Blitzed

By Evelyn Rosado

Sometimes when you bury secrets so deep, you forget they exist.

Self proclaimed bookworm, Lacey Nichols’s life couldn’t be sweeter. She’s a recent college grad who’s landed her dream job at a budding publishing company in bustling downtown Detroit. And she’s finally coming into her own, putting her tumultuous past behind her.

Enter Myles McCrae—the hornet’s nest. The all-pro quarterback who’s insanely sexy, young, and rich with a devil may care attitude. He’s the one your daddy sat you down as a little girl and warned you to stay away from. And until New Year’s Eve, Lacey did. She thinks he’s obnoxious and extremely arrogant, but who knew one kiss at midnight would change her life as she knows it forever.

Lacey’s dream job becomes a nightmare when Myles chooses her company to publish his autobiography and her boss selects her as the co-author. She’s reluctantly thrusted into the biggest break of her young career with someone who she thinks is an egomaniac—even though she finds him devilishly irresistible and mysterious. Lacey soon realizes there’s more than meets the eye to Myles than the flash and glitz of an all-star athlete.

But when lines get crossed, temptation flairs, and secrets from the past rises to the surface, Lacey is forced to reconsider everything she thought she knew about the world and herself.

This is the first volume of the series and ends in a cliffhanger.

This 34,000+ word novella contains explicit adult content.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fade To Black Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310691447

Evelyn Rosado

Evelyn Rosado has been many things (exotic dancer, school teacher, debt collector) - but writer of erotic stories was one she would have never imagined. She's always been a very sensual person and wears her heart on her sleeve, so being an erotic author is sort of a natural transition for her. Well, her knowing a thing or two about naughtiness helps too!When she's not churning out scintillating tales, she's usually splitting poles on the sidewalk, crossing the paths of black cats and walking under ladders.

Book preview

Blitzed

By

Evelyn Rosado

The Evelyn Rosado Newsletter

Copyright © 2015

by

Evelyn Rosado

Smashwords Edition

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It’s 3AM and someone’s banging on my door.

The last time someone knocked on my door in the middle of the night it was the wife of a man who I thought was my boyfriend. He was upstairs sleep, naked in my bed when she showed up at my doorstep after she followed us in the shadows earlier that night as we flirted over sushi and cabernet and played pool in a dimly lit lounge. Luckily she spared my life and just wanted to know if her husband was upstairs.

I’m getting the feeling this is a repeat scenario and I may not get to be so lucky. I untangle myself from Myles’s arms and walk downstairs wearing nothing but his football jersey, waiting to be greeted by some deranged fan, drunken stripper or crazed secret wife with a pistol. Why does this always happen to me?

The knock is now louder, angrier. 

What my eyes see makes my stomach collapse.

A detective flashes his badge in front of my face while the other detective holds a flashlight into my eyes, blinding me. I hold my hands to my face, barely able to make out their faces.

Ma’am, the detective with the badge says. I’m Detective Wallace with the Detroit Police. We need to speak to Myles McCrae. We have a warrant for his arrest.

Wait. Wait. Wait. Let me back up for a moment and tell you just how I got involved in all of this mess…

***

It’s 11:19PM as Gena and I pull up behind a line of BMW’s, Mercedes’s, Bentley’s, and Range Rovers outside a snow coated home in a neighborhood that looked like lawyers, doctors, CEO’s, and trust fund babies lived there. The timing couldn’t be more perfect.

It’s New Year’s Eve and my BFF Gena invited me to a party at the last minute saving me from spending the night alone on the couch watching the ball drop on TV with Ryan Seacrest drowning my misery in a vat of chocolate mint coconut ice cream. Ugh. Definitely not the ideal way of ringing in the New Year.

Gena reaches in the backseat and pulls a half empty soda bottle out of her purse, probably mixed with rum. You really came prepared tonight didn’t you? I ask.

Don’t I always? he replies.

She twists the cap, takes a hearty sip and passes it to me. No chaser huh?

No chaser. You don’t need it. This is the good stuff.

I hold a breath in my nose and sip.

Why are you acting like you didn’t spend four years in college? You went to Northwestern. Like they didn’t have parties there.

I can’t drink like I used to.

What are you forty-seven?

We walk up the lighted, brick paved sidewalk. We could hear the muffled bass line pump through and Gena bobs her head and snaps her fingers. This is my song! she yells.

