Cold Hearted Read online

  Cold Hearted

  Winter Renshaw

  Contents

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Eighteen Months Later

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  Locke Hearted

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Priceless

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Description

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Dream Cast

  Dark Promises

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Acknowledgements for Cold Hearted

  Books By Winter Renshaw

  About the Author

  Copyright

  COPYRIGHT 2017 WINTER RENSHAW

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  COVER DESIGN: Louisa Maggio

  EDITING: Wendy Chan, The Passionate Proofreader

  COVER MODEL: Travis Saam

  PHOTOGRAPHER: Wander Aguiar

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Epigraph

  “And long after I have given up, my heart still searches for you without my permission.”

  —Rudy Francisco, poet

  Prologue

  Rhett

  I toss her on the bed—recklessly—the very same way she treated my heart.

  Reaching for her jeans, I yank them down her thighs, my calloused hands rough against her tender skin. My bad. Was that careless of me?

  Her panties are next.

  I rip those straight down the middle, not unlike the very thing she did to me. It was almost too easy. Was it that easy for her?

  “Rhett,” she breathes my name, holding me in her wanton gaze, but I mute her with a rough kiss, my hand knotting in her hair as I control her mouth.

  I won’t be kissing her softly tonight. Nothing about this is going to be gentle. This isn’t a jaunt down memory lane—far from it.

  Running my finger beneath the left strap of her bra, I pull it taut before letting it snap her skin. Even in the dark, I see the beginnings of a welt, but it’s only minor, and it’ll fade with time. Nothing like the mark she left on me.

  Unfastening my jeans, I shove them down and climb over on top of her, crushing her lips over and over, sucking the air from her lungs and digging my fingers into the curved flesh of her perfect fucking ass.

  Her thighs hook around mine.

  She wants this. She wants me.

  Hate to break it to her, but I’m not the man I used to be.

  I position her beneath me, dominating her and spreading her legs apart, teasing her clit with the tip of my swollen cock before dragging it to her entrance, pressing just enough to torture her.

  Yeah. I want to fuck her. That feeling never quite subsided no matter how much I tried to force it away, but I can’t fuck her like I used to. She might get the wrong impression.

  I rise, pulling my body off hers. “On your knees.”

  She hesitates before rolling over and pressing herself up on all fours. Tonight I’m going to fuck her like a dog so I won’t have to feel her staring at me. I don’t want to see that little sliver of hope in her eyes that has abso-fucking-lutely no business being there.

  Grabbing a condom from my jeans pocket on the floor, I rip the packet with my teeth before rolling it down my shaft. I’ve waited a long time for this, and I’m so fucking hard my cock aches.

  Tracing my fingertip along her seam, I watch as her body shivers, and as soon as she exhales, I thrust deep inside her with one forceful move.

  Ayla sighs, falling to her elbows and pressing her cheek against the bed as she grips the sheets.

  My hands clutch the flesh of her hips, leaving rosy imprints where I squeeze, and soon the slap of my skin against hers mixes with the scent of her arousal and the soft breathless sighs escaping her traitorous mouth.

  Deeper.

  Faster.

  Harder.

  I fuck her until we lose track of time; until she’s screaming into the sheets, telling me how good I feel inside her and begging me not to stop. She’s having quite the experience, but I don’t feel a fucking thing.

  I’m numb.

  When it’s over, I pull out, toss the condom in the trash, and hit the shower.


  I need to wash her off of me.

  1

  18 months earlier…

  Ayla

  The asshole died.

  He died before I had a chance to meet him.

  “Sorry for your loss,” my half-brother’s landlord says in a thick Brooklyn accent. His lips are drawn into a sagging frown as he hands me a set of keys, and his hooded dark eyes are glassy. I can tell he was a fan of my brother, and by fan, I mean an actual, loyal-to-the-end Bryce Renner enthusiast. He’s wearing a replica New York Spartans hockey sweater with RENNER across the back in bold lettering, and he hasn’t removed it since the funeral this morning. “His lease was paid through the end of the year, so take your time. Let me know if you need anything. I’m in 12A at the end of the hall.”

  “Thank you.” I take the keys, squeezing them tight in my palm.

  The landlord stops in the doorway, taking in my brother’s place like it’s the last time he’ll get to see it like this, exactly the way Bryce left it.

  “He was a good kid, your brother,” the man says.

  “That’s what I hear.” I lie, offering a bittersweet smile and watching as he smooths a palm along the interior frame of the door.

  “Don’t believe anything anybody tells you about him.” He exhales, then clenches his fist like he’s angry with God before disappearing down the hall. I close and lock the door behind him.

  Dirty dishes fill the sink and random stacks of mail litter the counter tops. A half a dozen pairs of sneakers are thrown in a pile next to a shoe organizer by the entryway, and a heap of sweat-scented hockey sweaters rest in a laundry basket beside the closet door in the hall.

  I’m positive that beneath the grime and clutter, this is a nice place. The building is a centuries-old limestone with a big black awning that extends all the way to the sidewalk, there’s a doorman and twenty-four-hour security, and I’m a ten-minute walk from Central Park.

