Prevail

By S.J. McGran

Rico Jones

I am an addict. I’m addicted to drugs, alcohol, and pussy. There has been only one drug that has ever made me feel this high, this invincible, and this... free. It’s a feeling I promised myself I’d never let myself feel again, but that was before she walked into my life.

She’s worth adding another addiction to my list, even at the expense of my heart.

Riley Andrews

I’m a cold-hearted bitch¬¬—at least that’s what I’ve been told over and over again by my ex-fiancé. The truth is I’m just a little scared, a lot lost, and broken beyond repair. I don’t have the option of breaking down though. People are counting on me to help them overcome their own pasts and fears. To save them.

But, when my past threatens to destroy me, and my future threatens to disappear I’m the one that needs to be saved.

Is it possible for one person to ruin you and save you at the same time?

This is the thrid and final book in the Triumph Series. It may be read as a standalone, however it makes for a more complete story if the prior two books are read first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.J. McGran
• Release date: Mar 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311982742

S.J. McGran

Born November 22, 1987, S.J. McGran is a new author with a penchant for writing, reading and reviewing romance novels.She lives in Toledo, Ohio with her husband, cat and lots of siblings. She is a die-hard Detroit Tigers fan, and has a love for ice cream and pizza.

Book preview

Prologue

Riley

March, 2013

What the fuck are you doing to her? The woman’s frantic screech temporarily breaks through the blackness that’s threatening to overtake me.

Fear runs through my veins. Why can’t I open my eyes? Why is my head aching? Why can’t I remember where I am?

Nothing makes sense. Even my thoughts are scrambled and confused. I know one thing for certain though—I can finally breathe. For the first time in what feels like forever I take a deep breath, as the oppressing weight that had been crushing my chest is suddenly missing.

Riley? How does the shrieking woman know my name? Can you hear me? The voice is closer now, warm breath brushes my face. A hand touches my forehead, my cheekbones. Then it touches the back of my head and pain so severe radiates down my back. Jesus, what did he do to you?

The warmth from the woman’s body is gone and suddenly I’m cold, and alone. I’m overwhelmed with panic. I try to call out, I try to make some sort of sound but the only thing that I hear is a gurgling sound. It sounds like someone is choking like someone is struggling to breathe, to swallow. Then I realize the sound is coming from my throat. Once again, I can barely breathe. I can’t speak—any words I hoped to speak are trapped in the liquid clogging my airway.

Open your eyes. I mentally chant to myself. Hoping by sheer willpower I can force them to open, force them to take in my surroundings. I need to see what’s going on. I need to understand what’s happening to me.

The harder I try, the more exhausted I become. I try to fight against the blackness, but it’s too strong.

I’m so tired. I feel like I’ve been fighting for days.

My head hurts, my body aches. My eyes won’t open, and I have to wonder if maybe, just maybe God finally heard my pleas. Is he finally going to take me from this shitty life? Is he finally going to take me away from him? Am I finally going to stop hurting?

With a relieved breath, I let the blackness push me harder, deeper into the floor. I succumb to it and let it take me under. I’m no longer praying for my eyes to open. Instead, I hope they won’t.

Chapter One

Riley

October 2013, Session One

Exhausting. That’s been the theme of my day. It’s been client after client and problem after problem. My last client threw such a fit on his way out of the office I had to take him to the conference room to calm him down before I could let him leave.

And now I’m late for my last appointment of the day.

I hate being late, but I especially hate being late to a meeting with a new client. Lucky me I’m about to deal with both. I never know what to expect with new clients. There are either the reluctant ones, that know somewhere deep down they need help but they refuse to make it easy, they don’t believe talking through their problems is a way to fix things. Or, there are the ones that know they need help and are ready and willing to do whatever it takes to heal. The latter is rare—even the client’s that know they need help have a hard time admitting their faults out loud to a virtual stranger.

