speaking so cavalierly about something so important makes my insides twist up. Especially since I can hardly call him out while we’re standing on a lawn in Dallas and I’m so goddamn vulnerable already.
Fuck.
I pull out of his embrace, and when I do, Damien catches my eyes. I see the apology on his face, but I’m not in the mood. I’m too off-kilter as it is, and so I just shove my hands in the pockets of my summer skirt. For a moment, I think he’s going to say something else, but then he turns his attention back to Misty and tells her that the car is unlocked.
As they speak, I head toward the house with Caroline beside me. With each step, my feet feel heavier and my pulse quicker. It’s silly, I know—it’s not as if I’ll find my mother lying in wait—but I haven’t been back in this house in years, and now that I’m about to walk inside, I’m positively crackling with nerves. I want Damien beside me. I want his hand in mine. And I’m angry and hurt and pissed that just a few little words have dropped a wall between us. Angry at him. And, yes, angry at myself, too.
***
Want more? Be sure to pop back tomorrow for more of Anchor Me, available April 11. Grab your copy now!
And if you’re just now meeting Nikki & Damien, why not grab of copy of Release Me, the book that started it all!
The post Countdown to Damien & Anchor Me! Day 7 appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
April 6, 2017
Countdown to Damien & Anchor Me! Day 6
More countdown to Damien! We’re continuing Chapter Two on Day 6 of the countdown to Anchor Me (the fourth full-length book in the Stark series!) … and that means another snippet for you!
I hope you enjoy … and come back every day before release day (April 11) for more of the countdown!
Note: If you’re coming at this page from Facebook, click HERE to jump immediately to where the snippet left off.
***
(If you missed yesterday’s post, you can find it here.)
Chapter Two … continued
“Your mother?” Her nose crinkles in confusion.
“Elizabeth Fairchild,” Damien clarifies. “She owns—or used to own—this house.”
“We just closed on it yesterday.” On her hip, the boy squirms, and she lets him slide down her leg, where he stands clinging to her like she’s the safest haven in the world.
“Do you know how long the house was on the market?” Damien asks as the little boy inches toward the Phantom.
Her forehead furrows as she studies Damien. “Wait. I know you. You’re that tennis—”
“Nikki?”
Another woman’s voice cuts her off, and I jump a bit. Both at the sound of my name and at the familiarity of the voice. I look toward the house, and my heart leaps at what I see. The woman on the porch is cast in shadows, but I recognize her instantly. “Mrs. McKee?”
I hear the tremble in my voice, but I don’t care. I launch myself forward, and by the time I cross the lawn, she’s stepped off the porch and is hurrying to meet me. I fling myself into her arms and let her wrap me in a tight, loving hug. I soak it in, the affection and support from this woman I’ve known my whole life, and who, for so many years, I’d pretended was my real mother. I’d dreamt that sooner or later I’d learn the truth, and Ashley and I would move in with her family. Because how the hell could Elizabeth Fairchild really be anyone’s mom?
When we finally break apart, my cheeks are wet with tears. Damien is beside me again, and I reach out. He takes my hand automatically, then nods at Mrs. McKee. “You must be Ollie’s mother,” he says, referring to my childhood neighbor and one of my two closest friends.
“Please, call me Caroline. And you’re Damien, of course.”
“Oh! That’s it! You’re Damien Stark!”
“This is Misty,” Caroline says, gesturing to the excited young mother. “She and her husband just moved from New Hampshire. I’ve known her father for years.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Damien says, as Misty’s jaw hangs open.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am to finally meet you,” Caroline says to Damien. “And it’s been far too long since I’ve seen you, young lady.” She beams at me with the kind of sincere affection I’ve never seen in my own mother’s eyes. “I had no idea you were in town.”
“I didn’t think to tell you,” I admit. “I didn’t even tell Ollie I was coming to Texas. I’m here for business. I have a meeting tomorrow and—” I cut myself off, frowning. “The truth is, I came here to see my mother. Do you know where she moved?”
Caroline shakes her head. “We didn’t stay in touch once Arthur and I downsized to our condo in University Park. It’s just a few miles, but it feels like the Grand Canyon. But I heard through the grapevine that she wanted a smaller place, too, and when I learned that the house was on the market, I mentioned it to Misty and her husband. That was about two months ago, wasn’t it?”
Beside her, Misty nods. “We only dealt with our real estate agent, though. And the house was already vacant when we first saw it.”
