Live For This

By Kathryn R. Biel

Samirah Lundgren is living the party girl life. While she's trying to forget about her past and put off having a meaningful future, her lifestyle catches up with her, leaving her in a wake of personal destruction. Alone and homeless, she encounters Michael Salinger, a man carrying his own baggage in the form of a spinal cord injury, not to mention his former fiancé is marrying his former best friend.
Can a man with a broken body and a woman with a broken soul help each other find the redemption they need to become whole again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kathryn R. Biel
• Release date: Mar 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997193909

Kathryn R. Biel

Telling stories of resilient women, Kathryn R. Biel hails from Upstate New York where her most important role is being mom and wife to an incredibly understanding family who don't mind fetching coffee and living in a dusty house. In addition to being Chief Home Officer and Director of Child Development of the Biel household, she works as a school-based physical therapist. She attended Boston University and received her Doctorate in Physical Therapy from The Sage Colleges. After years of writing countless letters of medical necessity for wheelchairs, finding increasingly creative ways to encourage insurance companies to fund her client's needs, and writing entertaining annual Christmas letters, she decided to take a shot at writing the kind of novel that she likes to read. Kathryn is the author of ten women's fiction, romantic comedy, contemporary romance, and chick lit works, including Live for This and Made for Me. Please follow Kathryn on her website, www.kathrynrbiel.com and sign up for her newsletter at bit.ly/KRBNews.

Book preview

DEDICATION

To Eric:

In a way you didn't know until years later, your life gave mine purpose. Your journey gave me the inspiration to help others. Thank you.

CHAPTER ONE: SAMIRAH

You would think waking up in a pool of your own vomit would mean you've hit rock bottom. For me, it's just Saturday. At least, I think it's Saturday. My brain is fuzzy. Definitely not firing on all pistons. Slowly sitting up and wiping my mouth on the back of my hand sucks my remaining energy. I'm tempted to lay right back down and hopefully wake up ... never.

It's not that I want to die. I don't. I just don't want to live my life. To me, my life is just a show. A façade I don like a thick layer of make-up. I exist. And I don't know how to change it. On paper, my life is not so bad. That's what I tell people at least. Not everyone can be a hostess at one of the most exclusive restaurants in New York City. My roommate and I dominate the social scene. It's not a party until we arrive. We hobnob with the elite. We are the beautiful people. We are important. Again, that's what I tell myself.

Sam, are you alive?

Barely, I sigh, Give me a sec.

Meadow is not great at waiting. She's a neat freak, and the mess I've made in here will not be tolerated. The ever-present antibacterial wipes assist me in returning the toilet and surrounding floor to its status quo pristine condition. Too bad the rest of the apartment is a shit hole.

She apparently can wait no longer as the bathroom door flies open. Lucky for me, my reflexes are intact enough to allow me to jump out of the way before the corner of the door slams into my head. The bathroom is tight quarters for one person, let alone two. Ahh, the joys of city living.

Were you in here all night? Meadow pushes past, not even waiting for me to leave before she pulls her g-string down and plops on the toilet. Meadow's wearing only a short t-shirt on top. With a body like hers, she can afford to walk around half naked. I work hard to look like Meadow, but the results are never quite good enough. Meadow doesn't appear to have any modesty around me. Not like I haven't seen it before, but it still makes me uncomfortable. I guess when you're a model, it's nothing to strip down in front of people. I'm not a model. Meadow pushes me to be more open, more free, as she likes to call it. Certainly more liberal than anything I'd grown up with or been exposed to before I moved here.

Last night was so off the hook! Meadow continues talking while wiping and flushing. It doesn't seem bother her that I'm in here, and she never even waits to hear if I'm okay.

Was it? No matter how vigorously I scrub my teeth, I can't seem to get the foul acid taste out of my mouth.

Tell me you don't remember again? Meadow nudges me out of the way to wash her hands and moves on to examining her flawless face in the mirror. The night of hard partying doesn't show on her face. It's not fair.

