More Layers Book Two of the Layers Series

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014

TL Alexander

Published by Crazy Writer Books/TL Alexander

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews—without the permission in writing from its publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, are coincidental and not intended by the author.

All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. We are not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

The Layers series is written for adults, by an adult (this is questionable). It contains adult language (lots of f-age) and adults doing adult stuff (like hot sex and drinking scotch). It’s also written for those who have a sense of humor and like to laugh (this is optional, but highly recommended). If you are reading this book and you did not purchase it, shame on you. Support this indie writer by purchasing wherever e-books are sold.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Books by TL Alexander

Dedication

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

About The Author

Copyright Notice

The Layers Series

Layers

More Layers

Beneath Layers

Beyond Layers

Life’s a Bitchwad Novelette

Other Books By TL Alexander

Law Inc. Cassandra Marcella Mystery

Life on Top

Between a Rocker and a Hard Place

Girlfriends Goddesses & Barflies

One More Shot

Alexia Grant wanted the happily-ever-after, the fairytale ending. What she got, was her heart shattered into 5.689 million pieces.

It's been over two years, 936.5 days to be exact, since she last laid her eyes on Jaxson Chase Ryan. She thought she was ready to see him, but now that he's just feet away, in a crowded elevator, she realizes she's not. Maybe she'll be ready to see him in another 12.135863024 months, maybe never.

She's moving her family and Grant International headquarters to New York. What was she thinking? How can she live in the same state, or even on the same continent with the man who wrecked her and still owns her shattered heart?

Jules and Nick are getting married, in Vegas. Jaxson Ryan is the best man; Alexia Grant is the maid of honor. He came to her hotel, for answers, for closure. What was he thinking? Now that she's standing just feet away, in a crowded elevator, he knows there will never be closure, because he still wants and needs her more than his next breath.

Mom

Always & Forever

I’ll always remember us crying and then laughing at the end of Hallmark movies.

I’ll always remember our road trips, you driving me friggin’ nuts.

I’ll always remember the six months when I needed you most.

I’ll always remember you telling me you admired my independence and strength.

I’ll always remember you Mom, you will forever, own a piece of my heart.

TL

Life is funny. I’m not referring to the ha, ha, ha kind of funny. I’m referring to the who would have guessed? or the no fucking way kind of funny. No way would I have ever believed I would get a second chance at love. And no friggin’ way would I have ever guessed it would begin in Vegas. I mean, come on, girlfriend… Vegas?

Vegas is the place where you lose your mind, your inhibitions, and your next month’s rent. Vegas isn’t where you go to learn truths, rethink your choices, and reconnect.

But then again, this is me we are talking about. So welcome to Vegas, or as they say… Viva Las Vegas, baby.

How can you be so close to someone and yet not know them at all? I’ve asked myself this question a million times and I’ve yet to come up with even one good answer.

The last time I saw her, I said some stupid-ass shit like, I needed her to trust me and if she couldn’t; maybe we needed to rethink us. What the fuck was I thinking? All right, it’s obvious I wasn’t thinking. I was trying to hold my company together, and she was going off about the press, her grandmother finding out, and some shit about having no idea of the trouble I’d caused. She was right. I was fucking clueless.

I left her that morning to deal with the increasingly brazen paparazzi. I know—what an ass. She texted, saying, they were shouting, buzzing the outer intercom, blocking the sidewalk and street. I almost gave in. I wanted to go back and rescue her, but I was angry and overwhelmed. When she accused me of leaking information to the press, it was the last push, the final curtain, the kick in the balls that drove me to my knees.

She managed to get away and hole up with Marco and Henry for a few days. It was a relief to hear she’d gotten away. I knew she would be safe with Marco. He would never let any harm come to her. He’s a total gaywad, as Jules would say, but he’s in love with her and she him. Okay, I know it wasn’t a physical romantic kind of love, but I couldn’t help being jealous of the guy. He’s her best friend and he knew things I didn’t. He knew about her past and all her secrets. She trusted him, and in her world, trust was everything, and I wanted to be her…everything.

After staying at Marco’s for a week or so, she went to visit Jules and Nick in Miami. While she was in Miami, she must have texted and e-mailed me a hundred times. I never replied to any of them. I thought I was doing the right thing. When I received her final text, I’m going to London to fix things. Please don’t give up on me, on us. I knew I’d done the right thing. You see, I was implementing my own version of tuff love. I wanted her to go to London, face her demons, deal with her shit, and stop being afraid.

She owned me…body, heart, and soul. I would have done anything for her. I was ready to get down on my knees and ask her to marry me. That wasn’t going to happen until she fixed herself and gave me her trust.

Don’t you wish life had a rewind button? Wouldn’t it be great to have a second or third chance to un-fuck up? Yeah, I fucked up. Turns out—I don’t know shit about tuff love.

While I was giving her time and space to fix things, I took the time to get Ryan up and running again, after Will Harris turned it upside down and sideways. Now pay attention! This is the weird mystery part of my story. She had time to get her life in order, and I had time to get my company in order. So now comes the big reconciliation, the big rekindling, the big fuckfest…right? Wrong! There was no reunion, no checking into the Waldorf and seeing nothing but her nude body in between the sheets and underneath me for days. In fact, there was no seeing her at all. She up and disappeared…vanished into thin fucking air.

