Something True (Joel Bishop Book 2) Read online

  Something True

  NOTE:

  This is the second full-length novel in a completed two-book series.

  Something Tattered (Book 1)

  Something True (Book 2)

  By Sabrina Stark

  USA Today Bestselling Author

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  Copyright © 2017 by Sabrina Stark

  Chapter 1

  I gave the guy at the warehouse door a desperate look. "But why can't I go in?"

  He was huge, nearly seven feet tall and half as wide. He crossed his beefy arms and said, "Because I don't know you."

  I craned my neck to stare up at him. "So?"

  "So you don't get in."

  Well, that was helpful.

  It was nearly midnight, and I was huddled outside the nondescript warehouse with a dozen other poor slobs who'd gotten here too late to get inside without a hassle.

  But in my own defense, I was three hours from home in an unfamiliar city. My GPS was on the fritz, and I'd gotten lost somewhere between Zippy's Title Loan and Marvin's Pistol and Pawn.

  Behind me, I heard a female voice say, "Hey, are you gonna move aside or what?"

  I turned to look. The voice belonged to a buxom brunette in a black mini-skirt and matching bustier. She was showing a lot of skin, and I gave an involuntary shiver. It was mid-November, and we were north of Detroit. It wasn't quite freezing, but it was long past bustier weather.

  Where was her coat? Cripes, I was wearing a coat – a long one, too – and I was still freezing. Either she was immune to the cold, or she was willing to die, literally, to look like a high-class call girl.

  She gave me a nasty smirk. "You see something you like?"

  Embarrassed to be caught staring, I looked down, only to feel my heart leap out of my chest. Oh, my God. I did, in fact, see something – or someone, depending on how I looked at it.

  The something was the slick black-and-white photo clutched in the girl's hands. The someone was the guy in the photo – and not just any guy.

  My guy.

  Joel.

  In the photo, he was shirtless and glistening. His hair was damp, and his eyes were dark. The photo appeared to be some sort of publicity shot, like something a movie star might sign for a fan.

  But Joel wasn't a movie star. He was an underground fighter – not that I'd realized it the first time we'd met. That was how long ago?

  Eight weeks.

  Six of those weeks had been utter bliss. I'd slept in Joel's arms. I'd kissed him a million times over. I'd felt his hands on my ass and his lips on every private inch of my suddenly warm body.

  Now I could hardly breathe. My eyes were still glued to his image. It was a perfect likeness from what I could tell in the dim light of the warehouse parking lot.

  His body looked amazing, practically a work of art, with all those chiseled muscles and interesting ridges in all the right places. But it wasn't primarily his body, or even his beautiful face, that I was desperately missing.

  It was him, the incredible person I'd discovered underneath that tough exterior. He was warm and funny, and surprisingly sensitive, especially for a guy who made his money by beating the crap out of people.

  My stomach sank as a terrifying realization hit home. He was probably doing that right now, inside that big gray warehouse, just a few feet away.

  I had to see him.

  And I had to stop him.

  But how? Right now, I could barely move. And it was because of the photo. I couldn't bring myself to look away.

  But then, suddenly, it was gone, yanked back by the girl holding it. She made a sound of annoyance. "What's your problem, anyway?"

  I looked up. "What?"

  "Well, first, you're staring at me. And then, you're staring at him. What are you? Desperate or something?"

  Yes. I was desperate. Stupidly, I mumbled, "I, um, know him."

  "Oh yeah?" She gave me a not-so-friendly smile. "Well, I'm gonna know him, if you know what I mean." Her voice rose. "So back off, sister. I'm not freezing my ass off for nothing."

  I could hardly think. "Huh?"

  "Yeah," she said. "You think I'm dressed like this for my health?" She thrust out her chest. "I'm giving him a good eyeful of these."

  I looked. They were quite nice, perfectly round and nearly overflowing from the tight bodice of her bustier. I had to wonder, would Joel really be getting an eyeful? Oh, God. What if it was worse? What if he'd be getting a handful? Or – my stomach gave a sudden lurch – a mouthful?