“Mama! Mama!” Her little boy tugs on her hand. “Car! Please! Wanna see the big car!”
“Hush, Andy.” Misty’s voice is as gentle as her smile, but when she looks up at me, it’s confusion I see on her face. “Your mom didn’t tell you she moved?”
“She’s probably in one of those corporate apartments, waiting for her new place to be ready and didn’t want to bother you with a temporary address.” Caroline’s off-the-cuff explanation comes easily, but the tension around her eyes reflects both understanding and commiseration. Because the truth is, Caroline knows more details than most about the rocky relationship between my mother and me. Not that I ever told her—and not that she ever said a word to me—but I’m certain that Ollie shared some of what I’d confessed to him. And I will be forever grateful for the times that Caroline let me stay late at her house under the guise of doing homework, or when she fed me a Hershey’s bar and made me promise to keep it a secret because if word got out, all the neighborhood kids would want one.
In other words, I am certain that Caroline knows damn well that the thought of keeping me up to date never crossed my mother’s mind. As far as Elizabeth Fairchild is concerned, I’m a prop, not a daughter. If she needs to use me, she’ll contact me. Otherwise, out of sight is very much out of mind.
I know it shouldn’t bother me. After all, I don’t want that woman in my life. And yet, as I look at the tender expression on Misty’s face as she kisses her little boy’s forehead, I can’t deny the overwhelming sense of loss that washes over me.
But how the hell can you lose what you never even had?
***
Want more? Be sure to pop back tomorrow for more of Anchor Me, available April 11. Grab your copy now!
And if you’re just now meeting Nikki & Damien, why not grab of copy of Release Me, the book that started it all!
The post Countdown to Damien & Anchor Me! Day 6 appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
April 5, 2017
Countdown to Damien & Anchor Me! Day 5
More countdown to Damien! We’re starting Chapter Two on Day 5 of the countdown to Anchor Me (the fourth full-length book in the Stark series!) … and that means another snippet for you!
I hope you enjoy … and come back every day before release day (April 11) for more of the countdown!
Chapter Two
A chill cuts through me, a cold sweat breaking out over my whole body as Damien eases the limo in behind the van, then kills the engine.
I turn to him, searching his face for the answers I need, but of course he doesn’t have them. And for one quick, horrible moment, I’m overwhelmed by the sensation of being swept out to sea, pulled away from everything warm and safe until I am cold and alone and drifting without anything to anchor me.
Outside the car, a little boy of about four runs across the lawn toward us, his eyes wide. A woman who’s probably five or six years older than me hurries behind, calling for him to stay away from the car.
I watch the boy, as mesmerized by him as he is by the Phantom. Then his mother reaches him and swings him around, making him laugh before she settles him on her hip, and he snuggles close, his thumb going into his mouth.
I exhale, only then realizing I’d been holding my breath.
“Come on,” Damien says gently, reaching for his door.
“But she’s not here.”
He brushes a lock of hair off my cheek, the touch as soothing as his voice. “But the house still is.”
He’s right. I’d been focusing so hard on my plan to see my mother that I hadn’t thought about the other memories that surrounded her. Memories made inside the walls of this house. I think of Ashley, who would now be about the same age as that young mother, and suddenly I want nothing more than to see the room that had once belonged to her. “You’re right.” My voice is thick with the tears I’m determined not to shed. “Do you think we can go in?”
“We’ll go in,” he says in the same firm, confident voice I’ve heard in both the bedroom and the boardroom. Immediately, I relax, because no matter what else went wrong today, I am certain that somehow, someway, Damien will get me inside that house.
He gets out, then circles the car to open my door. It’s early summer, and a wall of Texas heat slams into me, overwhelming the lingering cool inside the air-conditioned car. Damien helps me out, and by the time he shuts the door behind me, the mother and her son have reached us.
“May I help you?” Her voice has the clipped, polished tone of someone raised in the northeast.
“I—I’m Nikki Fairchild,” I say, figuring that under the circumstances, she’ll recognize my maiden name. “I was looking for my mother,” I add lamely when she just stands there, apparently not recognizing the name at all.
***
Want more? Be sure to pop back tomorrow for more of Anchor Me, available April 11. Grab your copy now!
And if you’re just now meeting Nikki & Damien, why not grab of copy of Release Me, the book that started it all!
The post Countdown to Damien & Anchor Me! Day 5 appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
April 4, 2017
Anchor Me – Countdown to Damien Stark – Day 4
Rock on! It’s day 3 of the countdown to Anchor Me (the fourth full-length book in the Stark series!) … and that means another snippet for you!
