Recompense For Love: Book Three of the Against All Odds Series Read online

  RECOMPENSE

  for love

  Book Three of the Against All Odds Series

  gemini jensen

  Recompense For Love

  Copyright © 2019 by Gemini Jensen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any way, including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photo-copying, recording or any other means without the explicit permission of the author, except for brief quotations of the book when writing a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, brands (unless otherwise noted), places, incidents and even facts are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people—alive or dead—is completely coincidental.

  All song titles and lyrics in this book are property of the copyright owners, and are in no way linked to the author.

  This book is for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Design:

  Gemini Jensen

  Recompense for Love Playlist

  “Underdressed”—Verité

  “Bad at Love”—Halsey

  “Somewhere With You”—Kenny Chesney

  “Don’t Wanna Be Your Girl”—Wet

  “Grey”—EXES

  “Constant Crush”—Verité

  “Strange Enough”—Verité

  “Again”—Noah Cyrus ft. XXXTENTACION

  “Nightcall”—Kavinsky

  “i hate u, i love u”—gnash ft. Olivia O’Brein

  “Stop Crying Your Heart Out”—Oasis

  “Somewhere Only We Know”—Keane

  “This Town”—Niall Horan

  “Poison & Wine”—The Civil Wars

  “Painted on My Heart”—The Cult

  “Never Be the Same”—Camila Cabello

  “Not Afraid Anymore”—Halsey

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Stalk Me!

  About the Author

  Other Titles & Upcoming Projects by Gemini Jensen

  Dedicated to the Lyra’s of the world.

  To those who face silent battles.

  To the girls who never quite fit in.

  To those who are scared to give love another shot.

  To those who put on a brave face when they feel like they no longer can.

  Never give up. Believe in yourself. Never lose faith in the beauty of life.

  Prologue

  My mother once advised me not to rush into big decisions. “You have all the time in the world,” she’d said.

  Two months later she was diagnosed with breast cancer.

  Two months after that, she was gone.

  Anger was the first emotion I experienced once I emerged from my hazy stupor. My brother, Gray, all but fell off the face of the earth once she was diagnosed. He couldn’t handle seeing the woman he thought was invincible suffering the way she was, withering away until only a husk remained.

  I couldn’t handle it either, but I—a seventh grade girl—wasn’t given a choice in the matter. I was forced to handle it.

  To say my father wasn’t dealing with the news would be the understatement of the century. Where Gray couldn’t handle Mom’s imminent death, Dad was an outright sloppy mess. He couldn’t look at her without breaking down. He couldn’t be in the same room with her without pacing the floor. He couldn’t find an ounce of sleep without first drowning himself in a bottle, and thus, he couldn’t care for her the way she needed to be cared for.

  That’s where I picked up the responsibilities. When the nurse or my Nana Rose wasn’t around, I was the one bathing her and making sure she ate, even when all she could handle was soup broth. I held the straw to her lips so that she could get a sip of water on the days she was too weak, and I read her favorite Romance novels—omitting certain scenes that should never be read aloud—on the days she felt too out of sorts to even hold up a book.

  And the day she died, I held myself liable.

  She was already at Stage 4 at the time she was diagnosed; she’d been steadily declining from that day on, yet I felt I was to blame. If I’d have only forced her to at least drink more soup broth and take a few vitamins, maybe she’d have had enough strength to make it another day. Maybe I’d have bought her more time.

  Time. It always comes down to that four-letter word, and sadly, this wouldn’t be my first, or even my last lesson in the matter. I would come to learn over and over again, time could be your friend, or it could be your enemy. We’re always trying to steal more of it, buy more of it, borrow more, and in the worst of circumstances, to turn it back.

  The universe was made over the course of billions upon billions of years; the Earth’s geological history divided into eons and eras and periods of time, and then broken down even further.

  If time were a tangible object, there would be a universal wealth of it—yet time, abundant as it may be, is always the one thing we wish for more of.

  With Mom, I’d have bought more.

  With my best friend, Nash, I’d have stolen more.

  Until the night came when all my options were taken away. No more buying. No more borrowing. No more stealing. And absolutely no turning it back.

  Chapter One

  Nash

  “Wake up, Mr. Hefner. I’ve got your coffee and breakfast waiting.”

  I ignore the jab referring to my former promiscuous, playboy ways, cracking one eye open to find my fiancée, Jenna, standing in the doorway of my bedroom.

  “Dammit woman, it’s Mr. Hudson. You sure you know exactly who it is you’re marrying? You’re not still holding out hope of becoming Playmate of the Year are you?”

  “Hardy har-har.” Her reply is full of sarcasm. “My posing for Playboy was a one-time gig.” I can’t help but smirk, because ironically, my sinfully sexy bride-to-be is wearing her favorite apron—which is an irony in and of itself because she’s hardly domesticated, but not for lack of trying. Her birthday suit makes up the rest of the ensemble.

