Love's Paradox

By Laura Kreitzer

LOVE'S PARADOX the first book in a New Adult Contemporary Romance series by bestselling author Laura Kreitzer.

Stalked by her abusive ex-fiancé, Rae Zachery retaliates by singing karaoke and spilling all their dirty secrets to the entire bar. When her ex attempts to silence her brazen performance, sexy, leather-clad Parker comes to her rescue and soundly punches her ex in the face. As valiant and comedic as that may be, Rae finds Parker’s violent assistance unsettling, yet she can’t help but be drawn to him and his tragic past.

Fighting her attraction for Parker is a battle Rae can’t win, and soon their night of sharing secrets morphs into an undeniable bond. But fate won’t so easily relinquish her grip on their romantic, happily-ever-after. Instead of blissfully skipping into obscurity, Rae and Parker are subjected to her ex-fiancé’s vicious proclivities. Who knew love could hurt so good?

Get lost in this contemporary romance with just enough comedy, drama, and suspense to keep you on your toes.

*Contains erotic romance that might not be suitable for children.*

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Kreitzer
• Release date: May 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781937790141

Laura Kreitzer

Laura Kreitzer is a best-selling fantasy and science fiction author who hails from western Kentucky. Represented by Pam van Hylckama Vlieg, partner at Foreword Literary. Laura's full-time 9-5 job used to be working in a lab devoted to water dye-tracing investigations at Western Kentucky University, though her passion was always writing. After seven years of dedicating her life to the environment, she made the tough decision to leave the university to pursue her writing career. Now Laura has several novels published, with several more in the works.

Book preview

CHAPTER 01: WATCH THEM BURN

A hillbilly stripper, a snarky hair stylist, and a rock star walk into a bar. You might think this is the beginning of a joke, but it’s not. As a matter of fact, this is my life, and one of those individuals is me. Hint: my bag is in the shape of a guitar.

Okay, okay. So I’m not a rock star. As a matter of fact, I only know a few chords. But I can rock out to any ol’ country song, belting out words at the top of my lungs. Hank Williams: eat your heart out. Seriously, it’s not about musical talent; it’s about style. And thanks to my amazing hair stylist Cherry, I look the part as much as I play it. Long, dark hair with streaks of electric red, heels so tall and sharp they could be used as swords, faux-leather pants, and a sparkly top that’ll be sure to stop traffic on a sunny day. Not because I look damn good wearing it, mind you, but for the fact I’d light up like a disco ball.

My friend Hunter, southern accent, cowboy boots, and oozing hillbilly—also the most popular male entertainer in all of the south—escorts me inside the tiny bar like I’m the number-one bestselling country music artist instead of the temporary labor gal that I am. In a nutshell, I fill in at offices, factories, and once, a farm. The upside is that no day is ever the same, the downside is that I never know when I’ll be called into work or where that work will be.

Loretta’s Bar is empty besides a couple of college boys playing pool in the back on a table that’s covered in beer and possibly blood stains, and three bikers sitting at the bar trying to look grim and intimidating, in which they succeed, greatly.

My life used to be different. Easier. Richer. But now I drown myself in a few beers—sometimes more—several nights a week. Most wonder how I got here, how my life spiraled down to the pits of country hell. Well, it all started when I was fifteen and met the person I thought was the love of my life. Now, that’s laughable. One has never been so epically, horribly, alarmingly wrong before in her life. But hey, I guess I needed to be proven wrong at least once in my lifetime, just to know how it feels.

Rae! Cherry calls from the bar.

I stumble and almost break my guitar while trying to right myself, not at all liking these ridiculously high heels. I’m a boot or flip-flop kind of gal, so my current shoes are my own personal death traps. The drive over here was frightening enough. That poor pedestrian saw his life flash before his eyes as my feet tangled together. Luckily, I squealed to a deafening halt with a foot to spare. How does one apologize for that kind of trauma? She doesn’t—she flees while her two best friends cackle like hyenas. The same best friends who were screaming at the top of their bloody lungs moments before my screeching stop.