I hope you enjoy … and come back every day before release day (April 11) for more of the countdown!
Chapter One … continued (part 4)
(If you missed yesterday’s post, you can find it here.)
I draw a breath. “Almost there. And I’m fine,” I add before he has a chance to ask. I’m not fine—not entirely—but I’m hoping that by saying it, I’ll banish the hideous aching in my gut and the nausea that is starting to rise up inside me.
“Just tell me when.”
I nod, and for a moment, I picture us driving past, just going on and on until we’re out of the neighborhood, back in Dallas proper, and far, far away from the memories that are now washing over me like wave after wave crashing onto a sandy shore. Me locked in a pitch-black room because little girls need their beauty sleep, and Ashley whispering to me through the closed door, promising me that nothing is lurking in the dark to hurt me. A stylist tugging and pulling on my long, golden hair, ignoring my tears and cries of pain as my mother stands by, telling me to control myself. That I’m embarrassing her. My mother gripping my arm as she tugs me up the walkway to register for my first pageant, my eyes still red from the sting of her hand on my kindergarten-age bottom, a reminder that beauty queens don’t complain and whine.
I think of a dinner plate with the tiniest portion of plain chicken and steamed vegetables while my mother and sister eat cheesy lasagna, and my mother telling me that if I want to be a pageant winner, I need to watch every calorie and think of carbohydrates as the devil. Then her mouth pursing in disapproval when I insist that I don’t care about being a pageant winner. That I just want to not be hungry.
I was never good enough. Too chunky, too slouchy, too lackluster. Even with an array of crowns and titles, I never met her expectations, and I don’t remember a time when she ever felt like mother or friend. Instead, she was the strict governess of stories. The wicked stepmother. The witch in the gingerbread house.
My older sister Ashley escaped her clutches by the simple act of not winning the pageants she entered. After several failures, my mother gave up. And though I tried to fail, too, I was cursed with crowns and titles.
For years, I’d thought that Ashley had the better end of the deal. It was only when she later killed herself after her husband left her, that I understood how deep Ashley’s scars had run. Mine were physical, the self-inflicted scars of a girl who took a blade to her own skin, first to release the pressure and gain some control, then later to mar those pageant-perfect legs and end the madness of that horrific roller-coaster.
Ashley’s wounds were under the surface, but still deep. And at the core, both mine and my sister’s scars were inflicted by our mother.
My heart races, and I force myself to breathe steadily. To calm down. We’re almost there, and if I’m going to see my mother, I need to be in control. Show even the slightest weakness, and she’ll pounce on it.
And, yes, I’ve grabbed the upper hand before—I sent her back to Texas after she tried to take over planning my wedding, ignoring what I wanted in favor of her own skewed vision—but in Dallas she definitely has the home-court advantage.
“Nine-three-seven?” Damien asks, referring to the address, and I nod.
“The first house on the left after the bend,” I say, and I’m proud of how normal my voice sounds. I can do this. More than that, I *want* to do it. Clear the air. Wash away all the cobwebs.
Basically, I’m doing the parental equivalent of burning sage in a house tainted with bad memories.
The thought amuses me, and I’m about to tell Damien when the car rounds the bend and my humor fades.
Moments later, my childhood home comes into view. But it’s not my mother’s Cadillac parked in the drive. Instead, I’m staring at two unfamiliar Land Rovers, a Mercedes convertible, and a moving van.
So where the hell is my mother?
Want more? Be sure to pop back tomorrow for more of Anchor Me, available April 11. Grab your copy now!
And if you’re just now meeting Nikki & Damien, why not grab of copy of Release Me, the book that started it all!
The post Anchor Me – Countdown to Damien Stark – Day 4 appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
April 3, 2017
Anchor Me … countdown to more Damien! Day 3
Whoo-hoo! It’s day 3 of the countdown to Anchor Me (the fourth full-length book in the Stark series!) … and that means another snippet for you!
I hope you enjoy … and come back every day before release day (April 11) for more of the countdown!
Note: If you’re coming at this page from Facebook, click HERE to jump immediately to where the snippet left off.
Chapter One … continued (part 3)
(If you missed yesterday’s post, you can find it here.)
Damien meets my eyes, and for just a moment his frustration is almost comical. Then he snatches up the phone and hits the button to call Charles. A second later, he’s saying, “Dammit, I told you I can’t be bothered with this right now.”
