Bite & Release

  Bite & Release

  by

  Cory Cyr

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  If someone had told me a year ago I would be writing Adult Romance, I would have laughed in that person’s face and said a few choice words. Nevertheless, here I am, with two Adult Romances under my belt. It has been an experience with quite a few ups and downs. Somehow, I thought writing the actual book would be the hard part, but—oh, hell no—it was everything required AFTER I wrote the words. That’s the hard part.

  Though I penned the story, it took many people to accomplish getting it out there. It wasn’t easy to find a good editor—well, let’s just say it was a trial and error situation—but when you finally find THE ONE, don’t let that person go . . . ever! I can never thank my editor, Effie Vernuccio, enough for her hard work and diligence, and all the late night SKYPING we did. On those SKYPE sessions, we discussed the never-ending rules regarding writing conventions, and deliberated male anatomy, as well as sexual positions, as if we were preparing lectures for an “advanced” sex ed. class. She not only made my manuscript better, but also had me laughing my ass off through some very stressful times. Thank you for being a fabulous editor, and now a very good friend.

  Cambria Hebert—you saved me so many times when I was at my wit’s end, and you were the voice of reason and sanity. Regardless of how busy you were, you were always available to answer my sometimes mundane and most likely irrelevant questions. You also sent me to a great formatter: Sharon, I have no doubt that you have the patience of a saint. Mary Ting—you believed in me from the start and my book, you inspired me to be a better writer, and I am so grateful to have you as a friend. Rose Dewallvin—you always answered any questions I had and kept in touch with me often. Robin Harper of Wicked by Design—I can never thank you enough; you turned a photo and one idea into a cover I could have never imagined. Daniel Boos—you are an amazing and gorgeous cover model, and I thank you so much for your time and generosity. Jacky Liebe—you are a fabulously talented photographer and your work with Daniel is nothing short of magical. Thank you for your patience and kindness throughout the tedious process of securing the photograph.

  Jo—you were there for me throughout the months, and your talent and support sustained me. Katrina, Erinn, Kathy, Jan, Lori, and Dee Dee—you are not only my best friends but also my lifelines. You held me up through some harsh times and never let me give up. Ben—you are the best male BFF ever. Not only are you a crazy talented science fiction writer, but also, no matter what, you kept me motivated and always had the ability to make me laugh, even when I let you beta read some pretty graphic sex scenes. My besties on Facebook: Sarah Kingsley, Melyssa Montes and LovemyfictionalBoyfriends—you three were solely responsible for motivating me daily with pictures of hot, naked men! I know I must have missed many people, but just know I appreciate ALL OF YOU.

  To my mom, my biggest fan and greatest cheerleader—I wish you were here to see this. To Julie and Tina, my besties who are no longer here to share this crazy adventure—I did it! And to you, J.J.—my bestie above all—I miss you like crazy! I wish you were still here . . . you would have so loved this!

  Prologue

  “Andrew Seamus Michaels, get your ass down here right now!” Shea could hear his father yelling all the way in the garage. He cowered in the corner, praying his drunken father wouldn't find him. He hated when his dad was like this, and it had become a daily thing now.

  “Don't worry, Shea . . . you’re okay, buddy. Just hang out here with me.” A hand reached down to pull him up.

  Eight year-old Shea sent a grateful smile to Mr. Chase, his savior and his friend. He loved helping Mr. Chase in the garage, fixing up his car, even occasionally doing some woodworking. It didn't matter as long as he could spend time away from his father, who drank too much beer and hit his mom, and sometimes even hit him.

  He had known Mr. Chase and his daughter, Ryan, for what seemed like forever. Ryan Chase was the only bright spot in his young life. She had been his babysitter for three years, and having her in his life had made him happy. Up until then, he had been miserable when the kids in school taunted him with the name “Seamus the penis.” Ryan had changed all that, the day she decided to take care of him, and she was the first person to ever call him “Shea.”

  Ryan was a real girl—strong, pretty, and funny. She could build a model car and make spaghetti. She was everything to him, and he loved her.

  He hadn't seen too much of her lately since she decided to drop out of college. Shea had heard her and her dad fighting—loudly. Ryan wanted to be an actress, and her dad wasn't having any of that. Mr. Chase was nice, though. He never drank and Shea had never seen him raise a hand to Ryan, so in his book, he was a pretty good dad. Now Ryan was moving away. She was going to leave Fairbanks for New York, and he would most likely never see her again.

  “Shea, hand me that philips,” Mr. Chase said, pointing to a screwdriver. He actually knew which one it was since Mr. Chase had taught him the different types. He picked it up, handed it to Mr. Chase and gave him a very somber, determined look.

  “Mr. Chase, can I ask you sum-thin?” Shea asked, looking very serious.

  Mr. Chase looked at Shea, his admiration of Shea’s spirit and resilience evident in his face. He knew the state of Shea’s family life.

  “Sure thing, sport . . . anything,” Mr. Chase replied, putting down the screwdriver and facing the young boy.

