Black light obsessed, p.1
Black Light: Obsessed, page 1
Black Light: Obsessed
Dani René
Copyright © 2018 by Dani René
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
e-Book ISBN: 978-1-947559-03-5
Print ISBN: 978-1-947559-02-8
Cover Art by Eris Adderly
Contents
Foreword
Acknowledgments
Prologue
1. Roisin - five years later
2. Kian
3. Roisin
4. Kian
5. Roisin
6. Kian
7. Roisin
8. Kian
9. Roisin
10. Kian
11. Roisin
12. Kian
13. Roisin
14. Kian
15. Roisin
16. Kian
17. Roisin
18. Kian
19. Roisin
20. Kian
Epilogue
About the Author
Find Dani online
Also by Dani René
Black Collar Press
A Sneek Peek at What’s Next for Black Light
obsession
əbˈsɛʃ(ə)n/
noun
noun: obsession
the state of being obsessed with someone or something.
To my ladies who enjoy their Dominants just a little obsessed with them.
Acknowledgments
I have to thank both Jennifer Bene and Livia Grant for the amazing opportunity to be writing in the Black Light series. I’m so honored, and humbled to have been chosen to join the family of this amazing world. You ladies are just incredible and it’s been a wonderful privilege to work with Black Collar Press.
To my BETA ladies—Sheena, Alicia, Allyson, and Cat—thank you for loving Kian and Rosie and for taking the time out to read through the rough drafts and help me get them ready for the world.
My editor, Candy, you’re always there at a moment’s notice to polish up my words and make them shine. Thank you for everything!
To the readers, bloggers, and my fellow authors for sharing, reading, reviewing, and just being amazing, thank you a million times over!
Prologue
Roisin
There’s a soft glow from the streetlamp, which bathes the room in silvery light.
The house is silent, filled with heavy breathing and the stale stench of alcohol and sex. Dirty, vile, and putrid. I’m never sure of who I’d find on the other side of the door, so I stay locked in my bedroom when they have parties.
The two people who are now passed out without a care in the world will soon be left to their own devices. Shoving my clothes into the suitcase, I glance around, taking in the home I’ve spent the last two years in. But there’s nothing more for me here. I waited until I was of legal age before I even thought about running. Any younger and I’d be worse off out there than I ever am in here.
Tomorrow I’ll be eighteen and they won’t want me here anymore. They’ll soon be looking for a younger, more profitable baby.
Nobody wants me.
My parents made it clear when I was born, leaving me on the steps of a church. Talk about a poster child for a clichéd life story. Taken in by the pastor and his wife, I grew up Christian, praying and taught to believe in a God that has never been there for me.
Even though they gave me a roof to live under, it was never a home. Each Sunday, I was taken to church to pray for my sins, and every week, I’d just go out and do them again.
When I turned sixteen, they sent me away. Father Paulson’s wife thought I was a devil child, so they put me in the system. No couple wants to adopt a sixteen-year-old, they want a cute baby they can coddle and coo with.
That’s when Brady and Dana walked in and saw me. A meal ticket. They weren’t parents. Far from it. They didn’t give a shit if I was out doing drugs or if I was in my bedroom with one of the boys from school. No, I was only here because the State gave them money to keep me.
All the funds that were meant to go toward my schooling, clothes, and stationery were spent on more alcohol for their friends who visited every weekend. The men who would smirk at me like I was their next meal. I figured I was safe. But that’s the first mistake I made.
Sighing, I glance in the mirror as I pull my long red waves into a messy bun. My blue eyes have lost their sparkle. All my life I’ve spent hiding because of my looks. Floppy jumpers, jeans, and trainers. A tom boy.
Everyone told me I’m pretty. A stunner. I didn’t want that. I never did because underneath it all, it’s my looks that got me in trouble. It’s those big cerulean eyes, the pouty rose-colored lips, and the fair porcelain skin that ensured my life would turn to hell.
Most people would assume it’s my adoptive father who did it.
Others would gossip that it was the priest and perhaps that’s why I got sent away.
They may have had a part to play in my broken past, but there was so much more to it than that. Until I reached sixteen, I lived in a home that was focused on religion. The man who was a Father to many, took everything from me.
When I went to my second foster home, I knew as soon as I walked into the house, it would not be any better.
School was difficult for me. I didn’t have friends. I didn’t want any. But it was then when I’d given up hope, that I thought I’d found someone who saw me for who I am. The only boy I had ever trusted. Chad Hollister.
He noticed me. He asked me out.
For six wonderful months, I was happy. He doted on me. Made sure I was smiling from ear to ear every day. I believed he really liked the broken girl he learned I was. I thought that deep down, he wanted to love me.
But life doesn’t afford girls like me a chance at love.
I’m broken into so many small pieces of myself that I know I can never be whole again.
