If I Say Yes (Say Something #1) Read online

  IF I SAY YES

  BRANDY JELLUM

  Booktrope Editions

  Seattle WA 2014

  Copyright 2014 Brandy Griffin

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: [email protected]

  Cover Design by Shari Ryan

  Edited by Jacy Mackin

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  Print ISBN 978-1-62015-367-3

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-392-5

  DISCOUNTS OR CUSTOMIZED EDITIONS MAY BE AVAILABLE FOR EDUCATIONAL AND OTHER GROUPS BASED ON BULK PURCHASE.

  For further information please contact [email protected]

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014907244

  Table of Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  MORE GREAT READS FROM BOOKTROPE

  To my husband,

  for allowing me to follow my dreams.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To the Booktrope family; thank you for making my dreams become a reality. I am blessed to be part of an amazing company, full of hard workers helping make each book the best they can, and being a part of a large group of talented people.

  To my husband, for not allowing me to quit and walk away when I wanted to the most. You encouraged me and pushed me to follow my dreams. For taking care of the children, meals, and housework while I typed away on my computer. For listening to me talk for hours on end about my characters, plot twists, and my usual book talk. Thank you for the laughs you have given me while trying to convince me that my book needs a scene with women wrestling in chocolate pudding and not getting mad when I didn’t put it in the story. (Sorry hun, maybe next time!) More importantly, thank you for being the best supporter I have and for loving me.

  To my mother, for always being there to support me in everything I do.

  To my grandparents, for loving and nurturing me. For believing in me and encouraging me to always be the best person I can be and driving it into me that I should never give up.

  To Jessica, Sara, and Amanda, my trusted beta readers, none of this would have been possible if it weren’t for you. Your honesty, your love for the story and characters, are what drove me to complete this story. You ladies have been there since the very beginning, and have helped me mold this story into the best possible one it can be. Thank you for the time you have put into this book, and thank you for loving it just as much as I do. And thank you for helping me realize that there is much more to the series than I ever planned. All the books I write, I owe to you. (Sara; if it wasn’t for you… a certain character would’ve never gotten his own book!)

  To Lisa, my best friend, for always being there during the good times and the bad. You are the epitome of what a best friend should be and have always believed in me. Thank you for listening to my endless rants, my frustrations, and for telling me that I can’t quit chasing after my dreams.

  To Cindy, for being one of the best chicks hands down. I love our late night texts. Being able to rant to one another. No one makes me laugh as much as you do. In the short time we have known each other, I feel like we have become best friends. Soul sisters. Thank you for encouraging me to do what I think is best when it comes to my writing. I look forward to many more years of friendship. Here’s to being wild, crazy, and as vulgar as we want to be.

  To Rachel, for our late night writing chats, and exchanging ideas with one another. For always being there when I have needed it. For always telling me that everything will work out. And for always believing in me. I still have to come up and have you make me one of your delicious dinners.

  To Tess, for allowing me to take your writing workshop and helping me perfect my craft. For being genuinely honest and sweet. You always give me encouragement when I am feeling low and always reach out to me when I need it the most. I can’t wait to have that celebratory glass of wine with you.

  To Amanda, you have been a huge support in getting the word out about this book. You understand that I’m not in fact crazy because of the voices in my head and just have an overactive imagination. I love talking to you, talking characters, and stories. Your never-ending support these past few months have been amazing, and I look forward to many years of friendship.

  To my ladies of Our Writing Nook, I am glad to have found a group of such talented authors, and thank you for all your support, advice, and love you have shown me.

  To my street team, you ladies rock. I love how you guys get excited when I share pieces of a story and how involved you are with everything I do. Thank you for taking time out of your personal lives to help spread the word about this story/series. You are what makes this story get out there and I don’t know what I would do without you. xoxo.

  And finally, to my readers, thank you for taking the time to read this story. These characters mean a lot to me and I am so happy to share them with you. I hope you fall in love with them as much as I did and that their story takes you on a ride. Thank you for the support. Because of you, this is all possible.

  PROLOGUE

  Six years ago

  BLOOD COVERS EVERY SURFACE. On the pristine, white marble flooring, the grand staircase and handrail, and what used to be a tall, square wooden end table by the large double doors I just walked through. The table now lays scattered across the foyer, broken into jagged pieces. The large, antique ceramic bowl that served as a key holder had set on the table, but now it too is scattered amongst the broken wood and the blood bath. I follow the trail of dark crimson fluid up the stairs, my hands shaking and my breath catching. Upstairs is worse, far worse. The plush white carpet is saturated a deep shade of red; splatters and droplets are everywhere.