  I didn't know what to say, but I did know that the thought of Joel ogling, touching, or kissing any other girl was a dagger straight into my own chest. I loved him. And he loved me.

  I was sure of it, even now – because when it came to that kind of love, it didn't simply go away, just because everything had gone to hell in a hand-basket.

  The girl's annoyed voice broke into my thoughts. "Hey! I wanted him to look, not you."

  Startled, I looked up. "What?'

  "I said, these—" She gave her goodies a little jiggle. "–are for him." Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Not you."

  My face burst into flames. It belatedly occurred to me that for who-knows-how-long, I'd been staring straight at her chest.

  I was losing it, totally.

  "Sorry," I mumbled. "I was, um, thinking of something else."

  "Sure you were." She gave a toss of her long, dark hair. "Pervert."

  Well, that was a first.

  From a few feet away, the big guy blocking the door called out, "Hey! Chickies! If you're waiting for Bishop, you're in the wrong place."

  I turned to look. Bishop? Oh. Of course, he meant Joel. That was, after all, Joel's last name. What was my problem lately? It was like my entire brain had turned to mush.

  Then again, was it any wonder? Joel and I had parted on such awful terms, and I'd spent the last two weeks frantically searching for him. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop wondering where he'd gone or what he was doing.

  I had to find him.

  And tonight, I thought I had found him. But the guy at the door had just said otherwise. Was he serious?

  I was just about to ask when Miss Bustier beat me to the punch by demanding, "What do you mean we're in the wrong place?"

  He flicked his head toward the side of the building. "Groupies over there."

  I looked to where he'd indicated. Around the side of the building, I spotted a big set of double doors. Outside those doors stood a gaggle of girls. All of them were decidedly under-dressed.

  The way it looked, Miss Bustier had some serious competition. As for me, I wanted no part of that scene. I bit my lip. I only prayed that Joel didn't either.

  I turned back to the guy and said, "I'm not a groupie."

  Miss Bustier said, "Yeah. Me neither."

  The guy gave us a bored look. "Uh-huh. Do what you want, but I'm telling ya, if you wanna catch him, that's where he'll be."

  And just like that, Miss Bustier was off in a flash, hustling in her high heels toward the side entrance. And heaven help me, a moment later, I was scrambling after her.

  Chapter 2

  Standing like an idiot outside those double doors, I took a subtle look around. Through the shadows, I saw long legs, high heels, exposed shoulders, and a whole lot of cleavage. I counted nine girls, including Miss Bustier.

  Counting me, it was ten.

  Talk about humiliating.

  I felt a poke in my side and turned to look. It was Bustier, who asked, "Which one do y
ou want?"

  "What?"

  "Which fighter?"

  I didn't want to tell her, mostly because she was giving me the crazy-eye again. "I'm just waiting for a friend. That's all."

  Her gaze narrowed. "A guy or a girl?"

  I gave a noncommittal shrug and turned away, hoping she'd take the hint.

  No such luck. She gave me another poke. "You don't mean Joel Bishop, do you? Because I already called him. Remember?"

  Oh yeah. I'd called him, too, at least a hundred times. He never answered, not even once. Yesterday, I'd gotten so desperate that I'd even called one of his brothers, for all the good that did.

  Next to me, the girl spoke again, louder now. "You heard me, right? I said, I called him."

  Obviously, she didn't mean on the phone. "Yeah," I snapped. "I heard you." Cripes, everyone heard you.

  "So remember," she warned, "he's mine. Got it?"

  No. I didn't get it. And I wasn't going to get it. I'd moved heaven and earth to get here, and I wasn't about to give up, just because a stranger called dibs in a warehouse parking lot.

  Behind us, a different girl said, "You're so full of it."

  Bustier turned to look. "What?"

  "He's not 'yours'," the girl said. "That's for him to decide. And besides, I was here way before you."