When Chad saw me like that, he told me it’s okay. He still wanted me. Once again, I trusted someone and got burned in the process. When we walked into prom two nights ago, he had sent photos of me naked on his bed to everyone in our school.
It turns out his group of friends made a bet that no guy could last a month with me and my fucked-up family. He told me in front of everyone how he’d been the one to draw the short straw and when one month turned into two, the six guys he hung out with promised to pay for his whole summer vacation down in Florida after graduation. They laughed at his confession, jeering him on.
They all saw me for who I really was.
And that’s part of the reason I need to leave.
Eighteen and a runaway.
I’m not sure where I’m headed, but it will be better than here. As soon as I step out of my bedroom, the smell hits my nostrils, causing my stomach to roll. Vomit, sweat, and alcohol, mixed with the old cigarette smell that always hangs around the house, hits me square in the face.
I pull out my own packet of smokes, tapping a stick out and pressing it between my lips. The silver glint of my adoptive dad’s Zippo calls to me. With a smirk, I snatch it up on my way to the exit. To my freedom.
As soon as the front door hits my ass on the way out, I light up my smoke, shoving the expensive item into the back pocket of my jeans, then head toward the bus stop. Since it’s after midnight, I’m not expecting any public transport, but I’ll wait.
The night is warm, balmy, heavy with the scent of the town I’ve spent the past two years in. Only a few hours outside of L.A. along the coast, I’ve always longed to escape to the big city. It’s going to be a long ride to the place I’ve wanted to visit all my life. They call it the City of Angels, but it’s so far from the truth. I’ve read stories about what happens there. I’ve lost myself in articles, stories from pop stars to actors who’ve lost everything in Los Angeles. Instead of angels, it’s filled with devils and broken hearts. Dreams smashed on the sidewalk for all to see.
I won’t miss the small town life, even if I have no idea what I’m running toward. My old life will soon be a distant memory.
Upon reaching the one main road in this shithole town, lights flicker from an oncoming car, the only vehicle out at this time of the night and I wonder just who is approaching me. When it nears, I notice it’s a sleek silver Mercedes Benz. One of those fancy ones I know I’ll never own.
Strolling further up the hill toward the center of town where I know there’ll be early morning busses heading into L.A., I watch as he slows down, probably thinking I’m some fucking whore. He stops, rolls down his window, and leans over to drag his gaze over me. He looks like he’s in his late twenties. Dark hair, big eyes that look blue or silver, I can’t tell.
“Where you headed this late, darling?” His mouth tilts into a smirk, ravenous and hungry. That’s what they all want when they look at me.
A fuck.
“Anywhere away from here.”
He looks me up and down once more, nods, and unlocks his car. “Get in. I’ll drive you down to the station where you can get a bus. I’m not leaving this hick town for a while yet, so you’ll have to find your own way.”
I stare at him for a moment, unsure of trusting a stranger. The last time I did that, it didn’t go so well. But, it is the middle of the night and I have no place to go. Dropping my smoke on the concrete below my foot, I stomp it out, twisting my Chucks to kill it, and head toward the car.
“You’re no serial killer or anything. Are you?”
He chuckles at my question, shaking his head as he regards me with a small smile. “There’s no way I am, darling. Get in, I have to get home to my wife,” he tells me, lifting his left hand to show me the thick gold band around his ring finger.
Knowing he’s married doesn’t change the fact this asshole could do things to me other men have already done. But, somehow, for some inexplicable reason, I get in the car. It’s cool inside with the air conditioning blowing wildly from the vents. The leather seat below my ass squeaks as my jeans press against the smooth material.
“What’s a guy like you doing in a hick town like this?” I question, using his words for the shithole I spent two years in.
“Used to live out here,” he says, not looking at me. “Got out as soon as I could.”
I stare at him for a moment, taking in his rugged jaw each time the light from the street lamp illuminates the inside of his car.
“What’s your name, darling?” he questions, turning the steering wheel as we head down the long winding street.
I don’t know why, but I lie. There were many times in my childhood I was whipped for lying, but there’s no longer anyone who can hurt me for doing as I please.
“My name’s Rosie,” I tell him, keeping my attention on the road. I know where I am, where we’re going, so if he makes a wrong turn, I’ll know. But he keeps his word, taking the road toward the bus station.
“You need to be careful, Rosie. Getting in a stranger’s car could get you hurt,” he warns, causing my eyes to veer his way. There’s a genuine seriousness in his tone. Something I haven’t heard in a long while.
“I know. But if I’ve already been killed inside, what difference does it make?”
My words are ominous, and he doesn’t respond. Perhaps he doesn’t know how, or he may never have expected me to say something like that. The rest of the drive is in utter silence.