Walking like I have a giant rod up my ass so I don’t trip over my own feet, I amble over to the bar.

You got your ID, hon? the bartender asks as she wipes down the bar.

Cherry gives me an apologetic look because I’m not twenty-one. Not for another ten months, according to my driver’s license that I so helpfully left in the car for this very purpose.

Sure, I say with so much confidence one might actually believe I’m of the legal drinking age. I open my wallet and theatrically search for my ID. Shit. Where is it? I pull out tampons, lip-gloss, receipts, an old ticket to the Stud Club—don’t ask—a shriveled piece of gum, and a wadded up tissue. I don’t know where it is.

No ID, no admittance, the bartender says without blinking.

I look up in exasperation and sigh heavily while stuffing everything back into the black hole that is my purse. But I’m in here all the time. Just last night you served me beer. Which is a straight-up lie. Plus, I add, holding up my guitar, I’m tonight’s entertainment.

The three bikers watch this exchange, their expressions unchanging. I smile at them, leaning over the bar. Never underestimate the power of cleavage.

Come on, Loretta, one of the biker’s say. I can’t tell which one spoke since their mustaches hang over their lips. Let the girl stay.

See? Cleavage is to men like laser pointers are to cats. I give them a grateful look and send pleading eyes at the stone-cold bartender.

Fine, Loretta says, turning away from us, dirty rag in hand.

I internally cheer, because the forecast for tonight is alcohol, low standards, and poor decisions.

Cherry sits at a table nearest the makeshift stage, chugging down her usual rum and coke, while Hunter helps me set up next to the DJ’s booth. A tropical scene is painted on the front of the booth, with the words: Karaoke Night with Ivy! After a couple minutes of wobbling around on stage, almost stabbing Hunter’s hand with my sword heels, I give up and sit with Cherry who immediately takes to preening me like I’m a bush.

Stop that, I say, slapping her hands away. My hair’s supposed to look wind-blown, remember?

Yes, but a controlled wind-blown. She reaches for my hair again. Ouch! Stop hitting me.

Next time I’ll use teeth.

Is that a promise? she asks, using her sultry voice.

Don’t make me call Steph, I warn. Not that I ever would.

Don’t you dare, Cherry says, scowling.

Steph is Cherry’s on-again off-again girlfriend. They’re apparently on right now, though Steph is the embodiment of possessiveness. Cherry and I flirt all the time, though it’s never gone farther than that. Well, there was that one time where we’d both had way too much alcohol and the game I Never got entirely out of hand. More on that later. Regardless, Steph hearing that her girlfriend is petting me while drinking is just asking for disaster.

Hunter comes over and throws an arm around our shoulders. Everything’s all set up. You sure he’s gonna show up?

I exchange a devilish look with Cherry. He’ll be here. I made sure to publicly announce exactly where I’d be, I say. Thank you Twitter.

You know he can’t pass up an opportunity to follow her, Cherry adds.

The he in question is Ian—the one who I thought was the love of my life. Now he’s just my ex-fiancé who’s taken it upon himself to lurk in the shadows whenever I go out to enjoy the nightlife in downtown Bowling Green, Kentucky: my hometown. I’d put up with his shit for four years before growing a spine and realizing how manipulative and controlling he was and still is.

For example: we lived together for a few months before our disastrous breakup, and on one occasion Ian threw a tantrum over the way I made our bed. He forced me to re-do it so there were no wrinkles in the sheets. As one can imagine, a gal will only handle so much of that craziness before she flees the nest as if her ass is on fire.

Moving back in with my parents wasn’t nearly as embarrassing as finding out everyone else already knew Ian was a manipulative asshole and had been waiting for me to figure it out. People are eager to tell you when you have lipstick on your teeth; they’re not nearly so eager to inform you that you’re either naïve or an idiot. I had to learn the hard way.