I spit one last time and look at our reflections in the mirror. Meadow is tall and lanky, with unnaturally blond hair and breasts provided by a former boyfriend. My 5'6" frame appears short and wide compared to my friend, but I've always liked my curves. Not so much when I'm next to her. Meadow has convinced me to lighten my naturally dark hair to an ash blond. I'm not sure it does anything for me. Her skin is golden brown where mine is more on the pale side, with just a hint of olive. On my own, back home, a lifetime ago, I was considered pretty. Beautiful. Exotic even. Standing next to Meadow, I feel wrong. All wrong. I don't need to be beside her to feel wrong, either.

My mother was British-Persian, and my hair and features come from her. My father, the bastard, gave me my most striking feature—gray-blue eyes that have been passed down through generation after generation of strong Norse peoples. Every time I look at my eyes, I see him and hate myself.

I wish I could figure out how to be comfortable in my own skin like Meadow is in hers. I pretend I am, but it's simply an act. And although I would never consider myself a good actress, no one seems to notice. People see what they want to see. Even Meadow.

You ready for the gym?

Do I look ready, Meadow?

No, you look like hell. You really need to take better care of yourself, Sam. You're not going to be young forever. Speaking of which, did you see Amanda?

She's, like, pitiful. I mean, what is she still doing on the circuit? She needs to hang up her stilettos and call it quits. She's totes old. I wash my hands and leave the bathroom, Meadow close behind. It's annoying when Meadow follows me around like this. I have very little privacy from my roommate.

Totes. The quack who did her boobs should be, like, shot. They look terrible. Meadow shudders as she speaks. I don't want to think about Amanda's tits. You can tell they're fake from a mile away. They make her look desperate and old. Not like she needs any help with that. If I'm still hanging out in clubs all night when I'm in my mid-thirties, someone please kill me. She's like eleven years older than I am. That's practically a generation.

Todd didn't seem to mind. Todd is one of those losers who hangs around the periphery, waiting to get a chance at the low hanging, or very drunk, fruit. He'd never get any if the girls were sober. The thought of him makes my skin crawl.

Ugh. Better her than me. Todd is like an octopus. I don't know how many times I can tell him no.

The apartment is small and the kitchen is even smaller. There's not really room for the two of us in the kitchen, but Meadow doesn't seem to realize this. Everywhere I turn, Meadow is standing there.

Let me just grab a protein bar and get dressed. We can head out to the gym then.

My bedroom gives me the privacy I crave. I can sit for just a moment without Meadow's presence. The protein bar sits like a rock in my stomach. I need some greasy eggs and bacon but would probably throw them back up once we hit the gym. Meadow will be throwing up after eating, but that's a calculated move on her part. I take some pride in the fact that I haven't yet stooped as low as bulimia to maintain my figure. Not yet. Of course, I don't make my living off my figure either.

I don't feel like working out. On the other hand, it's probably what I need to sweat out the alcohol. Dehydration's a strong possibility at the moment, though the thought of drinking water makes my stomach lurch and roll. And I know I need to stay in shape. Otherwise, I'll never be able to fit into the skimpy, revealing outfits Chase likes me to wear.

Chase.

Thinking about him brings flashes from last night. He was so intense, but so was I. He's getting more and more bold in what he asks of me. What he wants me to do with him. To him. I'm becoming a more willing participant. I need to be. All the signs are pointing toward him getting close to leaving his wife for me. She's a raging bitch, who's fat and old—forty already. That's a huge reason why Chase loves me. I'm young and nubile, and I'll be able to give him the children he deserves. He married his wife because he had to—not because he wanted to. I guess her family has more money than God himself, and Chase was trying to break into the business. I don't even know exactly what he does. When Chase starts talking about it, I stop listening. I mean, it's sooooo boring. He drags me to all these functions with his co-workers and colleagues. They're terribly tedious, but Chase makes it up to me for sitting through them. The whole thing is a big show. Lots of people, bullshitting each other about how fabulous they are. I fit right in.

If you think about it, which I avoid doing at all costs, it's sort of bizarre that all these married men have no qualms about parading around their girlfriends like property. In a way, I guess we are.

We don't pay for much—anything, really. We're showered with gifts and luxuries and given privileges we'd never earn on our own. And in return, we do as we're told. We make our men look good. We're happy with whatever they give us. We never want more.