  My heart is pounding, urging me to go, to leave, to run and call for help. My head tells me otherwise, to follow the trail of blood down the hall. The blood is smeared on the walls, as if someone was trying to grab ahold of something to prevent being dragged this way. The trail leads to my parents’ bedroom. My heartbeat quickens, and a bead of sweat forms along my hairline. The door to my parents’ room is sl
ightly ajar, and I nudge it open a little farther, just enough that I can slip past the door.

  A piercing scream escapes, and I quickly clamp a hand over my mouth. My eyes are glued to the sight before me. I can’t mistake the familiar blonde hair attached to the crumpled body on the floor, discarded as though she is a piece of garbage that nobody wants. Just lying on the floor, with a pool of blood surrounding her body. The blonde hair, the only thing I share with my mother, is drenched in the dark fluid. Another cry escapes my lips as I rush across the room and collapse next to her, brushing the hair out of her face. My heart drops to the pit of my stomach, and I feel bile rising to the back of my throat.

  I can hardly recognize my mother’s soft, delicate face; she was a natural beauty, one that everyone wanted to star in their next movie at the height of her career. Her face is mangled with large, jagged cuts that run across it. The blood is already starting to dry. Examining the rest of her body, I see she is covered from head to toe with multiple stab wounds. Under the cross-hatch of wounds, faint bruises form from the multiple contusions she has suffered as well.

  “Mom,” I whisper. I scoop her body into my arms and pull her close to my body. Her head rests against my chest as I begin to rock back and forth. “Don’t be dead… please, don’t be dead.” I know my plea is useless; she is already gone. The amount of blood throughout the house and pooling around her and the blank expression in her blue eyes is proof enough. Tears form in my eyes. “You can’t be dead.”

  I cry out loud, and my body begins to shake involuntarily. “I didn’t mean what I said… I forgive you.” My voice breaks and barely comes out. I think back to the last conversation we had. Which, honestly, wasn’t anything outside the norm, since we fought constantly the little time we were around each other. We had a toxic mother-daughter relationship. If there’s an award for worst parents ever, mine would win, hands down. But today, today’s argument was different. It had been the final straw in her attempt to break me down. I had yelled at her, uttering all the same obscenities and same ‘I hate you’. I had told her that she was the worst mother in the world, and that I would be better off if she would just die. I never really meant that last part. No matter how unloving, cruel, and horrible they were, neither of my parents deserved to die, at least not like this.

  I shake my mother slightly, but she doesn’t stir. Of course she doesn’t; she is long gone. “Please… please… just come back.” I choke out the last three words. It doesn’t matter that I have spent a lifetime hating her, nor does it matter that she took the one thing that made me happiest in the world right out from under my nose. At the moment, I could care less about all the horrible things she has said and done. Nothing, I repeat: nothing, she has done warranted her death. I begin to cry, sobbing uncontrollably. I cry because however rotten she was, she is gone, and I never got to say goodbye or to take back any of the things I have ever said to her.

  “It’s a shame things had to end like this.” I snap my head up and find my father leaning against the door frame. His dark brown hair is a tousled mess. He is still wearing the charcoal suit I last saw him in, minus the jacket and tie. His forehead is creased, and his dark brown eyes, the exact same shade as mine, narrow. In one hand, he is holding a large, white, terry cloth towel stained with blood. In the other is a large butcher knife, dripping blood. His lips quirk up into a sinister grin that sends a chill down my spine. “You can’t really be sad, can you? Not after what she did to you… to me… to us.”

  His words linger in the air.

  “Y-Y-You did this?” I ask weakly.

  He struts across the room toward me, and I pull my mother closer, as if I can protect her from any further harm. I glance up at him hovering over me, and my eyes flicker to the knife in his hands. My father follows my gaze and smiles. He tosses the knife onto their oversized poster bed and wipes his hands off with the towel before tossing it onto the bed as well.

  “Of course I did,” he sneers. My father smiles, not showing one ounce of remorse for what he did.

  “Why? Why would you do this?”

  “The bitch had it coming.” He smiles again and sends another wave of chills down my spine. “I did it for us. But more importantly, I did it for you, Elizabeth.” Then he lunges for me…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Present Day

  DULL. BORING. PATHETIC.

  I exit out of the email screen on my computer and push away from my wooden desk. A frustrated groan escapes my lips. It’s the same thing, over and over again. An author wishing and hoping to land an agent, to be published, to become the next big thing. Me, and about a million other people in this world. If one thing is lacking from being involved in the world of books, it’s imagination. No one has it anymore. Most books are all the same. The only books that can both thrill and excite me are the books that belong in the Horror/Thriller genre. That is where the real art form of writing lays, the books that truly hang on the verge of being genius. Everything else is wretched, worthless. Simply put, everything besides horror is mundane.

  And the reason why being forced to work on the Romance floor of Harder’s Literary Agent House is the worst job I can possibly have.