As the evening carries on, and Loretta’s Bar fills with patrons, beers begin appearing in front of me from unknown sources. What I really like about this bar is that it caters to an eccentric menagerie of people. There’s the older crowd, the younger rowdy-types, and the desperate creeps. But more than anything, Loretta’s is a biker bar. There’s a sea of leather jackets sporting all kinds of fun skulls and slang I don’t care to understand. This makes me nervous as to whose affections I’ve caught. I peek around suspiciously while sipping my anonymous beer, but between the halo of smoke, the strobe lights, and the sheer number of people packed in here, it’s impossible to scope out the culprit.

Ian’s here! Cherry screams in my ear over the blaring music, startling me. Beer dribbles down my chin. I already told Ivy you’re ready to go on.

Ladies and gentleman, Ivy announces over the speakers. Before we begin karaoke, there’s a lovely lady who’d like to play two songs for someone special in our crowd tonight. Come on up, Rae Zachery!

I wipe beer from my face before I make my way forward, nerves causing me to sweat, my shirt blinding me as I step under the stage lights. I trip, and people laugh.

Stupid shoes, I mutter.

A grinning Hunter hands over my guitar. Make him suffer, he says into my ear. Hunter’s wanted to stab Ian in the throat for a long time, but he knows the payback I’m about to unleash will be far more rewarding in the end.

Hello, everyone, I say into the microphone as I pull the guitar strap over my head. First, I’d like to explain exactly why I requested to play for y’all tonight. Who here’s been burned by a lover?

The crowd roars, clapping in approval.

Who’s wanted to reap sweet revenge?

The audience shouts so loudly it hurts my ears, and I’m trying not to laugh hysterically, especially when I see Ian’s face in the crowd, the only one not clapping or smiling. His military-styled haircut and sharp-as-steel eyes glare at me.

I’m gonna to play two songs tonight. I strum the guitar. Hope y’all enjoy this one. I stare into Ian’s eyes, sending him a maniacal grin as I play the first song: Kerosene by Miranda Lambert.

The lyrics roar out of me in almost a growl as I play. My audience fills the dance floor, jumping up and down and singing along with me as I yell out the next line with a bit of psychotic glee, the one about giving up on love because it’s given up on me. I dance around on stage, playing better than I ever have in my entire life. And when I sing out about setting aflame to unfaithful lovers, the crowd goes wild.

Ian stands in the middle of the swaying patrons, unmoving and scowling all the harder, as if he can make me spontaneously combust just by glaring. Sweat beads up on my neck and trickles down my back.

By the time the song ends, I’ve gotten everyone’s attention. They’re cheering, laughing, and ready for more. Adrenaline and excitement floods my veins at their amusement.

My second song choice is about physical abuse, and I haven’t told but a handful of people about the things Ian did to me when I told him I was leaving him. But I’m tired of feeling ashamed of something he did to me.

"Most of y’all know this next song by the Dixie Chicks: Goodbye Earl, I say, strumming a few chords of the song. But in case y’all don’t, I’m changing the lyrics up a bit."

More cheering; more guffaws. Ian’s face is beet red, and I swear steam is billowing from his ears as I begin singing a song that I’ve associated with him for months now.

I substitute all the names in the song to match what my reality was just six months ago. Mary Ann to Cherry Lee, Wanda to Rae, and, most importantly, Earl to Ian.

I sing about moving in, being abused, wearing long sleeves and makeup to conceal bruises, smiling widely at the lyric changes. Each strum of the guitar gives me the empowerment I’d lacked months before.

It seems to take the audience a moment to realize that the girl I’m talking about is me, and their clapping and dancing cease as they watch me spill my guts. Every single second feels amazing as I reveal the truth, and months of bitterness and hate flood out of me and into the next line about deciding that Ian had to die.

The audience is silent no longer as they cheer me on for other reasons—none of them having to do with my stellar guitar playing.

My two besties are beaming at me from beside the stage, and I swear there are tears in Cherry’s eyes. The crowd sings along, holding their alcoholic beverages high in the air as if in toast. Ian’s arms are tightly folded as he totters through the jostling crowd, a murderous gleam in his eyes. I give him the middle finger when I sing about stuffing Ian in a trunk.

