Ravaged burned inc, p.1
Ravaged (Burned Inc.), page 1
PRAISE FOR NAIMA SIMONE
“Passion, heat, and deep emotion—Naima Simone is a gem!”
—Maisey Yates, New York Times bestselling author
“Simone balances crackling, electric love scenes with exquisitely rendered characters.”
—Entertainment Weekly
OTHER TITLES BY NAIMA SIMONE
Secrets and Sins
Gabriel
Malachim
Raphael
Chayot
Guarding Her Body
Witness to Passion
Killer Curves
Bachelor Auction
Beauty and the Bachelor
The Millionaire Makeover
The Bachelor’s Promise
A Millionaire at Midnight
Lick
Only for a Night
Only for Your Touch
Only for You
WAGS
Scoring with the Wrong Twin
Scoring Off the Field
Scoring the Player’s Baby
The Sweetest Taboo
Sin and Ink
Passion and Ink
Blackout Billionaires
The Billionaire’s Bargain
Black Tie Billionaire
Blame It on the Billionaire
Ruthless Pride
Trust Fund Fiancé
Billionaires of Boston
Vows in Name Only
Secrets of a One Night Stand
The Perfect Fake Date
The Black Sheep Bargain
Back in the Texan’s Bed
Broody Brit
Rose Bend
Slow Dance at Rose Bend
The Road to Rose Bend
A Kiss to Remember
Christmas in Rose Bend
The Love List
With Love from Rose Bend
Fairy Tales Unleashed
Bargain with the Beast
A Perfect Fit
Grading Curves
Sweet Surrender
Flirting with Sin
BURNED Inc.
Heated
Trapper Keeper Diaries
Jesse’s Girl
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2022 Naima Bryant
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542030687
ISBN-10: 1542030684
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes
To Gary. 143.
To Connie Marie Butts.
I will miss you forever and love you even longer.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE MIRIAM
CHAPTER TWO JORDAN
CHAPTER THREE MIRIAM
CHAPTER FOUR MIRIAM
CHAPTER FIVE JORDAN
CHAPTER SIX MIRIAM
CHAPTER SEVEN JORDAN
CHAPTER EIGHT MIRIAM
CHAPTER NINE JORDAN
CHAPTER TEN MIRIAM
CHAPTER ELEVEN MIRIAM
CHAPTER TWELVE JORDAN
CHAPTER THIRTEEN JORDAN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN MIRIAM
CHAPTER FIFTEEN JORDAN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN JORDAN
EPILOGUE MIRIAM
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
MIRIAM
“World-devastating war. Cataclysmic earthquakes. Evil wizards and their minions bent on total annihilation. Mankind has survived them all. Yet love . . . fucking love will be the end of us all.”
—Sarafina Rose, Ravaged Lands
There are times when I wish my job was as a psycho clown with a particularly virulent hatred for vigilantes dressed like bats so I could throat punch them. Guilt-free.
I mean, being one-third owner of Breaking Up, Reversing Nuptials & Evading Disasters—or BURNED Inc., a full-service breakup company—isn’t always shits and giggles. There is the enormous amount of paperwork; the occasional asshole clients my sister, Zora, won’t allow me to drag ’cause of their assholery; the sometimes stifling constraints of the marketing and promotional projects. The “Who’s handling Miriam?” side-eye traded by my older brother and sister.
Yeah. Not always shits and giggles.
But today is not that day.
Or rather night.
I pick up a chilled bottle of champagne out of the black-and-gold ice bucket on the low smoked-glass table in front of me. The light from the overhead fixtures hits the liquid, and for a moment, I’m captivated by the pale shade. It’s so fragile. So innocent, almost. And yet strong, capable of felling a person if not prudently handled. I love this color. No, no. I respect this color.
And maybe I just need to pour the champagne.
Carefully, I pour the bubbly into two waiting flutes, not stopping until the gold alcohol almost meets the rims. With a satisfied grin, I replace the bottle in the bucket and hand one of the glasses over to the gorgeous brunette perched next to me on the black leather sofa.
“Cheers.” I clink my glass to hers and sip the wine, humming as the light, delicious liquid flows over my tongue. “Ooh. This is good.”
I’m glad I demanded my client not skimp on the amenities. Top bottle service. The most expensive and private VIP booth with the best view of the popular Denver nightclub dance floor teeming with gyrating bodies. The soundproof glass prevents most of the sonorous bass and music spun by one of the country’s top DJs from infiltrating the luxuriously appointed space. More leather furniture, opaque switchable privacy windows . . . oh yes, my client went all out.
As he should since he’s dumping this poor girl like last night’s Chinese-food takeout.
Which is probably how long he dated her too.
Fucking athletes.
But hey. Clients are clients.
Still, millionaires or not, when I’m breaking up with their “girlfriends,” it’s going to be done with dignity and respect for these women who have the misfortune to fall for the bullshit lines these players dish out like free pancake breakfasts. And while I love free shit as much as the next person, what I’ve learned is it will probably give you worms. Or worse.