  "Hey!" Bustier said, "I was here. I was just standing in a different spot, that's all."

  "Sorry," the girl said, "you snooze, you lose."

  Bustier glared at the girl. "I wasn't snoozing. I was waiting. Just like you are."

  "Oh sure." The girl gave a snort of derision. "In the wrong place."

  "Oh, whatever," Bustier muttered, turning away. She leaned closer to me and said, "Can you believe that chick?"

  I gave another shrug. In truth, I couldn't believe any of this. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why a bunch of girls would be standing outside some warehouse, waiting for guys they didn't even know. What they wanted was obvious, but it still defied all logic.

  Joel was amazing. He was hot as sin and tough as nails. But the thought of him having groupies had never occurred to me. Unable to stop myself, I turned to Bustier and asked, "Is it always like this?"

  She looked around. "Sort of, but not this bad." She lowered her voice. "But you know that Joel Bishop guy I was telling you about?"

  My stomach clenched. I didn't just know him. I loved him. Trying hard not to show it, I gave a casual nod.

  "Well," she said, "a few months ago, he like totally disappeared. And we all thought, 'Shit, he's gone for good.'" She gave me a wolfish grin. "But now he's back, and I'm gonna welcome him home, if you know what I mean."

  My gaze drifted to the photo. I did know. And I didn't like it.

  Behind her, the other girl said, "That's what you think."

  Bustier turned and gave the girl an irritated look. "What?"

  The girl threw back her shoulders. "It won't be you. It'll be me."

  Bustier rolled her eyes. "In your dreams, sister." She turned back to me and said in a low whisper, "Wanna know what I heard?"

  Did I? Probably not. Still, I had to ask, "What?"

  She leaned closer and said, "I heard he hooked up with some heiress, a total rich bitch."

  I froze. That so-called heiress was me, except I wasn't rich. In fact, I'd used my last ten dollars for gas money to get here. Whether I had enough to get home, I wasn't so sure.

  Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Bustier continued. "You know, they totally shacked up at her mansion, doing who-knows-what."

  I swallowed. "A mansion?"

  "Yeah. Apparently, she's got this killer place off Lake Michigan."

  As Bustier prattled on, I considered my so-called mansion. The place was falling apart, and I had no money to repair it.

  Some heiress.

  The girl went on to say that when summer ended, Joel had ditched me to return back to fighting. None of her story was quite accurate. For one thing, summer had ended long before he left me sobbing on my front lawn. For another, I didn't have a dozen servants – or a private helicopter, for that matter.

  When she finished, I gave her a long, silent look before saying, "And where'd you hear all this?"

  "On the internet," she said. "Where else?"

  I should've known.

  Suddenly, the girl switched gears. "Hey, what are you wearing?"

  Well, it's not a bustier. That's for darn sure. I said, "Just normal clothes."

  The girl frowned. "Boy, you're not very good at this, are you?"

  Under my breath, I said, "Nope. Definitely not."

  She reached for the collar of my coat. "C'mon. Lemme me see."

  I drew back. "No."

  "Oh, come on!" Her gaze narrowed. "You got a good look at me."

  "Yeah, well that was an accident." I reached up and pulled my coat tighter around my torso. "Besides, there's nothing to see."

  "No shit?" She eyed me with new respect. "So, you're naked under there?"

  Oh, for crying out loud. "No. I'm not naked. I already told you I'm wearing normal clothes."

  She was still clutching my coat. "Then lemme look."

  I leaned back. "No."

  "Why not?" she demanded.

  "Well, for one thing, because it's freezing out here."

  She was still holding on. I was still leaning back. Finally, with a sound of disgust, she let go. Thrown off balance, I stumbled backward into another girl, who shrieked. "Hey! Watch it!"

  I winced. "Sorry."

  "You should be," she snapped.

  Well, that was nice.

  Ignoring the hoopla, Bustier made a sound of frustration. "Alright, fine. At least tell me what you're wearing."

  I sighed. "A skirt and sweater, okay?"