I don't want more from Chase. I just don't want to share him. That's what I try to tell myself.

I want him to belong to me, the way I belong to him.

And when push comes to shove, I know it's more the sense of belonging that I yearn for.

Pulling my hair back into a messy bun, my lightened ombre ends fanning out, I'm finally ready to go to the gym. Without even seeing what she's wearing, I know Meadow and I will be in coordinating skin-tight capri leggings and racer back yoga top. It's the unofficial, official gym uniform. Living in the city is such a conundrum. You try as hard as you can to blend in, and then strive for attention. It doesn't make sense.

My life doesn't make sense.

But rather than think for myself, I go with the flow. A lemming, following the others to their certain death.

*******

What time do you have to be at work? Meadow puffs. The spin class is ramping up and soon we won't be able to breathe, let alone chat.

Four, I mutter, just like every Saturday.

The overly perky instructor hollers out instructions, and the pace picks up. I hate this part. I hate spinning. I know, exercise is supposed to make me feel good and shit, but I'd rather be doing something else. Like Zumba. But that is so suburban according to Meadow, and we are adamantly opposed to anything that might be popular in the suburbs. Zumba's fun. It reminds me of the aerobics classes I used to go to with my mom when I was growing up. This is like torture. I guess I should consider myself lucky that Meadow doesn't want to bulk up. Otherwise, she'd be killing me with Crossfit. Kettlebells and dead lifting three times my body weight? No, thank you.

Finally, the agony ends. We've still got to do our ab workout. Five-hundred crunches. And then we can go.

By the time my gym penance is paid, the clock reads one p.m. Ugh. I'll barely have enough time to go home, shower, and eat before I have to go to work. No rest for the weary.

Meadow and I part ways. She's going tanning and to get her extensions tweaked or fixed or whatever. She's got a gig working as a shot girl at a club's grand opening tonight. She'll make a killing and no doubt come home with a crapload of phone numbers. She's in between boyfriends at the moment, which is unusual for her. She typically doesn't trade one in until the next one is solidly lined up. She miscalculated with her last boyfriend, Scott. I think she was trying to make him jealous to push him into more of a commitment. He, apparently, wasn't having any of that manipulation and walked away. When she gets drunk, Meadow still booty calls him, or at least attempts to. He's been brutally rebuffing her. I think her ego is hurt. Maybe even her heart. If she has one.

Once upon a time, I used to have friends that I cared about. I mean, it's not like I want Meadow to get hurt—I don't. I'm more sort of ... indifferent ... about her. We're friends of convenience. She did take me under her wing when I first arrived. Dumb, naive me, thinking I would hop off the bus and be offered a fantastic job right away. That it wouldn't matter that I'd dropped out of college. What an idiot I'd been.

Meadow needed a roommate, I needed a room. I had a little money left, and it was enough to keep me going until I got this job. Meadow took odd jobs here and there to supplement her modeling career. I think, somewhere in the recesses of my brain, I'd thought that I could always model to make ends meet if I couldn't find a real job. Again, what an idiot I'd been.

I don't think Meadow cares about me either. I think she keeps me close so that I'm not competition. She did introduce me to Chase. It's a fact she never lets me forget either. I practically gave him to you on a platter. You owe me. If Meadow's said that once, she's said it a thousand times. In reality, I think she pushed me toward him, knowing he was truly unavailable, but would still get me off the market. So that men she was interested in wouldn't be tempted by me. I'd be attached—it didn't matter to whom—and wouldn't be in her way of the desirable men. And, I don't think she wanted Chase for herself. She doesn't want to be the arm candy for a married man. In other words, two birds, one stone.

Meadow is one of the most superficial people I've ever met. I think Scott is the only person who Meadow's actually cared about in a very long time. She won't be making that mistake again. I'm not proud to say that I've become just like her. In some ways, it's much easier to care about my hair and shoes and who-said-what than actual things that matter. Convictions. Morals. Ethics. Family. Not that I have any family to care about.