Ronnie—doubt that’s her government name—eyes me over the rim of her glass. “Thanks for this.” She tips her head to the side, and her sheet of thick, shiny dark hair flows over a shoulder. That’s a trick I’ve never been able to master. Even if I straightened my natural shoulder-length curls, I’d still never achieve that move. And not only because of the hair. It requires a coyness that I’m incapable of. “And not to sound ungrateful, because I’m very appreciative. But will Linc be arriving soon?”
Lincoln “Linc” Young. Star point guard for the Nuggets, another of Jordan Ransom’s teammates. And my client.
As one of the three owners of BURNED, I’m not usually responsible for the actual breaking up with people; we have staff for this who carry out any number of packages that range from ending relationships through text to a fancy dinner to even skywriting. Okay, fine, not skywriting. Zora and Levi vetoed my idea, but we have broken up with someone by singing telegram. Singing. Telegram, folks. I kid you not. But I digress . . .
This—sitting in the superelite and private VIP section of the hottest nightclub in the city on a Friday evening—isn’t my usual gig. But when your clientele encompasses celebrity athletes who, thanks to your best friend, have not only discovered your company as a way of avoiding messy “scenes” but have adopted you as their unofficial little sister, then you give the customer what they want. And my customers happen to want my personal touch. Which means I’m stuck breaking up with their girlfriends. Or hookups. Or hookups who stay too long and believe they’re girlfriends.
Fucking athletes.
“Listen, Ronnie.” I cross one black-leather-clad leg over the other, prop my arm on it, and lean forward. Even though the soundproofing in here is excellent and she can hear me perfectly. “You’re gorgeous, got a body that could make a priest rethink the whole celibacy thing, have confidence that rocks your sexy factor from a ten to a fifteen, and just from the time we’ve spent together, you’re not only beautiful but smart and witty too.” I snort, catching the slight stiffening of her shoulders and the small shifting of her body away from mine. “Calm down, sis. I’m not hitting on you. Although, you should be so lucky. I’m a great fucking catch.”
I really am.
But only for a night or two. Then I’d throw my own self back overboard.
“Oh.” She lets out a breathy and relieved laugh. I’m trying hard not to be offended. “I didn’t think you were. I just didn’t know where you were going for a moment there.”
“It shouldn’t be an odd thing for us to compliment each other. Especially women. We should normalize straightening each other’s crown, not suspecting an ulterior motive but instead knowing I’m not going to let anyone try to knock it off. Anyone.” Ronnie starts to frown, and I softly inhale and let it out. “Lincoln’s not coming, Ronnie,” I say. And not softly, not gently. Not i
I wave a hand, indicating the well-appointed room, the top-service alcohol, and the club beyond. From what Linc told me during our consultation, he’d met Ronnie at this club . . . he thought. Maybe. At least he believed it was Ronnie he’d met here.
Again. Fucking. Athletes.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Ronnie’s grip tightens so hard around her glass that a fissure of concern zigzags through me. It’d be a shame if she got champagne on that stunning white bandage dress. Oh, and blood. That too. “Please tell me you’re fucking kidding me.”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I can’t do that.”
Her harsh laughter rings out in the suite, and it reminds me of the Liberty Bell. Loud, clear, but with a jagged crack right up the middle. “I can’t believe this. I honestly cannot believe this,” she mutters, tipping her head back and staring at the ceiling. I take the opportunity to slip the glass from her fingers. Better safe than sorry. Especially if she intends on returning the dress in the morning. No shade. Those are my plans for my leather jacket. “We meant something to one another.” She returns her stunned, angry gaze to me. “I know we did. He told me he cared about me. And then he breaks up with me by proxy? He doesn’t even have the nerve to face me and do it himself? Who does that? What kind of person agrees to do it for him? Is this fun for you?”
I was expecting this transference of emotion. It makes sense since I’m the only available target. And it’s a fair question. Hell, it’s one my own parents ask. Over and over . . . and over again. Ad nauseam.
“Look, Ronnie, you strike me as the kind of woman who deserves and wants honesty.” I wait for the abrupt jerk of her chin.
Each client requires a different approach, because each one is just that—different. But she seems like a straight shooter to me . . . even if she somehow convinced herself that she had more than a one-night stand and some change with Lincoln Young. Even the smartest women can lose their heads over celebrity and big dick. I should know. I grind my teeth. Yeah. This is so not about me.
“Lincoln is a nice guy, a fun guy,” I continue. “But he’s not the staying, house-family-picket-fence kind of guy. More like the house-bros-with-hos-in-the-hot-tub-for-an-orgy-it-ain’t-no-fun-if-the-homies-can’t-have-none kind of guy. I’m sure he did care about you because, like I said, nice guy. But, sis, be honest with yourself. Or be mad at yourself. But don’t delude yourself. He was not your guy. He is not the one who will walk beside you through this life, sharpening you like iron, making you better even as you do the same for him. He isn’t the one who will show you the true meaning of love. He just wasn’t that person.” I dare to reach and cover her fisted hand with mine. “Chalk this up as a lesson learned and some good sex. At least I hope it was good sex,” I grumble, squeezing her hand. “And as for what kind of person breaks up with a person on the behalf of someone else? A person who wants to make sure your feelings are handled with care. Not trashed and discarded. Because they matter. And so do you.”