  She looked utterly horrified. "A sweater? You're shitting me, right?"

  No. I wasn't "shitting" her. If anything, I felt under-dressed. The sweater felt way too thin, and the skirt felt way too short. Even under the long coat, my bare legs trembled in the frigid night air.

  But really, this was none of her business, and I was debating telling her so when suddenly, the double doors flew open, and a stream of people started pouring out.

  In unison, we all turned to look.

  They were mostly guys, and there weren't a lot of them, maybe a couple dozen at most. The way it looked, these weren't members of the general audience, but rather, people behind the scenes – fighters, friends, or whatever.

  I stood on my tiptoes and searched the faces, seeking out one in particular. Finally, I spotted him, walking next to a bearded guy whose bare, muscular arms were covered in tattoos. As for Joel, he was wearing a gray hoodie with the hood pulled low over his face, almost like he didn't want to be seen.

  It didn't matter. His whole face could've been covered, and I still would've recognized him, not only by his body, but also from something in the way he moved, like bad-ass poetry in motion.

  Suddenly, I could hardly breathe, much less think. I loved him so much, it hurt.

  But did he still love me?

  Next to me, Bustier called out, "Joel! Over here!" She scrambled forward, heading straight toward him. With the spell broken, I followed after her, only to stop in mid-stride when Joel turned in our direction. Finally, I could see his whole face. His gaze passed quickly over Bustier and landed, hard, on me.

  When our eyes met, he stopped moving, and so did I. His mouth was tight, and his eyes were hard. The way it looked, he wasn't happy to see me.

  Not even a little.

  Chapter 3

  As I watched, Bustier plowed into him and threw her arms tight around his neck. "Welcome back!" she squealed.

  A split-second later, another girl – the one who'd been standing directly behind us – barreled into him from the other side. "Yeah, where have you been?" She wrapped her arms tight around his waist and didn't let go, even when he made to move to acknowledge her.

  Watching through the milling crowd, I had no idea what to do. Unless I was wil
ling to dive for his legs, there really wasn’t an open spot.

  And it wasn't like Joel was shaking them off or anything.

  In fact, he wasn't doing anything at all. He didn't move, and his face didn't change expression as he stared at me from across the distance. His eyes – dark and brooding – held me in that familiar spell. I could've move, and I couldn’t look away.

  As if sensing Joel's inattention, both girls turned to follow his gaze. When they saw me staring, both of them frowned.

  Like in a trance, I started moving forward. But I'd barely gotten two steps when Joel wrapped an arm around each girl and deliberately turned away, leaving me staring after them.

  Was he leaving? With them? Panic surged through me, and I called out, "Wait!"

  But he didn't wait. He didn't even look. He just kept on going, heading toward a small, dimly lit parking area on the far side of the building. As the three of them walked, Joel's scantily-clad companions gazed, star-struck, up at him, their earlier animosity apparently forgotten.

  Ignoring the small crowd milling around me, I stood for a long, awful moment, watching their receding backs.

  From a few feet away, a male voice said, "Looking for company?"

  I didn't even look. Yes. But not from you.

  I shook my head and kept my eyes trained on Joel and the two girls. Already, they were nearing that other parking lot. In the distance, I spotted Joel's car, parked next to a big dark pickup.

  My mind – not to mention my stomach – was churning like crazy. What should I do? What could I do?

  "Aw c'mon," the guy said. "So you didn't get your first choice. Big deal." He gave a low chuckle. "If you're nice to me, I'll put in a good word for ya."

  Ick.

  Reluctantly, I turned to look. He was a big, thick-necked guy in a shiny running suit. His hair was pale, nearly white, but shaved along the sides. Was he a fighter? He looked like a fighter. But I didn't care. He wasn't my fighter.

  I wanted nothing to do with him – or any other stranger, for that matter. "I'm not interested," I said, turning, once again, to look at Joel. Obviously, they were heading to his car. If I didn't do something now, they'd probably soon be driving away.