Spread

By Elyzabeth M. VaLey

Four days.
That’s the amount of time Betty has to hang on to her sanity. The time she needs until another of Antonio’s death-versaries rolls by. Four more days before the nightmares subside and the memories return to the past.
The problem is that life around her doesn’t stop, and when she meets Rayden, long-forgotten passion sparks to life. But can she move on with Antonio’s ghost looming over her?
Rayden hasn’t forgotten—nor has he ever forgiven himself. When Betty comes into his tattoo parlor, he realizes who she is, and even at the cost of his libido, he is determined to help her follow her dreams.
Time ticks fast, and as their desire grows insatiably and the anniversary of Antonio’s death creeps closer, pleasure and pain blend into one.
Rayden doesn’t want to hurt her. But can he keep her from harming herself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Publishing
• Release date: Sep 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780369500656

Book preview

Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2019 Elyzabeth M. VaLey

ISBN: 978-0-3695-0065-6

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: Karyn White

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To the Evernight Team, thank you for believing in me!

SPREAD

Lust, Love, and Darkness ,2

Elyzabeth M. VaLey

Copyright © 2019

Chapter One

Betty threw her keys in the teal ceramic bowl on the table next to her front door. She rushed to her bedroom and changed out of her work clothes, which she left on a pile on the floor. Comfortably dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, she returned to the main living area. Grabbing some cereal from the cupboard in the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of milk and sat in front of her desk.

Hands trembling, she put on her headphones and opened the music app on her phone. The loud rock riffs surrounded her, obliterating every sound from the exterior but still incapable of shutting down the turmoil in her brain. She grabbed a handful of cereal and stuffed it into her mouth. The crunch mingled with the melody, but still she couldn’t keep him at bay.

Antonio.

His name flashed in her subconscious. Loud. Bold. Present when he should be gone. Her stomach clenched, and she belched, acid bile rising to the back of her throat.

Fuck.

She took a sip of the milk and made for the package of gum she’d bought earlier in the week and had purposely placed at the lamp’s base. She tore at it and stuck two pieces in her mouth. She knew this would happen. Every year for the last eight years, she’d gone through the same. Three days before Antonio’s death-versary she sank into an all-consuming darkness that threatened to destroy her. The doctors said it was PTSD. She thought that was bullshit. How could someone still affect her so strongly after so many years? Someone who wasn’t even alive any more. His world had crumbled. Vanished. Everyone she’d known from back then was either dead or had a new life just as she did. She was no longer Becky Turner. Her name was Betty Miller, and she was a twenty-six-year-old Millennial like any other. Except, she had no parents or family, and her past was tainted by blood and drugs, and a man who had made her his slave, but no one knew that.

Betty, she murmured. I’m Betty. Not Becky, and I’m free.

You’re mine, whore.

Antonio’s slightly accented voice spoke in her ear, louder than the music she struggled to pay attention to. He haunted her. After almost eight years, she could still feel his presence looming over her, obliterating everything she’d accomplished and bringing back the memories she pretended not to have. He hovered over her, tightening his grip until she could no longer breathe, feel, live. She became a shadow of who she was. A hollow soul living within a body that wasn’t hers. His property. A being with no rights, no powers to do anything except what he ordained. She went from drink to drink, to weed and coke, stuck in a permanent numbness. When she was aware of her surroundings, she panicked, so he fed her more happy pills. All she wanted to do was forget. Erase the pain, the wounds, the emptiness carved in blood within her very soul.

The scars on her body throbbed, fueling the walk down memory lane. The time she’d banged her head against the mirror and ended up drenched in blood. At least, that’s what he’d said had happened. She didn’t remember. All she remembered was waking up with a major headache and screaming at the sight of all the blood. A tear slipped down her cheek.

Snap out of it, Betty, she said firmly. It’s all in the past. Antonio is dead.

Grabbing a pencil and a blank sheet of paper, she began to doodle. She’d start with something small, silly, then work her way up. Betty focused her gaze on the picture. She’d started drawing at rehab where they’d told her art helped calm the mind. It had worked up to a point. On days like today, where the memories danced at the edge of her consciousness, waiting to cut in, it only distracted her for short periods of time.

But at least it keeps you from self-harm, she said, recalling the words of one of her doctors.

True, but on days like today, more than hurting herself, she wanted to drink to oblivion. She could almost taste the alcohol. She remembered with clear clarity the last drink she’d had. Vodka. Straight out of the bottle. The expensive kind, too. It was sweet, dangling on her tongue, burning a path down her esophagus to her stomach where it mingled and exploded with the coke she’d snorted ten minutes earlier. She didn’t recall anything after.

When she woke up, she was in the hospital. Alone. Bruised. Police hovered nearby. Someone had tried to explain the situation. Perhaps, a doctor. She wasn’t sure.

He’s dead. You’re free.

Dead. Dead. Dead. The words rang in her head like a migraine after a night of binge drinking. Freedom? She didn’t want it. She wanted Antonio. He was the only one who could provide for her. The only one who got her. He was her Master. And he was dead.

There was only one solution to it all. She’d asked for a drink. When they ignored her, she started screaming. She tried harming herself to get their attention. She needed a drink. Or coke. Or weed. Anything to make her forget. To make her escape.

The change of texture brought her out of her reverie, and she glanced at the piece of paper in front of her. She’d bored a hole through it. Crumpling it up, she threw it into the wastebasket and glanced at the clock.

At least, she had something to look forward to today other than Antonio’s lingering ghost.

Maybe it’ll be cathartic.

The scar on her breast pulsed in mock sympathy.

Yes, today we part ways, old friend.

The damn pink puckered line of flesh would—if everything went right—disappear beneath ink and color. Her past mistakes would be buried beneath the wings of a bird taking flight, all etched onto her body by the talented hands of Rayden Williams, tattoo artist extraordinaire. When it came to cover-ups, he was the best there was on this side of the country. She’d had to schedule her appointment months earlier even though she was desperate to see him as soon as possible, but they’d explained that what she wanted would take a few hours of work, and he didn’t have such a large time slot until today. She hadn’t realized the date until it was too late.

Becky stuck a new piece of gum in her mouth, freshening the flavor. She glanced at the binder at the edge of the table, her name neatly printed on the cover. It taunted her as it had done for the past five months.

Almost four years ago, after ages of mindlessly drifting, she’d decided what she wanted to do: become a tattoo artist. She’d taken courses, improved her art, prepared a portfolio and saved enough money to be able to pay for an apprenticeship. She’d started networking, attending a few conferences and events, getting in touch with some of the artists who’d worked on her skin and asking for advice, and then, she’d bumped into Rayden’s online profile. His work had astounded her, spoken to her in a way no other had. It was art brought to life on skin. She’d learned as much as possible about him and had been pleased to discover he’d just opened shop in her city. Then to boot, she’d found out his area of expertise was scar cover-ups.

Right then and there, she’d decided she would apprentice