Authors: Dee Palmer
Disgrace
Disgrace
Copyright © 2016 Dee Palmer
Published by Dee Palmer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in an form, including but not limited to electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase to, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Warning: ADULT CONTENT 18* This story is on the filthy side of smut and isn’t suitable for those who don’t enjoy graphic descriptions that are erotic in nature, but for those that do, enjoy ;)
For free stories, sign up to my Newsletter on the contact page at
deepalmerwriter.com
(Promise No Spam)
FREE BOOK
First In the Choices Trilogy (But no cliffy ..So can be read as a standalone:))
Table of Contents
Other Books by Dee
The Choices Trilogy
Never 1.5
(A Valentine Novella)
(Can be read as a stand-alone)
Disgrace
The Chosen Ones
“Find your Tribe and Love them Hard”
I Love my Tribe
Sixteen Months Ago
“Y
ou still there, Sam?” I can hear the concern in his voice, but it fades into the mix of nerves and sickness threatening to escape my mouth. Saliva pools at the back of my throat and I swallow, the slight metallic taste an indication that I have scraped my teeth against some soft tissue. My jaw is clenched so tight I didn’t even feel the bite. “Sam!” His tone is urgent almost panicked.
“I’m here…sorry. This is harder than I thought it would be that’s all.” I grip the phone a little tighter, angry that my hand is actually trembling.
“Look, wait there. I can be there in an hour. You shouldn’t do this on your own. I told you this but you never bloody listen.” He lets out an angry breath, which makes me smile. All my life I never had someone care about me the way he does. I am so very grateful. I tell him often enough, but it’s never enough. He saved me.
“No…no don’t come, Leon. I will be fine. It’s just a house.” I swallow that pooling water again. So loud this time I can hear him let out a sigh filled with only a fraction of the sadness welling in me.
“Yeah…just a house. Like Manson was just a guy. Sam you don’t have to do this in person. The solicitor can deal with this shit. Come home. You can beat the crap out of me and make us both feel better.”
I bark out a dirty laugh. I love that he can turn my mood on a dime. “God, I love you.” I feel some tension leave my frame when I push out a fortifying breath. “I will be fine. I am made of much stronger stuff…now.” I add before he reminds me of the empty, broken girl he slowly helped transform ten years ago.
“Call me when you’re done…and the offer still stands.” His silence is filled with hope.
“Leon, I found you an excellent replacement and you need to start using her.” My tone is resolute if a little sharp.
“I know…I know…It’s just when you’ve had the best—” His flattery will get him nowhere…absolutely nowhere.
“You’re my best friend, Leon.” I add softly.
“Which might be an issue if we were fucking.” He is pushing me and I feel all that tension back.
“Leon!” I snap. “Enough…You can be such an arsehole!”
“But you love me?” I can almost see the devilish grin creeping across his dark features. We share similar colouring, rich coffee skin, deep brown eyes and impossibly dark brown hair that falls just shy of jet black.
“I do.” My tone is clipped.
“Did it work?” He asks after a short silence and before I get to ask what, he adds. “Are you feeling all angry and distracted now?” I sniff out a laugh and shake my head though he can’t see that part.
“Yes, Leon…Thank you.” A tentative smile tips the corners of my lips, sleek and shiny with my trademark red.
“My work here is done. Now go and sort the house of horrors…and come home. Where you belong.” He hangs up and I chuckle. He never says goodbye.
I straighten my shoulders and hold on to the false bravado trickling through my veins hoping it’s enough to get me through this next hour.
It’s a beautiful cottage. The perfect picture of an idyllic Home County village dwelling. Honey coloured, washed out stone, four tiny windows under a mottled, red slate roof and an old oak front door with polished wrought iron fixings that wouldn’t look out of place on a church. The Old Rectory, my family home. The garden is bare now, cut back and pruned to within an inch of its life. My mother would spend hours—days—tending the flower beds. She craved the attention it brought from passersby, strangers, people who meant nothing.
The bones of the wisteria cling to the front of the house like some distorted exoskeleton, the branches so thick the blooms would block the sunlight from the windows in the spring. I slide my key into the lock. She didn’t change the lock when I left. Why would she? There was no need, I was the one who left, and I promised I’d never return as long as she lived.
The door opens to a shrill discord of creaking hinges loudly objecting my presence. I push the heavy door wide with a firm shove. The stale, dry air hits me with an aroma brimming with memories. I puff the air from my nose. I have no desire to reminisce; memory lane is for masochists. There is only one room I want to see.
It’s been so long, but I need to remember so I don’t let it happen again. I walk through the dim hall, lit only by the soft winter sun spilling in from the open front door. Everything is neat and tidy with a fine layer of dust that only now dares to settle. Now she’s dead that is. I drag my finger along the welcome table, swirling patterns, irregular and petty. Her coat is still hanging from the gnarled hatstand, and I wipe the dust from my finger on the thick woollen sleeve.
The stairs exhale a painful groan with each step, and I find myself hovering on the final tread. This was the only step that made a sound when I’d lived here. This was my warning. I place my foot down and feel my tummy tighten as the unique sound makes my foot start to shake. I stamp it down heavily. The sound is different this time, and I stamp my other foot, too.
No need to fucking tremble, Sam. She’s not here
, I reprimand myself. I stride the remainder of the corridor and don’t hesitate when I reach for the door handle of my old room. I step inside.