I don’t think he’ll do anything around this throng of people, but I’m immediately proven wrong when he launches himself at the stage. He grabs the microphone stand and throws it to the ground while yanking the cable from the guitar. The speakers squeal, and people cover their ears. Memories of him chasing me down inside our house make me freeze in abject terror. But before Ian can make it onto the stage, Hunter’s there in a hurry, along with a biker twice Ian’s size. Ian refuses to back down, so after several seconds of flailing asshole, the biker punches him in the nose. Blood spurts out, and Ian curses while holding a hand over his face. Security rushes through the audience and has to keep people from attacking Ian once they realize the Earl in question is right in front of them.

Ian doesn’t go without a fight. I never laid a finger on you! he shouts, his voice off-kilter due to his clobbered nose. You’re a fucking liar, you bitch.

Ivy starts up the song again, and the crowd responds for me by belting out the final verse of Goodbye Earl.

Security tosses Ian out on his sanctimonious ass while Ivy tries to quiet the bar’s patrons. She calls the first victim up to the stage for karaoke while I return to my table. I’m humming with excitement and slight shock. Cherry runs off to the bar to grab a drink for me while Hunter packs up my guitar. People pat me on the back and give me thumbs-up, but my entire body shakes. I hide my hands under the table, afraid people will see my weakness.

Another beer appears before me, and I glance up to thank Cherry. But it’s the tall biker who punched Ian. He removes his leather jacket, drapes it on the back of the chair, and sits across from me, eyes dark, stubble thick yet neatly trimmed across his jaw, the knuckles on his right hand bleeding slightly. Something about that sends fury roaring to the surface.

I don’t accept drinks from guys who can’t keep their cool, I snap, pushing the bottle away.

The biker’s gaze is unwavering. You had no problem drinking the ones I bought you earlier.

That was you?

Pleased he caught me off guard, he pushes the beer back to me. My older sister was murdered by her abusive boyfriend. His smooth voice doesn’t match his rough exterior or the seriousness of his claim.

I don’t say anything—because what does one say when someone confesses something like that? I almost call him a liar, but it’d be tactless of me if it were true. So, in response, I push the beer back to him and hope he’ll take the hint.

I’m sorry you had to see me like that, he continues. He calmly sips his beer, eyes not moving from mine regardless of my ample cleavage. Once I realized who that guy was, I couldn’t control my anger.

Which is exactly my point: you have no control. Sorry about your sister, I say sincerely, but I don’t hang out with guys who have a tendency to punch things, especially people.

He doesn’t leave. Instead, he holds out his hand. I’m Parker.

I stare down at his hand, then back to his face. Can’t you take a hint? I’m not interested.

Can’t you? he counters, hand still outstretched.

I know I’m being rude, but the truth is I have trust issues. And this guy oozes bad boy and heartbreak. A few uncomfortable seconds tick by, though he appears not to be bothered.

Fine, I growl and grasp his hand. I’m Rae.

CHAPTER 02: MOMMA’S BOY TO THE CORE

Honestly, Ian deserved to be punched. Part of me is ripe with jealousy that I wasn’t the one to reap that reward. Even though Ian wears asshole like cheap cologne, I can’t fault him completely. His upbringing in a conservative, southern Baptist home with a father who verbally abuses his wife like she’s scum on the floor is partially to blame. Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson were the epitome of the viciously stereotypical 1950s idea that women belong in the kitchen and that hey, wife, you should have a vacuum for Christmas. Even worse is the fact that Mrs. Stevenson is proud of being treated this way and uses it as an excuse to berate any young lady who dare question her place in the home. But in the end, it was Ian who quashed our relationship, not his family.

When I’d first met Ian, he was the older, mysterious guy all the other girls swooned after. But he’d picked me out of the bunch. I used to think his possessive, controlling attitude was cute. That his jealous nature meant he cared. It made me feel wanted and special and needed—all the things a young girl believes is love. Even up to the months before we’d broken up, I’d pictured our perfect wedding and life.

Oh, how wrong I’d been.

I remember when my naivety started to wash away. It was a few months after Ian and I had moved in together at the end of October last year. For weeks I’d planned what I would cook for Thanksgiving. I’d invite both our families, we’d sit down to a lovely meal that I cooked and enjoy each other’s company. It would be perfect.