Pushing down my annoyances I force myself to focus on this next client. Keeping my nose in my file as I walk toward my office, I try to memorize all I can about the newest client before the session actually starts. Here’s what I’ve learned so far: He was an orphan until his grandparents took him in when he was a young child. He spent two years in juvenile detention as a teenager for possession. Last year he spent six months in rehab after an accidental overdose. His name is Richard Jones, age twenty-four

Mr. Jones, I call out my greeting as soon as I breeze through my office door. Taking a seat behind my large desk, I keep my attention on the file in front of me. It’s so nice to… my words trail off as I finally look up and get a view of my newest client.

Never. Not once in all my years in school and the two years that I’ve been practicing has a client rendered me speechless. As I stare into the chocolate brown eyes of Richard Jones all those years of schooling fly right out the window. Holy shit. I can’t find my tongue or even my brain. Words are just floating around in my head, but none of them make sense. Words like eyes, lips, skin, sex.

Delicious.

This guy is fucking gorgeous. Seriously, he should be illegal. An image of him walking down the street, hordes of women tossing their panties at him as he goes flashes through my mind. I’m just humble enough to admit I could possibly, on a bad day, or if I were shit-faced drunk, be one of those women vying for his attentions, too.

Had I not already sworn off men, that is.

I watch as a cocky smirk lightens his eyes and just that small twitch of his lips weakens my resolve just a little bit. I’m wondering if swearing off men was such a good idea, after all. Maybe just one kiss, or one over-the-clothes dry-humping session would be allowed. A girl does have needs.

Bad, Riley. Dangerous. No. Just no.

Clearing my throat I work to put on my best bitch face–the one that screams I’m a professional and I won’t take any of your shit. The one I’m known for, recognized by.

The one I hide behind.

Sorry, I was running late, Richard.

He gifts me with a full on smile and I swear he knows exactly what it’s doing to me. Please, call me Rico. I have to fight to keep my eyes open. His voice is low, velvety. Seductive. It’s no worries about being late, Ms.… he trails off and I realize I haven’t introduced myself to him yet. I do make note though that he automatically assumes I’m not married, referring to me as Miss instead of missus, despite the three years I have on him.

As I watch Rico’s brown eyes run over me–the little that’s not hidden behind my desk–I forget what I was going to say all over again. It only stings a little that I’m not enough to hold his interest when he makes his pass over my face and chest quickly, but it doesn’t really surprise me. This is a man that is used to getting any woman he wants and that definitely is not me.

I’m plain, cold, and boring. Richard or Rico, is none of those I’m sure.

I clear my throat again, becoming painfully obvious it’s the second time in a matter of minutes my nerves have gotten the best of me. So, Rico. Tell me what you expect to get out of these sessions?

He leans forward, his strong forearms resting on the edge of my desk. He’s so close his sweet, musky scent assaults my senses. As if that wasn’t potent enough he smiles again and in a raspy voice asks for my name. Again. For starters, I’d like to know your name. Other than a wink he waits quietly, patiently for me to answer.

Oh, um… My words come out in a jumbled mess. This guy is never going to take me seriously. Squaring my shoulders and ignoring the need to clear my throat I look into those gorgeous brown eyes and in the most confident voice I can muster give him my name. Riley. Riley Andrews.

Riley. My name is practically a purr as it ghosts past his full lips. A beautiful name, for a beautiful girl.

My eyes roll in a kneejerk reaction. I just barely hold in the scoff at his compliment. It’s been a long time since someone has called me beautiful, and apparently I’ve forgotten how to take a compliment, even if it is only out of politeness.

Glancing up I find his eyes and only find sincerity in his stare. It’s hard for me to believe this beautiful man—who knew a man could be beautiful—would find me anything more than mediocre, but his eyes are telling me he really does. It hits me then just how much trouble I’m going to be in with this guy. A quick glance at the timer that sits on my desk tells me it’s been exactly five minutes.

Five minutes with the dangerously good-looking, completely messed up Rico Jones and I’m already willing to give up my vow of celibacy.