Work is uneventful. It's a job. It pays the bills. Sometimes, it even does more than that. I wear a low-cut black scoop neck t-shirt that shows more than enough of my cleavage. It skims my midriff, showing just a hint of skin. Skin tight black pants and black ankle booties complete the look. I graciously accept under-the-table tips from those eager for a better table, as well as from those business men who think they'll actually get somewhere with me. Yeah right. Like I'd go slumming with the likes of anyone who would try and hit on the hostess.

That's why I'm glad I have Chase. He has so much class. He's refined.

While being the Saturday night hostess at Crush has its advantages, it's certainly not where I pictured myself. Even celebrities are beholden to me, if they want that private table, or if they want the one that will get them seen. It's all a game with them, and I'm the referee. Hell, I'm the coach, calling the plays. I know it sounds cocky. Maybe it is. Apparently, men will do anything to sleep with me. Like, anything. And we all know that men think with their dicks. How else do you think I landed this job?

I'm the worst kind of girl there is. Even worse than a whore. I'm a cock tease. I know I have no intention of putting out, but I don't let the guy know that. I'll keep it going until I get what I want, and then I cut him loose. But the fitted shirt, exposed cleavage, and a butt wiggle go a long way. Yeah, I know it's wrong that I trade in on my looks. But frankly, it's the only commodity I have at this point. No family. No home. I dropped out of college. Not by choice, of course, but I'm a dropout nonetheless. I hated my major—business administration. It wasn't my cup of tea. Doesn't matter either way. No money, no tuition, no place to live. College was last on the priority list.

I never wanted to be a business major in the first place. When I was a kid, I wanted to own a fabric store. Silly, I know, but the solace I found surrounded by bolts and bolts of fabric was virtually indescribable. Even now, if I watch Project Runway or some bridal show, all I can think about is running my fingers over the fabric. When I was in high school, I thought I'd go to nursing school. The was before my mom got sick, and I realized I don't do well with sickness. My guidance counselor took one look at me, told me I was too pretty to be a nurse, and that business was a more appropriate field for a girl like me. It took me a few years to figure out that he meant I was only good for my looks and should be a pretty hood ornament for some bigwig somewhere. Maybe he thought I'd meet someone in college. Yeah, no.

I wasn't always like this. I used to be nice. I used to care. Caring has gotten me nowhere and given me nothing but heartache. It's easier to be this way. No one can hurt me. Still, sometimes I miss the person I used to be.

As the evening winds down, I hear the wait staff and bartenders talking about a party they're going to. If I'm walking by, their voices drop to a hush so I can't hear. The last thing they want is for me to ask to join them. Like I would.

The servers tolerate me. They're not my friends. They're a bunch of wannabe stars and career failures. I know they talk about me behind my back. Let's face it, they think I'm a bitch. Mostly because I am. I'm not nice. I'm not sweet. I only do something for you if you do something for me first. In fact, my motto, which I'm proud to tell everyone, is, What's in it for me? I don't care if they're slammed or having a bad day or their back hurts. I'll seat you when it's your turn dammit. Piss me off and you won't get any tables. It doesn't bother me that they don't like me. Which is so funny, considering how desperately I tried to fit in back home. How much I wanted to belong. To be popular.

Now I don't give a shit, and I'm the cat's fucking meow.

By the end of the night, I'm tired. I guess passing out on the bathroom floor doesn't make for a restful night's sleep. I usually spend Friday nights at Chase's city apartment. I wonder why he brought me home. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I was blacked out drunk. Again. The rest of the staff leaves in small groups of two or three, talking and laughing, looking forward to a fun time still to be had. I doubt Meadow will be home yet, if she comes home at all. On the way back to the apartment, I pick up a bottle of Grey Goose. Even though I'm tired, I'll never be able to fall asleep. Illuminated in the eye-straining florescent lights of the liquor store, it sort of occurs to me that I may have a problem with alcohol. I can't remember the last time I went a full day without drinking at least some. Slapping my money down on the counter, I rush out before I can explore these thoughts any longer.

I don't have a problem. It's totally normal to have a little nightcap after a long day's work. And so what if I like to party? I'm twenty-four. It's what twenty-four-year-olds do. They have fun. Life is short; this I know. I need to make every moment count. You're not guaranteed a tomorrow; I want to have lived life to the fullest.