  A breakfast tray sits perched in her perfectly manicured hands, the princess-cut diamond I gave her this past August on her birthday on full display. I instantly slide into sitting position, stretching my arms above my head to rid myself of the stiffness in my neck, but also because I’ve heard you’re supposed to warm-up before engaging in any physical activities.

  Jenna’s being awake before me happened about once in a 365 day cycle, and her making breakfast—even less. I’m guessing I’m getting ready to be used, and I can’t say I mind.

  My eyes devour
her, starting at her voluptuous tits that peek out from behind the ruffled edges of her French-maid apron and sliding along her narrow waist that curves into a trim-yet-full set of hips. The smell of burnt food hits my nose right at about the same time, and it’s suddenly clear which of my hungers will win out.

  “C’mere.” I motion for her with the crook of my finger, and she scowls, but follows the command anyway. I trick her by taking the tray—which unsurprisingly contains the saddest looking eggs and burnt-to-a-crisp bacon I’ve ever laid eyes on—and quickly sitting it on the bedside table, grabbing her wrist before she has the opportunity to retreat.

  “Naassh,” she whines as I pull her into my lap, “I have to get ready for my audition later.”

  I toss her glossy blonde locks over her shoulder, planting a kiss on the curve of her neck as I mumble, “Then maybe you shouldn’t serve your future husband breakfast in bed wearing next to nothing…” I plant another kiss to her soft skin. “And then be surprised when he’s more interested in devouring you instead of his food.”

  She giggles, and it’s a husky and perfect sound, music to my fucking ears. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that this is my life. I went from fucking any girl who was hot and willing—hey, don’t judge me…I always wrapped it before I tapped it—to metaphorically burying my depression at the same time I literally buried my dick, to this…domestic bliss with the hottest girl on the planet. She was Miss May for fuck’s sake.

  Is this real life? It’s a question I ask myself on the daily. Five years ago, I wouldn’t believe this would be me one day. In high-school, my life changed when I lost my family in a car accident. It took me this long to rid myself of some of the guilt I felt over being the only survivor. I was drenched in a deep depression I tried desperately to mask, doing anything I could to take the edge off and distract myself, which typically meant engaging in what I liked to refer to at the time as “sexual healing.” It was a sad and lonely way of life.

  Then, I met this doll at the party of one of my old college buddies, Jake, who is an up-and-coming musician. The moment I laid eyes on her, I knew I had to have her. So, fast forward a year later, and here we are…getting ready to say our nuptials in a few short months. She’s my BBF, and no, I didn’t get that wrong. It stands for Blonde, Busty, Friend. Or maybe it’s Blonde, Busty, Fuck. I always forget.

  “When’s your audition?” I ask, not because I intend to let her off the hook, but because I want to know exactly how quick we need to make this. I do care about her ambitions of being a model, and while she didn’t complete college and I fully realize I’ll be the primary bread winner until she lands a steady gig, I’m cool with it. I’ll pay for every penny, which I already do anyway, just so she can chase her dreams.

  “At lunchtime.” Her lashes flutter as she shoots me a look that’s meant to be coy. It isn’t.

  I reach behind her, yanking on her apron strings and pulling the top part over her head. Nipping on her bottom lip, I growl when her tits smash against my bare chest.

  “Munchkin, your food will be cold,” she whines, her go-to tone of choice.

  “That food is scorched. Pretty sure it couldn’t get cold if it tried.”

  She gasps in fake-horror at my bluntness.

  “But you did make the coffee correctly this time, so A for effort babe.” I toss her down beside me, climbing over top of her and entering her, pleased to find she’s already drenched.

  “Make it quick then,” she giggles. But I ignore the suggestion. I relish in every moment of being with her. That’s what happens when you’ve already found out the hard way how everything can change in the blink of an eye.

  ~XoXo~

  An hour later I’m standing in the shower, enjoying the hot stream of water that cascades over me as Jenna yaps on about her plans for the day while applying her make-up.

  “I really think I have a real shot at this, and if I get it, do you think you’ll be able to work from home, or I mean, like, on the go? Because if so, I’ll be travelling a lot.”

  I cut the shower off, reaching for the towel. “Sure, Babe. Sounds nice.”

  Just as I’m stepping out and wrapping the towel around my lower half, there’s a knock at the door. We both groan simultaneously, and Jenna flicks a glance at my current state of helplessness.

  “Guess I’ll be getting that,” she snips, hurrying to finish up swiping her mascara on. Most of the time it’s one of her many girlfriends, so she might as well be the one to do it anyway.

  She hurries from the room, and I strain my ears to hear who’s at the door this time.