  “I know Ry’s leavin’ soon, but I want you to know . . .” He wanted so badly to get this out without crying. He blinked back tears. Big boys never cried, at least that’s what his father said, especially whenever he slapped him.

  “I’m gonna marry her.” Shea looked at Mr. Chase with self-assurance.

  Mr. Chase bit back a chuckle, trying to keep a straight face. The last thing he wanted to do was to break this little boy’s heart.

  “Come here, Shea.” Mr. Chase pulled over a stool, and Shea went and sat next to him.

  “You know Ryan’s going away, right?” Mr. Chase asked. Shea nodded grimly. “You know she’ll probably be gone for a long, long time, right?” Mr. Chase wanted so much to comfort this boy, but Shea’s expression stayed fixed.

  “Shea, Ryan is much older than you. You understand? You’re only eight years old. By the time you get to high school, you’ll be breaking h
earts left and right, especially with those big blue eyes. Trust me, son, you’ll meet the girl of your dreams, and I promise you, you’ll forget all about how you feel right now.” Mr. Chase pulled him into a short hug and ruffled his hair.

  Shea inhaled his tears. His insides hurt so badly and there was a lump in his throat the size of a basketball. If she was leaving, then he never wanted anyone ever calling him Shea, because that was her name for him. He’d wait for her, no matter what. He would love Ryan forever.

  Chapter ONE

  13 Years Later

  “Fuck me. I’d forgotten how much I loathe this fucking place.” I shook my head in disbelief, and a deep exhale escaped my lips, at the fact that I’d actually come back home.

  “Oh, come on, Ryan . . . it’s not that bad,” replied my best friend, Trina, with a smirk.

  “Says the girl who’s never been any damn place except fucking Alaska, and holy Mother of God, you dyed your hair red!” I paused to push my sunglasses down and just stared at her bright red locks. I grabbed my suitcases and carry-on, tossing them into Trina’s Honda.

  I had known her since we were teenagers, and here I was again, back in bitter hell, for three reasons.

  Trina was getting married.

  I had run away from my abusive husband.

  And my dad had died.

  “I’m so glad you finally came back! We can hang, go shopping, and you’ll help me with my wedding stuff, right?” Trina looked at me, smiling, as she started up the car. I knew she was trying to keep my mind off of my dad’s funeral tomorrow.

  “Um . . . you do realize this is not a fucking vacation. I’m here for my dad’s funeral, remember that.” I replied, rolling my eyes. At this point, I hadn’t decided if I was annoyed because of fucking Alaska, Trina’s wedding, or my dad just up and dying the way he did. Frankly, everything annoyed me right now.

  “Are you going to use the F word the entire time you’re here?” Trina asked, frowning.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m going to say FUCK every fucking five seconds, because it’s what I fucking learned in New York, so fuck, fuck, and more fuck.” Trina held up her hands in surrender, laughing, begging me to stop.

  “It’s not that bad here, and you didn’t just come for the funeral. I do hope you’re planning to divorce that tool, right?” Trina wondered, eyeing me. Trina had never met Garrison, but she hated him just the same. Her dislike of him came via word of mouth—my mouth.

  “One of the many things I have to work out while I’m here, in the vacation spot from hell,” I figured, sulking. I had no doubt that my husband was currently calling my entire friends’ list on Facebook and Twitter. Goddamn unprotected passwords. Trina thought he was just a tool, which was true, but Garrison Fletcher was also an abusive asshole who enjoyed smacking me around and forcing himself on me every time he got bombed. I’d been staying with friends, but after six months of Garrison continually drunk dialing me at 2:00 a.m., pounding on my friend’s door in the middle of the night, and making threatening calls to them at work, my dead father’s funeral was the perfect excuse to get the fuck out of Dodge.

  I hadn’t spoken to my dad in five years. It wasn’t actually a fight, but after eight years, I’d finally gotten tired of defending my decisions in the constant arguments that he preferred to call “discussions.” I was convinced my dad never got over me dropping out of school and going to New York.

  True, I had hoped to become a serious actress, but in the last thirteen years, I barely managed to get some commercial work. I did a couple of Broadway shows. Well, off Broadway . . . way off. I had been continually offered nude modeling work, as well as quite a few roles in sexually explicit movies, but those assholes only saw me as a pretty face with pouty lips and big boobs. Every time I auditioned, my body and my face got in the way of a director recognizing any true acting ability. In my utter failure to find work and resulting depression, I met Garrison.

  He seemed to be the answer to all my prayers. Good looking, lots of money, and he had connections. He had wined and dined me just to get in my pants and pretended to love me. Then he’d bought me a big fancy diamond, so I ended up marrying him, five years ago. It had all been a ruse.