He listens to the response, the furrows in his brow growing deeper. Finally, he sighs, looking more frustrated than I’ve seen him in a long time.
Cold foreboding washes over me. Damien isn’t the kind of man who gets frustrated over business deals. On the contrary, the harder and more challenging the deal, the more he thrives.
Which means this is personal.
“I hear you, Charles, but I’m not paying you for your advice on this. I’m paying you for those resources you’re so keen on touting. So use them, dammit. Pull out all the stops and get me some answers by the time I’m back in LA. Fine,” he adds after another pause. “Call me if you have something definitive. Otherwise I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
He ends the call and slams the phone back down. I open my mouth, intending to ask him what’s happening, but before I get the chance, he pulls me roughly to him and closes his mouth over mine. The kiss is hard, brutal, and I slide closer, losing myself in the wildness. And for this moment at least, I forget my apprehension and his problems. There is nothing but us, our passion a raging blaze that clears away the debris of our lives, stripping us to the bone until there is nothing left but the two of us.
I’m breathing hard when we break apart, my lips bruised and tingling, my body burning. I want to turn around and go back to the hotel. I want to strip off my clothes and feel his hands on me, his cock inside me. I want it wild. Raw. Pain and pleasure so intense I get lost in them. Passion so violent it breaks me. And Damien—always Damien—right there to put me back together again.
I want, but I can’t have. Not yet. Because whatever else is going on, I’ve come to this neighborhood with a purpose, and if I back away now, I may not have the strength to return.
And so, as Damien holds me close, I press my cheek against his shoulder and sigh, letting the moment linger. Then I tilt my head up to see his face. Damien doesn’t keep secrets from me—not anymore—and I expect him to tell me what the phone call was about. But he says nothing, and my stomach twists miserably. Because I understand Damien well enough to know that the only reason he’d hold back is to protect me. And right now, he’s doing his damnedest to shield me from the emotional hell of this trip.
“Damien?”
He twines his hand with mine, then kisses our joined fingers. “I’m sorry. This is our time. Your time. I wouldn’t have called back, except—”
“I get it. Really.” And I do. I understand why he returned the call. And I understand that this apology is his way of telling me that he’s not saying a word about it. Not now. Not until we’ve seen my mother.
“We should get going,” I say.
For a moment, he holds my gaze, trying to measure whether I’m truly game-ready. Then he nods and glances down at the phone. “Are you sure you don’t want to call her first?”
“No. Let’s just go.” What I don’t say—but I’m sure Damien understands—is that there’s a certain amount of appeal in the element of surprise. For once, maybe I’ll have the upper hand. And the fact that Damien will be standing on her threshold with me is a bonus. I flash a small but very genuine grin. “I think you intimidate her,” I say.
“Me?” His smile is wide and boyish. “I can’t imagine why.”
“Mmm,” I say. “Okay, onward.” I gesture regally, indicating he should pull back onto the road. He’d stopped in front of one of the stately homes just a few blocks away from Highland Park Village—one of the ritzier shopping areas in the country, and a place with which I’m very familiar. I’m pretty sure my mother bought everything from designer diapers to ball gowns for both my sister Ashley and me in the center’s boutiques.
But despite the society page sheen of this Dallas enclave, a Phantom stands out. Especially this fully restored beauty.
“The neighbors are jealous,” I say, nodding toward two women openly gawking at the car as they jog. “They’re wondering who’s moving into the neighborhood with more money than they have.”
Damien brushes off the comment. “It’s not the price that intrigues them,” he says. “It’s the beauty. The craftsmanship. The restoration. This is a neighborhood that thrives on appearances,” he adds, nodding to his right and the line of elegant homes we are passing. Then he glances to his left, his eyes roaming slowly over me. “And this car—and the woman in it—are two things of pure beauty.”
My cheeks warm. “I’ll agree with you on the car,” I say modestly, though I can’t deny that the compliment pleases me. “But I think they’re mostly fascinated with the man behind the wheel—and the fact that he’s on the right side.”
Usually when we’re in a limo, Damien’s personal driver, Edward, acts as chauffeur. But Edward’s not with us on this trip, and even if he were, I know Damien would insist on driving his new toy.
It’s odd being a passenger on the driver’s side, but this 1967 Phantom V limo is as British as they come, having once been a formal royal family touring limousine.
No wonder I feel like a fairy tale princess.
