Frayed (Connections, #4)
by Kim Karr
To my three boys . . .
may you each grow up to be a strong and caring man
And hopefully some lucky woman’s prince charming as well. <3
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to the artists and musicians who inspired me through every chapter. Music is a world within itself. It is a language we all understand. And although I hope the words in this book do not fail you, I also hope the music helps to enhance them. Music speaks to me and tells me a story, and when I listen to songs, I listen to that story. . . . I hope I have succeeded in telling you a story that was brought to life through both words and music.
This section is by far the most difficult to write because it is so very important to acknowledge all of those who have never wavered in their support of not only myself but of the Connections Series as well.
I would like to thank my beta readers, Mary Tarter, Jody O. Fraleigh, and Laura Hansen, for your endless help and suggestions.
To Amy Tannenbaum of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, who believed in me enough to sign me and then dedicated the time to help me throughout the writing of this series. You are such an amazing person, and I couldn’t be more grateful to have you as my literary agent.
To Penguin. When I began this journey with Connected, I never imagined I would land a publishing deal. So thank you, Kerry Donovan and the team at New American Library for so eagerly and enthusiastically taking me on and helping get the Connections Series published.
To all of the bloggers who have become my friends—you’re all so amazing, and I cannot possibly put into words the amount of gratitude I have for each and every one of you!
And finally, my love and gratitude to my family—to my husband of twenty years, who became Mr. Mom while continuing to go to work every day; to my children, who not only took on roles that I for many years had always done—laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning—but always asked how the book was coming and actually beamed to their friends when telling them their mom wrote a book.
Without the help of those mentioned above, plus all of the support from my readers, who have contacted me daily since Connected’s release, the writing of Frayed wouldn’t have been possible—a giant thank-you to all of you.
“Nobody can go back and start a new beginning,
but anyone can start today and make a new ending.”
—Maria Robinson
CHAPTER 1
Come a Little Closer
Ben
The sign behind the bar reads: WANTED . . .
THAT CRYSTAL ASHTRAY YOU FILCHED.
THE MONOGRAMMED TOWELS YOU TOTED OFF IN YOUR SUITCASE.
THOSE SCOTTISH-MADE LINEN NAPKINS YOU POCKETED.
IF YOU TOOK ANY OF THESE ITEMS IN THE LAST SEVENTY-FIVE YEARS . . .
WE WOULD LIKE THEM BACK.
PLEASE!
Resting my elbows on the slick surface of the bar, I gesture to the sign.
The bartender shrugs. “Don’t ask me, I only serve the drinks.”
A cute cocktail waitress slinks up beside me and slides her drink order across the bar. While she waits she crooks a finger and bends toward me at such at angle that her ample cleavage spills out. My eyes naturally fall to it, but I quickly force them away when the bartender’s voice booms over to us loudly.
“Lucy, gin or vodka in the martini?” he asks her sternly.
“Vodka.” But she doesn’t let her gaze wander and crooks her finger at me yet again.
“Rumor has it that management is looking to open a museum,” she whispers in my ear.
I straighten and lift an eyebrow. “Interesting way to go about filling it.”
“They’re even willing to give recognition to anyone who returns the items.”
I raise my glass. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I can show you what they’ve collected so far if you’re interested. I have time to take a break before dinner is served.”
Her body language and the seductive tone of her voice tell me she’s offering more than a quick glance in a closet. I admit to contemplating the offer. The devil on my shoulder reminds me what a bittersweet day today is and that getting lost for a while doesn’t sound so bad. But another, stronger, voice declares that the days of needing to get lost in women are long behind me.
My foot taps the stool rung at an increasing speed. “Maybe another time,” I tell her as nicely as I can manage, with a mental pat on the back.
A year ago I would have taken her up on her offer, unzipped my pants, lifted her skirt, and f*cked her from behind without even thinking twice about it. She shrugs and bats her eyelashes at me as she puts her drink order on a tray. When she leaves she turns and winks, tossing over her shoulder, “I’ll be back. Maybe you’ll change your mind.”
What is she, the f*cking Terminator? I loosen my bow tie, not able to stand another minute of restraint. And once I can breathe, I blink away any second thoughts. At the sound of a soft sigh coming from the bartender, I lift my eyes toward him. He looks forlorn and so I’m pretty sure he’s crushing on the cocktail waitress.
“She’s never asked me to see the items in storage,” he mumbles.
“Take the lead, man, and ask her.”
He seems to contemplate the idea.
Leaving him to ponder my suggestion, I turn around and lean against the brass rail to survey the room. Legend has it that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences was founded here, that World War II military men used it as their recreation facility, and that John F. Kennedy’s nomination for president happened in this very space. The historic Biltmore Hotel has served great people who have done amazing things. And I can’t believe I’m here.