It’s okay to yell at this time of night—we were in Royal Oak. The residents are used to it. Whoever lives here had a nice chunk of change in their bank account, 401k, and stocks & bonds.

This just might beat a night on the couch after all.

***

We’re greeted at the door by a six-foot behemoth outfitted in a black suit, holding a clipboard.

Uuhhh, a tad bit intimidating are we? What the hell was happening inside that a black suit and clipboard was needed? Hopefully this wasn’t one of those Eyes Wide Shut type of parties.

He looks at Gena up and down and smirks slightly as if to approve. She did have the nicest legs out of all of our friends.

The scowl he gives me obviously shows his disapproval of me not displaying enough skin. Did he know how cold it is out here?

Name? he asks looking at Gena. His voice is robotic.

Gena Patrick, she says. He looks at his clipboard with a tiny flashlight and nods.

This your plus one?

Yes.

Name? he asks me, still looking at his clipboard.

Lacey Nichols, I say.

He opens the door. Please hand your phones to the gentleman in the hallway. You’ll get them back at the end of the night. You ladies enjoy yourselves.

We hand our phones to a much smaller and nice gentleman who also wore a black suit. I don’t feel comfortable giving up my phone like that to strangers, but no phone, no entry.

We walk into the darkly lit living room. The humidity of the place collided with perfume, spilled beer and the scent of regret making for an interesting scent.

It smells like…skank.

Music bangs through the speakers as scantily clad women, showing even more skin than Gena, bump and grind against limbs of the opposite sex. The one thing that stands about the men here is that they’re all over six foot and they all had muscular, hulking bodies.

Gena who are these people? Where the hell are we? I ask. We hand our coats to young woman and she hangs them up.

A close personal friend, she says. He’s cool. Trust me.

We make our way past the gaggle of contorting bodies, sweaty, flailing limbs and impromptu makeout sessions, groping and prodding. I manage to not fall over after I took an elbow from a girl in the ribs trying my best to squeeze through the bunch.

I thought I escaped this kind of scene after I graduated college.

Do I know him? I shout over the music.

No, we just met not too long ago.

Are these guys athletes or something?

Shawn! Gena screams as she runs over to his open bowling ball-sized arms, jumping into him. He scoops her into the air like a rag doll.

Gena! You made it, he says placing her back on the ground. Take a sip! She tilts her head back as he pours the clear liquor down her throat. She shrieks in delight as the alcohol fills her bones.

I stand back pondering if I could make it back to my couch in time to see the ball drop.

A guy with no shirt on, his arms covered in tattoos, stumbles by me and licks his lips at me. I smirk nervously.

Not my scene…at all. At least not anymore.

Before Gena can fix her lips to introduce me to her newfound friend, Shawn lifts her up and throws her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and says, C’mon, lemme show you the upstairs. They run off into the darkness.

Great.

All alone in a strange, dark place, no phone, and I didn’t know anyone.

I’m totally out of place in a sea of long legs, hooker heels, tight, animal print dresses, and Neanderthals.

No guys in shirts and ties? No loafers or blazers? No discussing the new gallery that opened up in midtown, just hoodies and football team jerseys and ass grabbing and grunting.

My couch seems extra cozy right about now.

It’s a quarter to midnight. I head to the bar; I need a drink to calm my nerves.

I get my vodka tonic and walk around trying to find a quiet spot to give my eardrums a break—which are surely bleeding at this point.

It’s going to be a long night. A really long night. I don’t think Gena’s coming downstairs any time soon.

I sit down on the edge of the fireplace, a dry space between red cups with cigarette buts, and stale beer and empty tequila bottles.

It’s almost time for the countdown everybody, a man yells. I look up at him and then look away. My eyes peel back to him again. Absolutely beautiful. He looks like an African warrior—the kind I read about in college. A white, snugly fit Henley, fits his sculpted bronze-kissed frame like body armor. And he commands the room like he’s well aware of his sex appeal. And his eyes…a fiery, walnut brown, fall upon me, sending a chill up my spine. His mouth fixes to a slight smile.

He looks at his watch. Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven… he lifts his bottle of champagne in the air. I stand up to not make myself look like a total lame. I lift my cup up in the air and scream Happy New Year along with everyone.

Not one second after the stroke of midnight, everyone’s lips lock onto