***

Rox? I have never been so happy to be home in my life. Walking through the door I drop my purse and briefcase on the floor before collapsing on the couch. I don’t even bother taking my shoes off, turning the lights or TV on. I just need to relax, relish in the quiet. Rid myself of the stressful day.

My quiet moment lasts for less than thirty seconds.

Loud moaning comes from the other side of the wall, the one that separates the living room from Roxy’s room. Argh. Grabbing a throw pillow from the couch I use it to cover my ears, desperate to block out the sounds of sex seeping through the walls.

Taking a vow of celibacy when your roommate and best friend is Roxy Blake is a pointless, painful thing. Try as I might to block out her mewls and moans of pleasure it’s impossible. With each bang of the headboard, another cry sounds louder, longer.

Six months. It’s been six months since I’ve gotten laid. Six torturous months listening to Roxy get some every single day of the goddamn week.

Closing my eyes I try meditation, a tactic I teach my clients when they’re worked up about something. And I’m beyond worked up at this point.

Breathe in. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breathe out.

My eyes fly open when the breathing and counting fail to work, and instead bring an image to my head I’ve tried for the last few hours to forget.

Dark soulful eyes, cocky smirk.

Rico Jones.

Good lord that man is sexy as sin. I sat in my office for hours after he left trying to keep my mind busy, trying to erase the memory of him smiling at me, the way he smelled like a hard working man—of sweat and sawdust. I’ve been nearly desperate to forget the way his brown eyes bore into my own like they were trying to figure me out. Every time I’d ask him a question he’d answer with one of his own. Personal questions I’d never answer anyone let alone a client.

"Why are you here, Rico? What are you hoping to get out of this?"

He quirked his head, his eyes studying my reaction as he spoke slowly, deliberately. I want to figure out who I am. Scratch that, I need to figure out who I am. When I only nodded at him to continue he threw the question back at me, Do you know who you are, Riley?

The question gave me pause. Six months ago I knew who I was. Six months ago I was Riley Andrews, Psychologist. I was engaged to a man I’d known and loved my entire life. In less than a year, I was going to be Mrs. William Stephens.

Until my entire world shattered around me.

Again I cleared my throat and stared into his eyes, my look hard and controlling. He needed to know that’s not how these sessions are going to go. I’m in charge. I ask the questions. Period. Who do you think you are right now? How would you describe yourself?

I watched mesmerized as his warm eyes turned cold, distant. I’m a loser, an addict. His self-deprecating words speaking to me. This is what I do. This is who I am—I’m a healer, a fixer. It’s apparent Rico needs my help.

"What are you addicted to?" Why had it been so hard to ask that question? A question I’d asked a million times over the years. Why was there so much emotion clogging my airway?

When Rico leaned forward his face inches from mine, his large arms nearly covering the entire top of my desk, I realized my subconscious knew his answer was going to gut me. The question hurt to ask because on some level I knew the answer would hurt to hear.

"Drugs, alcohol. Pussy."

The pounding in the other room grows louder as Rico’s sultry, raspy voice echoes in my head. Pussy. Damn, even his voice is sexy.

My hand slides from the pillow still covering my face down my body, grazing my breasts causing my nipples to pebble in the most delicious way. Lower still I don’t stop until my fingers are under the waistband of my pants, brushing my warm, wet heat through the thin cotton of my panties.

Fuck, even my memories of his face, and especially his voice and his words, are enough to turn me on.

Increasing the friction of my fingers sliding over my clit I let out a purr that collides with, and gets lost in the competing sounds bouncing around my apartment. I’m desperate for release, I’m desperate to slide my finger inside—to make myself come. But, I can’t.

Instead, I continue stroking myself imaging it is Rico’s strong hands, callused from years of hard work. I inhale and recall his heady scent. I picture his hard, muscular body pressing down on mine, and his raspy voice whispering dirty words in my ear.