We’d come to Dallas for my work, but when Damien had learned about the trip, he’d made an appointment to see a retired aerospace engineer he’d once met at a classic car show whose hobby-turned-second-career is restoring Bentleys and Rolls Royces to mint condition. We’d gone straight to his home in North Dallas after arriving, and Damien had spent two hours in a state of bliss talking about this Phantom.
“How much?” Damien had asked, after he’d inspected the limo thoroughly, commenting on the brilliant design and mechanical prowess with the kind of rapture that most people use when talking about movie stars. I couldn’t deny that he was right about the car’s beauty and uniqueness. It’s painted a typical black, but the sheen is such that every angle and curve is set off to perfect advantage. And the interior is as elegant as a palace, the wood carved and polished to perfection, the leather seats soft and supple. The car is rare, too. Apparently, only five hundred and sixteen of this particular model were made.
The engineer quoted a six-figure price, and Damien pulled out his checkbook without the slightest hesitation. Less than an hour later, we were driving down the North Dallas Tollway in the latest addition to Damien’s vehicular menagerie, and Damien’s giddy expression reminded me of a little boy on Christmas morning.
Now, he maneuvers the limo through Highland Park, the well-heeled neighborhood in which I grew up. Though my family’s net worth never came close to Damien’s, we were hardly scraping by. My grandfather had made a fortune in oil, and though much of that was lost in the recession—and later by my mother’s bad management—there’s no denying that I was a child of privilege, just like every other kid living in these massive, tony mansions.
I’d walked away from all that when I moved to Los Angeles, intent on escaping my past. I’d wanted a new life, a new Nikki. And I’d been determined to make it on my own without my mother’s baggage holding me down.
Now, I can’t help but smile as I look at Damien. At this car that cost more than most people earn in a year. It’s funny how things shift. I was wealthy in Dallas, but miserable. Now, I’m filthy rich in Los Angeles and happier than I could ever have imagined. Not because of the bank account, but because of the man.
“You’re smiling,” he says, sounding pleased, and I’m once again struck by the fact that he is as much on pins and needles as I am. Damien, however, isn’t worried about seeing my mother. Damien is worried about me.
“I was just thinking how happy I am,” I admit, and then tell him why.
“Because the money isn’t the heart of what we are to each other,” he says. “You’d love me even if I were destitute.”
“I would,” I admit, then flash an impish smile. “But I can’t deny that I like the perks.” I run my hand over the dashboard. “Of course, I’d like *this* particular perk better if Edward were here.”
“Not satisfied with just holding my hand, Mrs. Stark?”
“I’m fine with hand holding for now,” I say archly. “But later, I want more. Later, I want your hands on all of me.”
The glance he shoots me overflows with heat and promise. “I think that can be arranged.”
“Eyes on the road, driver,” I say, then point. “And turn here.”
He does, and immediately my mood downshifts. Because now we’re on my actual street. Now, we’re a few blocks away from my childhood home.
Want more? Be sure to pop back tomorrow for more of Anchor Me, available April 11. Grab your copy now!
And if you’re just now meeting Nikki & Damien, why not grab of copy of Release Me, the book that started it all!
The post Anchor Me … countdown to more Damien! Day 3 appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
April 2, 2017
Anchor Me Sneak Peek Countdown – Day 2
Since we’re just over one week until Anchor Me (the fourth full-length book in the Stark series!) goes on sale, I’m celebrating with a countdown peek!
I hope you enjoy … and come back every day before release day (April 11) for a new snippet from the book!
Note: If you’re coming at this page from Facebook, click HERE to jump immediately to where the snippet left off.
Chapter One … continued
(If you missed yesterday’s post, you can find it here.)
“You think coming here is a mistake.” I snap the words at him, but it’s not Damien I’m irritated with, it’s me.
“No.” He doesn’t hesitate, and I take some comfort in the speed and certainty of his response. “But I do wonder if now is the right time. Maybe tomorrow would be better. After your meetings.”
We’ve come to Texas not so that I can torture myself by driving through my old neighborhood to visit my estranged mother, but because I’m vying to land a contract with one of the top web development companies in the country. It’s looking to roll out a series of apps, both for internal use among its employees and externally for its clients.
I’d submitted a proposal and am now one of only five companies invited to come to Dallas to pitch, and my little company is by far the smallest and the newest. I suspect, of course, that part of the reason I got the invitation is because I’m married to Damien Stark, and because my company has already licensed software to Stark International.
A year ago, that would have bothered me.