Her phone…disconnected. My e-mails…bounced back. Her friends…not mine. Nick, my friggin’ best friend, told me he didn’t know where she was, and to leave it alone. Let her go and get on with your life, he said. Can you fucking believe it? She was my life…my everything.

So what’s a guy to do? With no help from her friends, or my friend, I was on my own. I called every contact I knew in the UK and got nothing. I even fucking Googled her. I can tell you there’s an Alexia Keith who lives in Boise, Idaho, drives a 2010 yellow Volkswagen Bug, likes to cook and had a thing for a guy named Juan until she found out Juan’s wand was waning and wanting. And I can tell you there’s an Alexia Keith who lives in Winston Salem, North Carolina, who teaches the third grade at Westland Elementary, and is going through a traumatic and dramatic divorce. Her soon to be ex-husband Brad cheated on her with John—the principal of Westland. If you’re interested, she is forming a local support group for the survivors of cheaters who cheat and come out of the closet. For future reference, you can Google SCCCC and get all the latest information.

After weeks of searching, I found nothing on my Alexia Elizabeth Keith. I was about ready to hire a private investigator when everything changed, when my shit hit the fan and came back and hit me in the face.

I was in the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire, making my way toward the elevators, when a man walking in front of me dropped a magazine. I stopped, picked it up and just when I was about to call to him and hand it over…there she was (her picture anyway) in living color. I stood in the middle of the lobby like an idiot. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing; I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t even breathe. My Alexia Keith was none other than Alexia Grant. The reclusive and reserved Grant heir, who was to become the new CEO of a conglomerate known as, Grant International.

Alexia Keith was a lie, a myth, a story, a fucking fairytale. And how did I take the truth? Not fucking well. I felt used, abused and downright duped. Seriously, who the hell takes on an alias? If you testified against the local crime boss and he threatened to hang you from your dick and cut off your balls, or hang you from your balls and cut off your dick. Then I can see it.

But she was an influential billionaire. A fucking Grant.

After I got over my shock and suppressed my anger, I flew to London to find her. I won’t bore you with the fine details right now, but I will tell you after a year of frustrating futile pursuit, I gave up. The woman I loved was lost and there was nothing I could do about it.

So then what? Well, the last couple of years I’ve been concentrating on my company, the only thing that’s kept me partially sane. I was determined to restructure and revitalize Ryan. I put everything I had into it: my energy, my time, my money, my heart. Okay, not my heart; it was still MIA.

The bottom line—Mr. Ryan and Ryan Acquisitions was fucked. He (I) was losing his company and he couldn’t stop thinking about her. And he tried, by God, he tried. When he wasn’t working he’d be at the pool swimming countless laps, or at the gym pumping iron. Still thinking. So he picked up the bottle and tried to drink her out of his head. The corner liquor store’s number became his number one contact and the delivery guy (his name is Mr. Chow), was his new best friend. But even in a drunken state there was too much clarity, too much thinking, too much her.

Then came the women—hot sexy women. All right, he admits to having no friggin’ clue if they were hot or sexy. He was totally wasted, out of his sad pathetic mind. But even wasted, every woman became her. All he could feel was her; all he could hear was her, all he could smell and taste was her. Her. Her! HER!

So, why am I talking about myself in third person? Well, because that was the old me, and this is the new me. Yes, that’s me…wave. I’m the hot guy sitting in the lobby at the Four Seasons in Vegas. Yeah, you’re right. I’m still the exceedingly good-looking, somewhat arrogant, and cheeky Jaxson Ryan you all know and love. But I’m no longer the pathetic, drunk manwhore.

Okay, I’m lying. I’m still pathetic. (You thought I was going to say a manwhore, didn’t you?) Hi, my name is Jaxson. (Hi Jaxson.) And I’m a pathetic pussy. (Thank you for sharing, Jaxson.) How is this even possible, you ask? I’ll tell you. I’m still pining over a woman I haven’t seen, or talked to, in over two years. I’m not a piner. I don’t chase women. What happened to the Prince of the Palace and the Purveyor of the Fuck-N-Chuck Manor? I miss the old–old Jaxson Ryan. The man I was before her. The man who would walk into a bar and women would come running with tongues a-waggin’ and pussies weeping. And if they couldn’t run in those five-inch heels; they’d just stand and drool. (Yeah, I’m not the only pathetic one.)

The women, yeah they still run and drool, but I don’t care; I don’t see them. All I see is her. All I want is her. Goddamn her for walking into my office, making my dick shudder, turning me inside out, and stealing my heart. She turned me into this pussy-whipped shell of a man. Fuck her! Fuck me! Fuck everyone! No matter how much I try, there isn’t a day that goes by, I don’t think of her, ache for her. I feel as if I’ve been in this never-ending state of mourning. And no matter what I do, I can’t stop the grieving—it consumes me.