I give her hand one last squeeze and release it, then grab my abandoned drink. After all that love-and-completion nonsense, my throat is parched. Everything else, oh, I definitely meant. She deserves only the best, and Lincoln Young isn’t it. But that nasty four-letter word that’s worse than any f-bomb I could drop? Not a chance in hell.
Ronnie stares at me for several long moments, then dips her head.
“Thank you for that,” she murmurs.
I smile, turning back to the table and picking up the glass I’d removed from her earlier death grip. After handing it back to her, I hold up my own. And looking at her, at how, yes, gorgeous she is but also how strong and dignified even in the face of being broken up with by someone else other than the one who dicked her, I see her as stunning. A queen. She’s a fucking queen. One with sad eyes and regal bearing. And no one’s taking her crown.
“A toast.” I wait until Ronnie takes the glass and, though not smiling, holds it up to mine. “When one door closes . . . get a hammer, and nail that bitch shut.”
She snickers and taps her glass to mine. “Amen to that.”
We both damn near drain the champagne without coming up for air. When the last drop is gone, I grab the bottle, pop the top, and pour more for her.
“Listen, old sayings are old for a good reason. They’re true. And since we have the best champagne, the most exclusive VIP room in the hottest club packed full of some seriously fine men, this saying is appropriate. The best way to get over a man is to fuck a finer one with a bigger dick.”
She blinks, then barks out a loud crack of laughter. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s how that goes. Although, I think it should.”
“Right?” I shoot up from the couch and hold out my hand. “C’mon, babe. Let’s go shake our asses and run up a horrendously expensive bar tab.”
She studies my palm for a moment; then, shaking her head, she slaps her palm on top of mine and allows me to tug her to her feet. “I’m game. Let’s do it.” She downs more champagne and then squeezes my hand. “Miriam.”
I arch an eyebrow. “What’s up?”
“Thank you. For . . . being kind while dumping me. A lot of women wouldn’t have.”
The sad part? She’s not wrong. And that’s why I’m in this business. My sister, Zora? She has her reasons. And they all revolve around our train wreck of a childhood courtesy of our parents. Zora, Levi, and I deserve veteran benefits because of them. Me, though? Everyone deserves to be handled, to be treated with care, with respect . . . with decency. You’d think that was a given, but it’s not.
Yeah . . . it’s not.
Mentally shaking my head and clearing it of thoughts that should have cobwebs—I wish to God had cobwebs—I pull on her hand and lead her toward the VIP suite exit.
“You’re welcome. Now, we have acts on our agenda that will have us waking up tomorrow questioning our morality.”
Snickering, she follows me, and the sound blooms in my chest like a bud unfurling its petals before the sun. No, I don’t take these jobs often. But this feeling right here. This explains why I do.
“Renae, we’re going to hit the—damn, hold on a sec.” I frown, popping up a finger, as my cell vibrates against my ass. After sliding my phone free, I glance down at the screen and force my expression to remain clear. “Ronnie, I have to take this. Why don’t you go ahead with Renae, and I’ll catch up with you two?”
I pin the other woman with a pointed look. Though most people might figure her smooth chestnut skin and sharp cheekbones would be more at home on a supermodel, Renae is one of the most lethal women I know. Which is why BURNED hired her for our security staff to cover the asses of our employees when they’re out on jobs. Becoming my best friend is just a side benefit.
Ronnie scans Renae from the top of her dark-red twists pulled into a bun on top of her head to the black lace of her tight tank and the red leather of her pants. As a slow smile curls her mouth, I just manage not to roll my eyes. My best friend elicits that reaction from men and women—and rocks.
“Take your time,” Ronnie purrs, then turns and descends the steps to the main part of the club.
“I’m not dancing,” Renae snaps, her hand on the doorknob. “It’s not in my job description, and you don’t pay me enough.”
“Fine.” I sigh. “Just get her a drink, and I’ll be right down.”
She jerks her chin. Then one corner of her mouth lifts into a smirk. “Tell Jordan I said hi.”
Before I can reply, she shuts the door, cutting off my girl Lizzo and leaving me in silence since the phone stopped ringing. But before I can move toward the door, it starts again.
“Dammit,” I growl, not even bothering to glance at the screen. I tap the answer button and press the cell to my ear. “What?”
My newest best friend—three-time NBA champion, all-star power forward of the Nuggets, resident pain in my ass, and onetime one-night stand, Jordan Ransom—laughs in my ear. The dark, filthy baritone rolls over me like sin wrapped in midnight, hiding sweaty secrets and dirty acts. Since no one is in here to witness it, I permit a shiver to ripple through me without hiding it. But that’s my only concession. Because friends don’t have orgasmic shivers over their friends.
But damn.
Jordan Ransom.