Not anymore. I’m damn good at what I do, and if my last name gets me a foot in the door, then so be it. I don’t care how the opportunity comes because I know that my work is top-notch, and if I get the job, it will be on the merits of my proposal and my presentation.
It’s a huge opportunity, and one I don’t want to screw up. Especially since my goal for the next eighteen months is to build up my receivables, hire five employees, and take over the full floor of the building that houses my office condo.
I’d worked on my business plan for months, and was a complete nervous wreck the night I handed it to my master of the universe, brilliantly entrepreneurial husband for review. When he’d given it the Damien Stark seal of approval, I practically collapsed with relief. My plan to grow my business doesn’t hinge on me getting this job—but landing it will mean I can bump all my target dates up by six months. More importantly, winning this contract will put my business firmly on the competitive map.
My shoulders sag a bit as I meet his eyes. “You’re afraid that seeing Mother is going to throw me off my game. That I’ll flub tomorrow’s meetings and hurt my chances of landing the contract.”
“I want you at your best.”
“I know you do,” I say sincerely, because Damien has never been anything but supportive. “Don’t you get it? That’s why we’re here. It’s like a preemptive strike.”
His brow furrows, but before he can ask what I mean, I rush to explain. “Just being in Dallas messes with my head—we both know that. She haunts this town. And having you here with me now makes it so much better. But you can’t always be with me, and before I make my pitch, I need to be certain that I can travel back and forth between LA and Dallas without being afraid I’ll see her around every corner.”
The pathetic truth is that lately I’ve been seeing my mother around all sorts of corners. I’ve imagined seeing her in Beverly Hills shopping centers. On Malibu beaches. In crowded streets. At charity events. I have no idea why this woman I’ve worked so hard to block from my mind is suddenly at the forefront of my imagination, but she is.
And I really don’t want her there.
I draw a breath, hoping he understands. “I need to lay all these demons to rest and just do my work. Please,” I add, my voice imploring. “Please tell me you understand.”
“I do,” he says, then takes my hand and gently kisses my fingertips. As he does, his phone rings. It’s sitting on the console, and I can see that the caller is his attorney, Charles Maynard.
“Don’t you need to take it?” I ask, as he scowls, then declines the call.
“It can wait.”
There’s a hard edge to his voice, and I wonder what he’s not telling me. Not that Damien keeps me informed about every aspect of his business—considering he pretty much owns and operates the entire planet and a few distant solar systems, that would require far too many updates—but he does tend to keep me in the loop on things that are troubling him.
I frown. It’s clear that he’s not telling me because I already have plenty on my mind. And while I appreciate the sentiment, I don’t like that—once again—my mother has come between my husband and me.
“You should call him back,” I say. “If he’s calling on a Sunday, it must be important . . .”
I let the words trail away, hoping to give him an opening, but all he does is shake his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, even as his phone signals an incoming text.
He snatches it up, but not before I see Charles’s name flash on the lock screen again, this time with a single word: Urgent.
Want more? Be sure to pop back tomorrow for more of Anchor Me, available April 11. Grab your copy now!
And if you’re just now meeting Nikki & Damien, why not grab of copy of Release Me, the book that started it all!
The post Anchor Me Sneak Peek Countdown – Day 2 appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
April 1, 2017
Stark on Saturday! Sneak Peek of Anchor Me! – Day !
Years ago, I counted down to the on-sale date of Release Me and the other books in the original Stark Trilogy by posting chunks online in countdown style. Since we’re just over one week until Anchor Me goes on sale, I wanted to do that again, especially since Anchor Me is the fourth full-length book in the trilogy! (I know, I know. I’m a rule-breaker…)
I hope you enjoy … and come back every day until April 11 for a new snippet from the book!
Note: If you’re coming at this page from Facebook, click HERE to jump immediately to where the snippet left off.
Anchor Me – Chapter One
I look out the window at the beautifully manicured yards that line the wide street down which I am traveling in the sumptuous luxury of a classic Rolls Royce Phantom. A car so sleek and magical that I can’t help but feel like a princess in a royal coach.
The road is shaded by parallel rows of massive oaks, their branches arcing over the street toward their counterparts to form a leafy canopy. Morning light fights its way between the leaves, creating golden beams in which dust sparkles and dances as if to a celebratory melody, adding to the illusion that we are moving through a fairy tale world.
All in all, it’s a picture-perfect moment.
Except it’s not. Not really. Or at least not to me.