  Soft murmuring is all I can make out, so I chalk it up to one of her friends finding herself in some boy crisis she wants to keep under wraps from me. Most likely it’s Mila coming to complain about my buddy Austin, her on-again off-again boyfriend, if you can even label him that. The pair argues more than they agree, and spend more time making up than together.

  I yank my shirt over my head, then put the jeans on I’d laid out for myself last night. Just as I’m stepping into my shoes, Jenna appears at the door, her face ashen and solemn like someone just died. She stares at me like I’m some strange new creature who’s magically taken her fiancé’s place in the five minutes she’s been gone. Maybe I’m an alien-clone replacing the real Nash.

  “What?” My tone is defensive from the weird energy she’s giving off, even though I know there’s not anything I could have done to warrant it.

  My voice apparently breaks through the barriers and gets through to her. She shakes her head as if to shake off the current state of disbelief she seems to be under, clearing her throat. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  “Okaaay,” I draw out slowly, “So, who is it?” I snap the last part, irritation beginning to grow from her ambiguity. “I’d like a little bit of forewarning if I’m walking into a hostile situation of sorts.”

  “I told her to wait in the living room, but I have to get ready. I’m running late.” She walks on into the bathroom, and for the first time since we’ve been together, gives me the cold shoulder. She’s acting as if I’ve fucked around her or something, and I can say with one hundred percent certainty that I haven’t.

  “Chicks and their mood swings,” I grumble under my breath as I walk out to meet this mystery woman who’s apparently come to visit, instantly interrupting the harmonious flow of mine and my fiancée’s relationship as soon as she stepped foot through the door.

  My eyes land on an older lady I’ve never seen in my life. She’s sitting in my living room, settled onto my black leather sofa, her leg jostling nervously. She’s so nervous, it’s making me nervous.

  I walk on around the couch to see who she is, because from the side, I don’t have the slightest idea. A frontal view doesn’t give much aid either, but it does highlight the fact she’s not alone. A little boy is huddled up underneath one arm, holding a cell phone in his hand as he plays some childlike game consisting of shapes and colors.

  The woman, who’s silver hair is so shiny it almost looks plastic, is staring at the painting of Jenna on the wall. It’s a nude one done in acrylic, showcasing her voluptuous body in strange colors. Her nipples, for instance, are teal—not my choice for living room material, but my fiancée claims it helps modernize the feel of our home.

  I clear my throat to garner her attention.

  “Oh,” she jumps, one hand landing at her heart in surprise.

  “Can I help you?” I can’t contain the aggravation that seeps into my tone. I’m getting ready to head into work, my girl is acting weird now that this lady has spoken with her, and I have no godly idea who she is or what she wants.

  She opens her mouth, then snaps it shut again, and my short fuse burns down a little further.

  “Okay, maybe we should just start with your name,” I suggest, a bit more harshly than is necessary.

  Her head nods eagerly, and I arch a brow to urge her into speaking.

  “My name is Nancy Stewart, and this is my grandson, Ari.�
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  Ari perks his little head up at his name, seemingly broken out of his game-induced daze. His bright green eyes meet mine before he looks me up and down as if sizing me up. I instantly straighten my posture, not sure what he’s looking to find in me. A little line forms between his brows, as his lips purse. Apparently, I don’t pass the test.

  I turn my attention back to the boy’s grandmother, because quite frankly, something about him makes me edgy. The hairs have begun to rise on my arms. Never a good sign.

  “Nancy,” I nod my head in greeting. Then, I force myself to do the same with Ari, who’s still staring at me hardcore. “Ari.” I stuff my hands in my pockets, rolling back on my heels. “So, what can I do for you guys today?”

  A sad expression crosses Nancy’s face. “Do you,” she begins, then corrects herself as her eyes drift to the TV in the corner of the room. “Could we maybe put a show on for Ari to watch so we can speak for a minute.”

  I want to be rude, to tell her to spit it out, that I don’t have all day. In reality, I do have all day. I make my own schedule, but the suspense is killing me here and I’m not sure if this story is one where I come out the victor, or the victim.

  “Sure,” I grumble, picking up the remote and flipping it to the Disney channel. Ari leaps from his seat, running forward and parking himself in the floor directly in front of my entertainment center.

  When it’s clear he’s completely engrossed in whatever cartoonish program is playing, I turn back to his grandmother, glancing at the clock on the wall as a hint. “So, what do you need ma’am?”

  “Ari’s mother died a few months ago…it was completely out of the blue. I didn’t see it coming, because, honestly I’ve been fighting my own battles for a while.”

  I look more closely at the woman, noting the white pallor of her skin, of her tiny and feeble appearance. My gaze slides over her hair again, and I finally realize she’s wearing a wig.

  “What happened?” I find myself asking in spite of myself. I might be impatient, but I’m not an asshole. At least, not all the time.