  I shouldn’t complain. I’m lucky to even have such a prestigious job fresh out of college, especially since I only spent the last year interning here for experience. When I interned here, I worked alongside one of the biggest agents representing authors in the Horror/Thriller genre. Nothing like a good thriller keeps me on the edge of my seat, turning page after page, trying to figure out what is going to happen next, and who is behind it all. Trust me; it’s a much better alternative than sitting in the dark, wiping away tears, rooting for the guy you want to win the girl’s heart, and waiting for that happy ending. Nonetheless, when Lawrence Harder hired me full time, it came with one condition: “I had to spread my wings and fly.” His exact words. Either work in Romance, or try my hardest to land a delivery job at another literary agency and work my way to the top. Which could take years, if I succeeded at all. I couldn’t risk that, since it doesn’t fall in line with my list. So I took the job, regardless of how much I despise it.

  Three months ago, I took the coveted agent position here, and I haven’t signed a single author yet. Mr. Harder assures me that it takes time to shift into a new genre, and that I will eventually adjust and find the perfect author. Let’s be real for a second; not many authors are flooding the email of a twenty-four-year-old agent just starting out in the world. Then we have Viola Harder, my boss’ most recent wife. She is problematic in the most ridiculous ways. The only things she has going for her is that she is strikingly beautiful and in the best shape any woman of twenty-five can be. Other than that? Nothing, absolutely nothing fills that stupid, bottle blonde head of hers. She walks around the floors, strutting around like she is God’s gift to earth, and she is large and in charge. All because she is married to the man who owns the company. Viola’s had it out for me since my first day at orientation over a year ago, for who knows whatever reason, and she has been trying her best to get me fired ever since.

  Viola’s newest arguments are that I bring absolutely nothing to the table and that my place in the company is a waste of space, time, and money. I’m easily replaceable. As if she can hear my thoughts from six floors above, my email screen pops up on the computer, flashing with a new message from the devil herself.

  From: hotblonde69

  To: [email protected]

  Ms. Winter,

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  Do you know what that is the sound of? That is the sound of the clock ticking, a reminder that your time here is quickly running out. You still have yet to sign anyone, and it’s only a matter of time before LJ takes notice and rids the company of you, once and for all. I, unfortunately, cannot say that it would be with the utmost sadness to see you leave HLAH. I will be absolutely thrilled when that day comes. Believe me, that day will come. Sooner than you think.

  Signed,

  Viola Har
der

  Vice President of HLAH

  I shake my head and laugh at the sheer lack of professionalism in her email. First of all, who has an email account with the screen name hotblonde69? Seriously, how old is she again? Sixteen? Her threat, however immature as it may seem, is quite valid, though. I hate to agree with the woman, but it’s only a matter of time before Mr. Harder decides to get rid of me. Am I going to sign an author anytime soon? Especially if I can’t even get through a single sentence of a query letter? I have to do something to fix this. I have to get out of here and back to where I belong—in Horror/Thriller. I quickly grab the phone resting on top of my desk.

  “Heidi,” I say into the receiver. Heidi is my assistant, a year younger than me, and an intern with the same aspirations I have. She has been a godsend. “I need to talk with Mr. Harder. Can you see if he is available?”

  “Right away, Ms. Winter.” Her voice still holds a trace of a southern accent. I look up from my desk, out the panel of windows in front of me, to see her sitting at her small oak desk and shake my head.

  “How many times do I have to remind you to call me Liza?” I hate being called Ms. Winter. It sounds too formal and makes me feel older than I am.

  Heidi runs a hand through her long, strawberry blonde hair and releases a sigh into the phone. “Yes, Ms. Win— I mean, Liza.” I smile and see her return the smile through the window. “I’ll call up to his office now.”

  “Thank you.” I hear the receiver click, indicating that she hung up, and watch her dial Mr. Harder’s secretary. A few seconds later, a smile spreads across her face, she nods, and hangs up the receiver. I pick up my phone on the first ring.

  “Mr. Harder can meet with you for a few minutes. But you must hurry,” Heidi says quickly. I nod my head, acknowledging her through the window, and hang up the phone.

  ***

  The elevator opens up to a small desk just outside a set of large wooden double doors. Jennifer smiles at me as I step out of the elevator. Her sleek blonde hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and she wears a black skirt suit. Mr. Harder has a thing for blondes. Luckily, I have a head of unruly black, wavy hair. It’s reassuring knowing that I was most likely not hired on for some sick, perverted idea of his. The man could be a pig, but he is the best businessman out there. Jennifer nods at me as I walk past her desk and push open one of the doors. The door swings inward into a large office, with nothing but windows overlooking the bustling city below. Near the furthest wall is a large modern desk with steel legs curved into arches and a glass tabletop. The oversized, overstuffed leather chair behind the desk is facing towards the window, blocking my view of the man.