Because as far as I’m concerned, this is no children’s story.
This is Dallas. This is the neighborhood where I grew up. And that means that this isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a nightmare.
The branches aren’t stunning—they’re grasping. Reaching out to snare me. To hold me tight. To trap me.
The canopy doesn’t mark a royal corridor leading to a castle. It leads to a cell. And it’s not The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies that fills the air. It is a requiem for the dead.
The world outside the car is lined with traps, and if I’m not careful, I’ll be sucked in. Destroyed by the darkness that hides behind the false facades of these stately houses. Surrounded not by a bright children’s tale, but by a horror movie, lured in by the promise of beauty and then trapped forever and slowly destroyed, ripped to pieces by the monsters in the dark.
Breathe, I tell myself. You can do this. You just have to remember to breathe.
“Nikki. Nikki.”
Damien’s voice startles me back to reality, and I jerk upright, calling upon perfect posture to ward off the ghosts of my memories.
His tone is soft, profoundly gentle, but when I glance toward him, I see that his eyes have dipped to my lap.
For a moment, I’m confused, then I realize that I’ve inched up my skirt, and my fingertip is slowly tracing the violent scar that mars my inner thigh. A souvenir of the deep, ugly wound that I inflicted upon myself a decade ago when I was desperate to find a way to release all the pent-up anger and fear and pain that swirled inside me like a phalanx of demons.
I yank my hand away, then turn to look out the window, feeling oddly, stupidly ashamed.
He says nothing, but the car moves to the curb and then rolls to a stop. A moment later, Damien’s fingers twine with mine. I hold tight, drawing strength, and when I shift to look at him more directly, I see worry etched in the hard angles of that perfect face and reflected in those exceptional, dual-colored eyes.
Worry, yes. But it is the rest of what I see that takes my breath away. Understanding. Support. Respect.
Most of all, I see a love so fierce it has the power to melt me, and I revel in its power to soothe.
He is the biggest miracle of my life, and there are moments when I still can’t believe that he is mine.
Damien Stark. My husband, my lover, my best friend. A man who commands an empire with a firm, controlling hand. Who takes orders from no one, and yet today is playing chauffeur so that he can stand beside me while I confront my past.
For a moment, I simply soak him in. His strength, apparent in both his commanding manner and the long, lean lines of his athletic body. His support, reflected in those eyes that see me so intimately. That have, over the years, learned all my secrets.
Damien knows every scar on my body, as well as the story behind each. He knows the depth of my pain, and he knows how far I have come. How far his love has helped me come.
Most of all, he knows what it has cost me to return to Texas. To drive these streets. To look out at this neighborhood so full of pain and dark memories.
With a small shiver, I pull my hand free so that I can hug myself.
“Oh, baby.” The concern in his voice is so thick I can almost grab hold of it. “Nikki, you don’t have to do this.”
“I do.” My words sound ragged, my throat too clogged with unshed tears to speak normally.
“Sweetheart—”
I wait, expecting him to continue, but he’s gone silent. I see the tension on his face, as if he’s uncertain what to say or how to say it—but Damien Stark is never unsure. Not about business. Not about himself. Not about me.
And yet right now he’s hesitating. Treating me like I’m something fragile and breakable.
An unexpected shock of anger cuts through me. Not at him, but at myself. Because, dammit, he’s right. In this moment, I’m as fragile as I’ve ever been, and that’s not a pleasant realization. I’ve fought so hard to be strong, and with Damien at my side, I’ve succeeded.
But here I am, all my hard work shot to hell simply because I’ve returned to my hometown.
Want more? Be sure to pop back tomorrow for more of Anchor Me, available April 11. Grab your copy now!
Update: Follow this link to continue reading the next installment!
And if you’re just now meeting Nikki & Damien, why not grab of copy of Release Me, the book that started it all!
The post Stark on Saturday! Sneak Peek of Anchor Me! – Day ! appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
Stark on Saturday! Sneak Peek of Anchor Me!
Years ago, I counted down to the on-sale date of Release Me and the other books in the original Stark Trilogy by posting chunks online in countdown style. Since we’re just over one week until Anchor Me goes on sale, I wanted to do that again, especially since Anchor Me is the fourth full-length book in the trilogy! (I know, I know. I’m a rule-breaker…)
I hope you enjoy … and come back every day until April 11 for a new snippet from the book!
Note: If you’re coming at this page from Facebook, click HERE to jump immediately to where the snippet left off.