  Garrison Fletcher hoped to market me as a porn star. Just the thought of his “plan” still made me snort. He’s lucky I hadn’t pulled a Bobbitt and whacked his dick off. Trust me, no small loss there. When I had refused to take off my clothes for any of the auditions he set up for me, he decided that knocking me around would eventually change my mind. Oh, he made sure he never left marks on my face, just bruised the parts of my body where they wouldn’t show. I had tried for almost three years to leave him, but the prick always found me, and when he did, the abuse was bad—hospital-bound bad.

  So here I was, back home in cold, boring, miserable Fairbanks. Fairbanks was scenic, very pretty, and it kind of resembled a big city, but it wasn’t one. I had always yearned for big city lights, and honestly, if I wanted the northern lights, snow-capped mountains, water and fish I’d buy a postcard.

  I was born and raised in Fairbanks, but when I turned twenty-one, the only thing I could think of was leaving this place. New York City had bitter winters and sweltering summers with high humidity, but at night the city came alive with the bright lights, the parties, the club scene and the beautiful people, and all of this made up for any bad weather it offered. Fairbanks was not known for its changing seasons or stellar weather. The temperature never came even close to eighty degrees, even in the hottest months, and because of the time changes, even the “summer” months had cool nights. Oh how I hated Alaskan time and days that seemed to go on forever until the winter months, when darkness was a perpetual thing.

  I chewed on my bottom lip as we made the drive through the city. It all looked so different; true, the city had grown, yet I still felt suffocated with the desire to run away from this place. All I could think of was how I fucked up my life, and that, at age thirty-four, I shouldn’t have any regrets.

  Unfortunately, I had plenty.

  Chapter TWO

  I couldn’t believe my eyes when we pulled into my dad’s driveway. After thirteen years, the house looked almost exactly like the day I left. The house was still pretty, for an oversized log cabin. My father had been an architect and had not only designed it but also built it as a wedding present to my mom. It was a big two-story house¸ with quite a bit of property, and from what I was looking at currently—extremely over-grown property. The weeds were almost five feet tall and the yard desperately needed to be mowed. All of the flower beds were dead. Yeah, almost nothing had changed, except now my dad was dead. Just like the flowers.

  My mother died giving birth to me in this house. I guess I came too fast and the paramedics didn’t come fast enough. That’s why I got both of their names. Originally I was to be called Julie, but I suppose the loss of my mom put my dad into a tail spin, so I was named “Ryan” for my dad, Riley, and my mom, Ann.

  I had always felt that life would have been easier if I’d been a boy—not so much for me, but for my dad. When I was little, I’d been daddy’s little girl. When I became a teenager and discovered boys, sex, rock and roll and drugs, in that order, all bets were off. From the time I had turned fifteen until the day I’d left, all my dad and I had done was argue about anything and everything.

  When I turned eighteen, Trina and I became friends. I had seen her plenty of times in school when she was a freshmen and I was a senior. We had been neighbors for years, but until she became a student at my school, we had never really connected. I kind of felt sorry for her because her dad drank and was notoriously abusive. Sometimes I could hear screaming all the way to my house and I knew it was the Michaels’ family. Trina’s dad had been some big shot attorney, but when he got into a bad car accident, his injuries were so severe that he probably never fully recovered, and it caused him to spiral out of control. I supposed that was why he drank and became a wife beater. I really never asked for a lot of details because I
hadn’t wanted to pry.

  I saw Trina’s mom quite often because she always came over with brownies, cookies and pies. Over the years, she and my dad had become friends. Trina’s mom had offered me a part-time job watching Andrew, Trina’s younger brother, at my house in the afternoon. Trina was busy with all her extra after school activities and I didn’t have a job, just acting classes at night, so taking care of her little brother was an easy way to pick up a few bucks. When Trina wasn’t busy with other things, she would come over and we would spend time together. Even though we were becoming good friends, somehow I always knew the time we spent together was because she was trying to escape her family life. Babysitting and Trina coming over more often was how I began to gather information about the Michaels’ home life. Even though Mrs. Michaels didn’t have to work because Trina’s father had been a highly paid attorney, I think Trina’s mom had had enough. I’m sure she had decided to go back to work, just to get out of the house and away from her husband, but she feared for her children, which made her grateful when they stayed with my dad and me.

  Trina’s father and my dad never seemed too friendly. In fact, at times, I felt as though there was real animosity between them. There were many times when Mr. Michaels would show up driving a golf cart, yelling for Trina and her brother. I remembered quite a few times when I heard my father attempting to calm Mr. Michaels down.

  Trina had been only fourteen at the time, and her younger brother was five. Although I was four years older at the time, we always got along and stayed best friends all these years. When I was just about to move to New York, newly graduated Trina was starting a part-time internship at a bank and her little brother had just entered third grade. Even though acting was my main goal, it was hard leaving Trina. Even after I moved to New York, we stayed in touch, talking and texting on the phone at least twice a week and sending letters and gifts. I’m pretty sure it was Trina who had been feeding information to my dad about me and how I was doing. She was a good friend though; she had left out the bad parts, which constituted about seventy-five percent of my life in the last few years.