A few more strokes and I’m nearly there. Using the added friction of the cotton I rub over and over until my breathing grows rapid until my back arches slightly. Until the muscles in my legs tense.

In one second, I’m lost in a world of make-believe, a world where the dangerously, damaged Rico isn’t my client. In a world where someone that beautiful would want someone as plain and simple as me.

In the very next second, I realize my roommate’s loud moaning has stopped and the sound of her giggle is trailing down the hallway. Blinking my eyes open I rip my hand out of my pants with nanoseconds to spare before Roxy and her flavor of the day come around the corner. Roxy spares me a quick grin before leading the dark haired guy out of our house.

What the fuck am I doing? I whisper to myself. I’m a damn professional and I’m fucking masturbating to the image of my client. What the hell is wrong with me?

Enough. No more Rico Jones.

With a deep breath and a hardened resolve, I remind myself of who I am and what I need to do. Next time I see him I’ll put on my best bitch face, and I’ll remember why exactly men are worse than scum, and I’ll do my damn job

No questions asked.

Pushing off the couch I meet my friend in the kitchen. Hey, Ri. How was work? She greets me as soon as I round the corner.

I look my friend up and down my scowl deepening. Roxy is someone Rico Jones would want—long legs, perfectly styled blonde hair, large brown eyes, and a smile that knocks men off their feet. She’s confident, fun, and strong. She is the opposite of me in every way.

The thought of Rico and Roxy—even their names sound good together—helps strengthen my resolve, the same resolve Rico nearly crumbled with just one stupid smile.

Long, I mumble as I make my way to our makeshift liquor cabinet. Pulling out a bottle of red and two wine glasses I’m quick to pour each of us a glass. I am more than ready to relax with my friend, rid my memory of every awful, embarrassing, questionable thing that happened today.

Tonight I drink. Tomorrow I start over.

I am Riley Andrews. Cold-hearted, man-hating bitch.

Chapter Two

Rico

November 2013, Session Two

I am in no mood to do this today. None. I don’t even know why the hell the thought of therapy crossed my mind, why I decided to give it a shot in the first place. I don’t want to sit and talk to someone about my problems.

I want to do what I’ve always done.

I want to drink and smoke and fuck until I forget about how shitty this world is. Until I forget about my loser parents that left me behind. Until I forget about the kid I put in the hospital when my cravings got the best of me. And especially until I forget the way Angelica felt in my arms last night.

For five minutes, I was able to hold her again, smell her sweet scent when she was pressed up against me. Until that fucking asshole stormed in and took her away from me. Again.

She didn’t come home last night, so I can only assume she stayed with him. Worked it out with him. But, where does that leave me?

Used again. Alone again.

Walking into a therapist’s office expected to tell her my deepest, darkest secrets.

Well, sorry doc that’s not happening today.

I breeze through Dr. Riley Andrews’ door with my face set in stone, my eyes hard and cold. My decision made—I’ll be spending the next hour on her comfortable leather couch, sulking, and possibly thinking. But, definitely not talking.

Plopping down on the couch I cross one leg, my ankle resting over my knee and fold my arms across my chest. I set my glare on the good doctor, determined to take all of my frustration out on the innocent girl perched behind her desk.

Rico. She looks up at me from the file on her lap, her sweet smile hitting me hard in my chest. I don’t even want to examine that particular reaction. How was your Halloween? Her eyes that are the most unique combination of brown and green, track my face, her happy demeanor faltering just slightly at the set of my jaw. I don’t answer her stupid question. I don’t let the worried pucker between her eyes lessen my glare.

I watch as she stands slowly from her chair, moving carefully around the large wooden desk making sure her eyes never leave mine. She doesn’t stop her approach until she’s sitting in the small armchair directly to my left. Her hands twitch in her lap, one raises in my direction very nearly touching my arm before dropping back to her leg.

What is it? What happened? Her voice is nearly a whisper, her worry evident in every syllable.