Anchor Me – Chapter One
I look out the window at the beautifully manicured yards that line the wide street down which I am traveling in the sumptuous luxury of a classic Rolls Royce Phantom. A car so sleek and magical that I can’t help but feel like a princess in a royal coach.
The road is shaded by parallel rows of massive oaks, their branches arcing over the street toward their counterparts to form a leafy canopy. Morning light fights its way between the leaves, creating golden beams in which dust sparkles and dances as if to a celebratory melody, adding to the illusion that we are moving through a fairy tale world.
All in all, it’s a picture-perfect moment.
Except it’s not. Not really. Or at least not to me.
Because as far as I’m concerned, this is no children’s story.
This is Dallas. This is the neighborhood where I grew up. And that means that this isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a nightmare.
The branches aren’t stunning—they’re grasping. Reaching out to snare me. To hold me tight. To trap me.
The canopy doesn’t mark a royal corridor leading to a castle. It leads to a cell. And it’s not The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies that fills the air. It is a requiem for the dead.
The world outside the car is lined with traps, and if I’m not careful, I’ll be sucked in. Destroyed by the darkness that hides behind the false facades of these stately houses. Surrounded not by a bright children’s tale, but by a horror movie, lured in by the promise of beauty and then trapped forever and slowly destroyed, ripped to pieces by the monsters in the dark.
Breathe, I tell myself. You can do this. You just have to remember to breathe.
“Nikki. Nikki.”
Damien’s voice startles me back to reality, and I jerk upright, calling upon perfect posture to ward off the ghosts of my memories.
His tone is soft, profoundly gentle, but when I glance toward him, I see that his eyes have dipped to my lap.
For a moment, I’m confused, then I realize that I’ve inched up my skirt, and my fingertip is slowly tracing the violent scar that mars my inner thigh. A souvenir of the deep, ugly wound that I inflicted upon myself a decade ago when I was desperate to find a way to release all the pent-up anger and fear and pain that swirled inside me like a phalanx of demons.
I yank my hand away, then turn to look out the window, feeling oddly, stupidly ashamed.
He says nothing, but the car moves to the curb and then rolls to a stop. A moment later, Damien’s fingers twine with mine. I hold tight, drawing strength, and when I shift to look at him more directly, I see worry etched in the hard angles of that perfect face and reflected in those exceptional, dual-colored eyes.
Worry, yes. But it is the rest of what I see that takes my breath away. Understanding. Support. Respect.
Most of all, I see a love so fierce it has the power to melt me, and I revel in its power to soothe.
He is the biggest miracle of my life, and there are moments when I still can’t believe that he is mine.
Damien Stark. My husband, my lover, my best friend. A man who commands an empire with a firm, controlling hand. Who takes orders from no one, and yet today is playing chauffeur so that he can stand beside me while I confront my past.
For a moment, I simply soak him in. His strength, apparent in both his commanding manner and the long, lean lines of his athletic body. His support, reflected in those eyes that see me so intimately. That have, over the years, learned all my secrets.
Damien knows every scar on my body, as well as the story behind each. He knows the depth of my pain, and he knows how far I have come. How far his love has helped me come.
Most of all, he knows what it has cost me to return to Texas. To drive these streets. To look out at this neighborhood so full of pain and dark memories.
With a small shiver, I pull my hand free so that I can hug myself.
“Oh, baby.” The concern in his voice is so thick I can almost grab hold of it. “Nikki, you don’t have to do this.”
“I do.” My words sound ragged, my throat too clogged with unshed tears to speak normally.
“Sweetheart—”
I wait, expecting him to continue, but he’s gone silent. I see the tension on his face, as if he’s uncertain what to say or how to say it—but Damien Stark is never unsure. Not about business. Not about himself. Not about me.
And yet right now he’s hesitating. Treating me like I’m something fragile and breakable.
An unexpected shock of anger cuts through me. Not at him, but at myself. Because, dammit, he’s right. In this moment, I’m as fragile as I’ve ever been, and that’s not a pleasant realization. I’ve fought so hard to be strong, and with Damien at my side, I’ve succeeded.
But here I am, all my hard work shot to hell simply because I’ve returned to my hometown.
Want more? Be sure to pop back tomorrow for more of Anchor Me, available April 11. Grab your copy now!
And if you’re just now meeting Nikki & Damien, why not grab of copy of Release Me, the book that started it all!
The post Stark on Saturday! Sneak Peek of Anchor Me! appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