I’m going to make my dad’s famous caramel pie, I told Mrs. Stevenson when I came by after work to tell her about my plans for Thanksgiving, nearly exploding with delight. I’d called Ian to tell him I’d be stopping by before I headed home, and he’d promised that his mom would be on board with the plan.

Oh, no. You shouldn’t worry about that, Mrs. Stevenson replied, shaking her head.

Are you offering to making it for me? That’s so sweet, I said, smiling. That’ll give me more time to work on the turkey. My mom taught me this way of cooking it that makes it juicy all the way to the center. She uses lime soda.

Mrs. Stevenson made a noise of disapproval as she brushed her hands over her skirt as if trying to iron out invisible wrinkles. She stared down her nose at me, and her judgmental expression wiped the smile from my face. She was doing that passive-aggressive thing she used on her son. She’d act upset or angry or say something condemning and then make Ian work to figure out why.

What? I asked. I didn’t want to play any games.

You know, dear, there’s just not enough room in your tiny duplex kitchen to make an entire Thanksgiving meal, she said with a satisfied smirk.

That’s okay, I said, unperturbed. I was determined to make this dinner work, and no one—not even Momma Stevenson—would stop me. I can take care of the baked beans, turkey, pumpkin pie, and green bean casserole. My parents can bring over the caramel pie and homemade mashed potatoes, which both are to die for.

I bet, Mrs. Stevenson muttered.

I pretended not to hear. What would you like to bring?

What I’m trying to say is that we’re going to have Thanksgiving dinner here. At my house.

Oh. My shoulders slumped in disappointment, but then I brightened. Two could play this game. No biggie. I can make dinner here instead.

Mrs. Stevenson tried to hide the horror that spasmed across her face, but I saw it all the same. "You misunderstand, Rae. I will be cooking Thanksgiving dinner."

But— I spluttered.

It was Ian’s idea. Didn’t he tell you?

Resentment surged through me. He’d promised she’d be on board with this. He knew how much this dinner meant to me—how I’d been planning it for weeks. My mom had sent me all her famous recipes, excited about spending Thanksgiving at my new duplex. For years before I’d helped my mom cook for our family. It was our holiday—the one where we bonded and told each other how thankful we were for the other. Ian knew this, yet he was willing to snatch that all away without asking me? Without considering how hurtful it would be when I found out from his mother that he didn’t want me to cook for him?

Mrs. Stevenson, I protested, this is mine and Ian’s first holiday since we moved in together, and I want to cook for him.

Her lip curled in disgust. She’d wailed for a month after she’d found out we were moving in together pre-marriage, but Ian lived by his penis. She hated me twice as much after I’d won that battle, and her nose always crinkled whenever I mentioned the fact we were living in sin.

If you’re worried about my cooking skills, might I remind you that I studied culinary arts at WKU and catered to hundreds of faculty, staff, and student events my freshman and sophomore years.

She leered at my indignant objections and patted my knee like I was such a funny little girl playing with fake teapots and biscuits. Catering isn’t the same as cooking Thanksgiving dinner, dear.

Every year I volunteer for the local Special Olympics by cooking a giant meal for all the families, I sputtered, forcing myself not to shake her. "I even won a full ride to one of the best culinary schools in France that I shot down to stay with your son, Mrs. Stevenson."

Maybe you should discuss this with Ian. He’s the one who asked me to cook Thanksgiving dinner, she said while gesturing to her ridiculously large kitchen with gleaming granite counters. I swear Mr. Clean’s reflection winked at me from the fridge’s spotless surface.

I stood and left the Stevenson’s house without saying another word. Fury had taken root and propelled me out the door. Ian had always treated my independence as if it were a disease, even if he boasted about his own with self-indulgent pride. Just another thing he learned from his conservative family. When women are independent, they’re just misguided souls. Of course, I was talking about the man who invited his parents to come along with us without ever asking my permission. His parents had tagged along on several dates over the years, even on one of the romantic getaways I’d planned. I’d handled it all with