It never occurs to me that it's my own behavior that could keep tomorrow from coming.

CHAPTER TWO: MICHAEL

I look down at the cell phone in my lap. I don't feel the buzzing that alerts me to the call. I hear it. The name on the caller ID makes my heart race and my mouth go dry all at the same time.

Lainie.

Why is Lainie calling me after all this time? She made it pretty clear she was done. That was two years ago. What was it she'd said? Oh yeah. My situation was too real for her. Is it possible she misses me? Does she want to see me? Has she come to terms with my life? Does she want to get back together?

I'll never find out if I don't answer. I look around my office, trying to compose myself.

Hello?

Sal? She sounds nervous.

You called my number, Lainie. Who else did you think would be answering? So much for playing it cool.

Oh, yeah. Right. Hi.

Hi, Lainie. What's up?

She exhales, silence stretching on the line. I need to play it cool. I'm never going to win her back if she thinks I'm desperate. Well, I am, but she doesn't need to know that. Finally she starts. How've you been?

Still paralyzed. That's what I say in my head. Aloud, I say, Fine. I need to play it cool.

I figured that. I knew you'd be okay.

It's still real here, if that's what you want to know. So much for playing it cool. I am a schmuck.

Um, yeah. I guess it is. Listen, I need to talk to you. It's important.

Maybe I still have a chance. Okay. You wanna meet for coffee or something?

Yeah, okay. We can do that. Silence again. I don't know if she's considering where she wants to go or, more likely, she has no idea where I can go.

How about The Coffee Table? You still like that place?

Um, yeah. That's fine. Are you available next weekend?

We firm up the time.

I try not to freak out after we end the call. I can't imagine why she's calling me after all this time. I mean, she's got to have reconsidered. Yeah, so I'm paralyzed. I'm still me. She's still her. We could still be good together.

A car may have broken my body, but Lainie broke my heart. I think that's been harder to get over. You think you know someone. After dating for six years and talking about marriage, you really think you know someone. You think you know how they'll act when put to the test. I guess she wasn't about to sign on for the whole in sickness and health thing.

I turn on my computer and put my phone headset on. I hate the stupid thing, but I have trouble holding the phone between my shoulder and my ear if I want to use my hands for something else. Another modification I've had to make. Before I can get lost in my own thoughts again, I call my brother Mitchell to tell him about this new development. If I've learned anything since my accident, it's to deal

Reviews for Live For This

[cathygeha · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Live For This by Kathryn R. Biel“What would you rather do—win the lottery or be a paraplegic?”I think we all know what Samirah’s response to Michael would have been but his insight related to the question was an eye opener to me. Samirah had a loving mother, absent father and a childhood that was not necessarily easy. When the rug was pulled out from under while in college she headed to the big city and in so doing set herself up to use and ultimately be abused by others. In her time of need she happens upon a “good man” and after her recent experiences meeting Michael is probably the best thing to happen to her – ever. She has some healing, physical and mental, to deal with and Michael is there for her. Michael may be neurologically impaired but a stronger, more mentally healthy and complete man would be difficult to find. This book is at times gritty dark and very real whether telling of rape and its aftermath or of paraplegia and how it can impact lives. The story is one of strength and courage in adversity and friendship forged through fire...a friendship that ultimately leads to a HEA for two broken people that manage to be glued together into one loving couple. Having worked as an RN in neurosurgical intensive care and also having been in charge of a nursing home for mentally alert neurologically impaired I have some insight into what life as a paraplegic is like. This book handled the subject matter with wisdom, knowledge, compassion and a sense of realness that most books never manage. Did I like this book? YesWould I read other books by this author? YesDo I recommend this book? DefinitelyNOTE: I did not like Samirah in the beginning part of the story and wondered how the author could possibly redeem her to create a character I could ever like…it happened…but if I had not persevered with the story I would not have been able to write this glowing review – and glowing it truly is.Thank you to NetGalley and KOBO Writing Life for the ARC – This is my honest review.5 Stars