I think about my meagre belongings as I take in his fancy car and I wonder if his kids are spoiled, or even if he has a family. The small laptop in my backpack that I managed to buy off Craigslist and the old mobile phone I got when I was living at the church are the only valuables I have.
“Here we are,” stranger announces.
“Thanks,” I tell him, meaning it. For the first time in my life I feel grateful for someone who did something for me without wanting something in return. Pushing the car door open, I step out.
“Hey,” my savior calls to me, causing me to lean into his car once more. “Look after yourself, Rosie,” he tells me.
“I’ll try.”
Roisin - five years later
Fingertips brush along my curves.
Caress my slick flesh.
Taunt me.
Play me.
Fuck. Do it.
Hurt me so I can feel again.
Tapping the keys, I read the quote and reread it to make sure there aren’t any spelling errors. Too many people don’t notice it, but I do. The frustration of it crawls over my flesh, annoyed that they don’t see their mistakes. My mind is blank once more. It hurts to move, to think.
Tapping the send key, I watch the slim blue upload bar above the post. The image I chose is perfect. Two slender fingers pressing down on a voluptuous hip. The skin is glistening with water droplets that shimmer under the light.
Bare.
Naked.
The new post is fresh on my feed. It only takes a minute before there are likes. Hearts. Bright red and happy. The color of blood. I don’t know why I do this, put myself out there only to have anxiety twisting in my gut. The low swirl of a brewing storm knots and grips me. The claws of my familiar and dreaded fucked up mind.
My eyes are glued to the number of likes, and as the comments roll in, I smile. They devour the darkness like I knew they would. This is what I’ve become addicted to. Needing to see their approval.
So hot.
Filthy and sexy.
I’d fuck you.
Delicious tease.
Another smile.
Since I was younger I knew I wanted to write. To create worlds with words. To offer part of myself to people without them even knowing it. It was exciting to see people read something I'd written for the school paper and enjoy it.
Now, I work for a magazine where the real life tales I create are read by millions, and I hope deep down that my writing can help them too. The posts I make on my Instagram, however, are darker, more elicit, something that allows me to express my passion for the lifestyle I’ve always been intrigued by.
Pushing up from the bed, I pad over to the kitchen. The small space is tiled with white Italian ceramic squares that make up the back bar of the sink and kitchen counter. Silver taps twinkle in the dim light as I open one to fill the kettle.
Everything in my home is expensive, stylish, and luxurious.
It took me five long years to get where I am today, and as soon as I could afford my condo, I bought it out right. The man who sold it to me looked at me like I was a trust fund baby. If only he knew.
When I left home at eighteen, with nothing but a few hundred bucks and small rucksack, I vowed to be better than the past I left behind. And for the most part, I am. But there are times that all comes rushing back.
And I’m once again the little girl who had nobody to fight for her.
The teenager who was accused of being a slut.
And the eighteen-year-old runaway who would do anything to stay off the streets.
I watch the steam filtering from the spout of the stainless-steel electric kettle. My focus is so intense, it blurs everything beyond it.
I have a deadline to meet, but my mind is awash with thoughts on how to better my words. My website. My social media. For a recluse like myself, it’s the only way I can have friends and not have a panic attack.
That is, besides my one good friend I’ve made along my rocky path here.
Greer McCleary.
We’ve known each other for a year. I call her my best friend, but that’s a lie because she’s my only friend. She’s the complete opposite to me. A party girl who prefers the company of others to her own. Me, on the other hand, I love the solace of being alone.
A light vibration from my desk tells me there’s someone looking for me. Perhaps someone I don’t want to talk to, like my agent. When I signed a deal to publish my words, I did it online. There were no meetings. Nothing that would get me to leave my home.
Being based in Wilshire, I’ve become accustomed to ordering all my groceries online to avoid going out, fighting the traffic, but also, my anxiety can be rather paralyzing. Most days, my contact with strangers is limited to the delivery guy at my door. Or Greer, who forces her way into my home. I don’t mind so much, she’s sweet, trying to get me to come out of my shell. There are however times I am forced to go into the office, or if Greer decides I need to go to the bar and have a drink with her. It’s those times I need to psyche myself up and attempt being normal for an hour until I excuse myself and race home.
My whole life was spent hiding.
Bullied for my looks, my poor home life, and everything else they could pin on me, I figured out that the only person I can trust is myself. And I’ve not let anyone in since.
How a short, five-letter word can hurt so much is beyond me.
Once it’s broken, there’s no repairing it. There were too many people during my younger years who taught me to only think of myself. To watch my back when it comes to strangers, and more so, to never trust a friend.
Now I spend all my time online.
A social media addict, because even though I’d love to allow people into my life, my home, and my heart, fear has held me down. Pinned me in its vicious grip, causing me to flail in darkness when my nightmares appear.