Turning my head, I take the time to look at her, really look at her. She caught my attention last week, but I couldn’t quite figure out why. She’s nothing special, nothing I haven’t seen before—shit, I’ve used girls just like her time and time again.

She’s petite in stature, but with luscious hips that are perfect for grabbing onto. Her long brown hair is plain and dull. Her facial features match her frame—small nose that turns up just slightly at the end, and her pink lips are just slightly thinner than the full pout I usually gravitate toward.

But, those damn eyes—those unique eyes that seem to see everything I’ve ever hidden from the world—are what I couldn’t get out of my head all week. Her eyes reveal every single thought she’s feeling.

Last week it was desire, embarrassment, annoyance, and then they turned kind. Today worry is pouring from those irises.

The amount of worry is enough to soften my glare, to turn my body in her direction. She may be getting paid to worry about me, but for once someone is looking at me like I matter. Like they give two shits about what happens to me, what I feel. And, for this little slice of time—for one hour every week—I’m going to take advantage of that.

Sorry. My eyes close, as I bring my fingers up to rub against my temples trying to fight off an impending headache. I had a shitty night.

Want to talk about it?

I don’t, no. Not really anyway. But, there’s something about this girl I’m finding hard to resist. The words fumble from my mouth before I’ve given them any conscious thought, You ever been used, Riley?

Her eyebrows crease even further that pucker line growing as worry turns to confusion. What do you mean?

Unable to help myself I lean in a little closer to her, dropping my voice slightly. I mean has anyone ever used you? For money, for sex? For anything really.

Her teeth dig into her bottom lip as she contemplates the answer she wants to give me. I can almost see it when she decides to go with the truth, instead of the answer she’s probably been trained to give me. Yeah, Rico. I’ve been used. Sadness clouds her eyes, and I watch as her hands twist in her lap. I feel bad momentarily that I made her recall a memory she’s obviously tried to forget, but then I remember that’s what she’s going to do to me. She’s going to make me dig up my deepest, darkest regrets and secrets, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make her do the same. If for no other reason than to see just how shitty it feels.

What’s fair is fair.

Who’s using you? She asks in a clinical voice. I’m almost amazed at how quickly she was able to turn it off. In an instant, she went from a sad, timid girl to a cool, professional doctor.

How do you know I’m not the user? What makes you think I’m the used?

She flashes a quick smile at me before leaning back in her chair. Oh, I have no doubt that you’re both, Rico but for today let’s talk about who’s using you.

Have you ever been in love? Deflection. I’m the fucking king at it.

Riley quirks one eyebrow up at me, her hazel eyes seeing right through me. She stares at me for long seconds and I start to wonder if she’s going to press me, make me answer her question, without ever answering mine. I’ve been in love once, yes. Is that who’s using you, someone you love?

One quick jerk of my head.

A girlfriend?

Another nod.

I watch those eyes again as emotion after emotion flicks through them. Understanding. More sadness. Jealousy.

Jealousy, really? Perfect. Another means of distraction, another opportunity to put off talking about my problems. Resting my forearms on my thighs, I lean forward until her lavender scent assaults my senses. Makes sense a sweet girl would smell so damn good, so damn forbidden. Stretching just the tips of my fingers out I brush her knee with my digits, taking joy in the way her muscles twitch under the touch and absolutely loving the soft whimper she lets out. You wouldn’t use the person you loved would you, sweet girl?

R-Rico, my name an innocent stutter. The sound of her nervous voice eggs me on, encourages me in a sick, twisted way. I slide my fingers higher, pressing my palm harder on her thigh until the strong muscle is gripped in my hand. The cute sound she made earlier has nothing on the kitten-like purr vibrating her lips.

The differences between the sweet girl in front of me hardening my dick to a goddamn rock and the girl that’s got me twisted in knots—the girl I’m avoiding discussing—is humorous.

Angelica is walking, talking sex, with her long legs, long blonde hair, full rack, and the confidence to flaunt it all. Riley is quiet and timid, her looks are pretty but nothing about her screams