But I digress. Let’s get back to why I’m in Vegas and why the hell I’ve been sitting in the Four Seasons’ lobby for over two sleeping-ass hours. I’m in Vegas because my best friend, (no, not Mr. Chow) Nick Cain, is getting married. Nick and Jules are getting hitched in Vegas and I’m the best man and she’s the maid of honor. So why am I sitting in the lobby of the Four Seasons? Because this is where she’s staying and I need to see her, talk to her. Why, you ask? I need closure; I need to stop thinking about her. I need to know why the fuck she ran away and shattered my heart.

I look at my watch, two hours and twenty minutes. I need to stop being a lobby-waiting pussy and go up to her room. I know what room she’s in, because Jules has a big mouth. I never thought her mouth was good for anything other than…well, you know, and I only know because Nick loves to talk about getting it. Okay, all guys love to talk about it, or any and everything to do with sex.

I get off my sleeping ass and make my way through the lobby toward the elevators. The elevator doors open and I step in with a group of people and stand behind them. I have this thing about people standing too close behind me. It freakin’ freaks me out.

The doors close and an older attractive woman in front of me turns around and smiles.

What floor would you like? She winks and waves her keycard.

Shit, it’s an access by keycard elevator. Of course it is, you lobby-waiting pussy.

I give her my devastating GQ smile. Whatever floor is yours.

She licks her lips and inserts her keycard. Then she takes a step back and runs her purple-painted faux nails down my arm. Leaning into me, she whispers, You want the thirty-fifth floor.

I give her a faux smile; lean back against the elevator wall, and take a shallow breath. Fuck me. Her excessive use of perfume engulfs me; I silently pray I don’t pass out before making it to Lex’s floor.

Her girlfriend looks over her shoulder at us. They share a look that says, "Remember, it’s not finders keepers. We’re the two musketeers; all for one, one for all." Not goin’ to happen, ladies. My junk is staying within the confines of my overpriced designer chinos.

As we ascend, people get on and off. Reaching the thirty-fifth floor, the doors open and the two musketeers step out. There are two other men in the elevator and I need the thirty-ninth floor. I’m hoping one of them does, too.

The women smile and patiently wait for me to exit.

I’ll give you a minute, I say and gift them with a suggestive wink.

They giggle, then Ms. Eau De Parfum mouths, See you in a minute.

The doors close and the man standing to my right, smirks.

What can I say? I’m the man all the women want. Well, okay, there is her.

The elevator stops on the next floor. Both men step out and one steps in. He inserts his card and presses the thirty-ninth floor. There is an elevator God, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

When we reach the thirty-ninth floor the man steps out, and then…there she is, or what I know to be, her leopard-print Chuck slip-ons, peeking out from behind a guy who looks like Mr. Universe. I’m assuming this is Lee, the hunky-hot gaywad bodyguard Jules raves about.

Five other people step into the elevator first. Then Mr. U steps in; clears some space, and she steps in behind him. She keeps her eyes and head down. Her forehead all but pressing up against Mr. U’s huge mass of spray-tanned muscle. Mr. U better be gay all the way, none of that his and her boinking, because… I was going to say, because she’s mine. After all this time, I still can’t say it…she’s not mine.

God she looks…hot! She takes my breath away. Yeah, she still takes my pathetic, pussy breath away. How could I have forgotten how beautiful she is? But fuck me, The Big Guy remembers. That’s all I need, a bigass tent pole in a crowded elevator. I could be ninety-seven, blind and impotent, and this woman would rock me solid. I look up at the mirrored ceiling and think of someone who always makes The Big Guy retreat; my pole plummets.

Once I have control of my cock; I look back at her. My heart skips a beat, then another. She’s fuck-me-again stunning, but she looks tired and thin—too thin. I wonder if she’s been ill. Her hair is pulled up in some kind of loose knot but it’s still long and gorgeous. Her hair—I fucking loved it. I loved the way it fanned out when she was lying under me, and the way it felt when I ran my fingers through it. I loved the way it looked wrapped around my hand as I entered her from behind. Oh, crap; up goes the pole.

I close my eyes and command my dick to deflate, again. Then, sweet Jesus—her scent invades me, Crash Into Me, like Dave Matthews and his band. I inwardly smile, thinking how she would laugh at my stupid song analogy. Citrus, pear, spice and Alexia… God help me. Her scent comes from a combination of shampoo, body wash and lotion. I’d never smelled anything like it, like her. She told me she had it custom-made. Apparently there’s a place in Paris that makes custom body products matched to your body scent signature. Whatever the hell that is. Sounded like a marketing ploy to me. I asked her about the name on the label: Goddess Not. She laughed and said the Frenchman who tested her scent-signature, (fuckin’ Frenchy better not have touched her) told her, her scent made him think of a Goddess. She said the guy was a perv, so she named it Goddess Not. That’s my girl. (Was my girl.)

I open my eyes and dare myself to look at her again. Her eyes remain downcast, seemingly looking down at her Chucks, but her forehead is now pressed against Mr. U’s muscled mass. I’d nail the guy if I didn’t know he was here for her protection. Okay, you’re right. The guy would deck me with one punch.

I wish she would look up. I need to float in those ocean eyes. Holy fuck. What the hell am I doing? I came here for closure, not to reopen long closed doors and rekindle lustful