  Shuffling across the concrete floors, I take in the city view as night descends and the lights begin to flicker and shine. This must be what they call a million-dollar view.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me out of my exhausted, jet-lagged little daze, and I smile when I see it’s my mom calling.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “How was it?” Her voice is sweet and low and laced with worry. I’m not sure why everyone is so worried about me. It’s horribly tragic that he died, but I didn’t know him. Honestly, the most heartbreaking part about this whole thing is that I’ll never know him, and it’s not for a lack of trying. He wanted nothing to do with his father’s illegitimate love child, and he made it abundantly clear each time I tried to reach out to him over the years.

  “It was a beautiful service,” I say, tracing my finger across the crystal clear floor-to-ceiling window before me. Everything is so crisp and clean, like I could just reach my hand through and touch the building across the street. The windows seem to be the only remotely untouched thing about this place, and I wonder if he ever took the time to stand here and take in all this beauty. “There were a ton of people there. Hundreds, maybe a thousand? Back of the church was standing room only.”

  “Who gave the eulogy?” she asks.

  “His coach.”

  “It’s so sad that he had no one in those final hours, you know?” she asks, voice fading. “No one by his side at the hospital. Breaks my heart that he died alone.”

  “He could’ve had me.”

  “I know, sweetheart.” She sighs through the phone, not in the mood to rehash the conversation we’ve had a million times before, but it’s okay, because neither am I. “How are you holding up? I know you have a lot on your plate now with cleaning out his place and handling his estate and everything.”

  “I’m fine, Mom. I’ve got it.”

  “Well, at least he’s with his family now. They’re all together again, may they finally rest in peace,” Mom says, and I can mentally picture her making the sign of the cross. It’s funny to me that she would speak so casually about the couple whose marriage she all but destroyed some twenty-plus years ago.

  I leave the window and take a seat in one of his leather chairs. The leather is supple and smooth, void of cracks and creases, and I wonder if he ever thought about hanging up his skates and resting on his laurels for a bit.

  There’s a soft, brisk knock at the door, and I think I’m imagining it until it happens again a few seconds later.

  “Someone’s at the door, Mom. I’ll call you later, okay?” I whisper, ending the call before she has a chance to protest.

  Brushing my dark bangs into place and straightening my shirt, I rise on my toes and peer through the peephole, my hand steady on the deadbolt and my breath suspended. There’s a man on the other side, dressed in a black suit with a Spartan-green tie, most likely one of Bryce’s teammates.

  Clearing my throat, I unlock the door and pull it open. “Hi.”

  The guy towers over me, and with watery, red-rimmed eyes he stares so deeply at me I feel like he’s examining the contents of my soul. There’s anguish written all over his face, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

  “You’re Bryce’s sister?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, running a goliath palm through his short coffee-brown hair. An overabundance of aftershave clouds the air between us. “I don’t know your name.”

  Probably because Bryce didn’t want anyone to know I existed ...

  “Ayla,” I say. “Ayla Caldwell.”

  I feel that my brother would want me to make it crystal clear that we did not share the same last name even if we did share the same father.

  “Didn’t even know he had a sister until Coach mentioned it to me today. Bryce never really talked about his family,” he says, eyes searching mine. “Anyway, just came by because a bunch of us are going to grab some drinks. Not, like, going out or anything, just having a drink for old times’ sake ... celebrating Bryce’s life, that sort of thing.”

  “Yeah. I get you.” I bite my lower lip, staring down and trying to decide my fate for the night. A half hour ago, I wanted to lock myself in the guest room, take a hot shower, and call it an early night.

  “It’d be on us,” he says, as if money were the main objection here. “You know, ‘cause you’re his family and all, and we take care of our own.”

  “I’m going to be honest ...” I offer an apologetic smile and watch his face fall just enough to make me feel like the world’s biggest asshole. Maybe when he looks at me, he sees Bryce, and maybe he feels like I’m the final link to a man he’ll never see again in this lifetime. He didn’t have to come all the way here, to his dead friend-slash-teammate’s apartment, asking his estranged sister to come out for complimentary drinks. He did it out of the kindness of his mourning heart. I can’t say “no.” It’d be uncouth.

  I suppose I can make one final toast to the life of the man who hated me so much he almost turned me into the police for cyberstalking when all I’d done was send him a Facebook message out of the blue.

  “I’m extremely exhausted, and it’s been a long couple of days,” I say, suddenly more aware of the way the waistband of my pantyhose is digging into my stomach. I want to change out of this depressing dress and these skintight nylons, but I also want to do the right thing. “But I’ll come out with you guys for one drink.”

  He smiles through glassy green eyes, and I imagine he’s thinking he’s doing his old pal a solid by including me when it’s likely quite the contrary. But I won’t say anything. I won’t tarnish Bryce’s legacy because despite the fact that he resented the hell out of me and my existence, in a messed up way, I still loved him.

  He was a stranger, and I loved him anyway because he was family, and because you’re supposed to love family unconditionally, even when they’re assholes.

  Especially when they’re assholes.

  My mother always said that the people who’re the hardest to love are the ones who need it most. Bryce most definitely
fell into that category. That category was invented for people like him.

  “I’ve got an Uber downstairs ...” the guy points down the hall toward the elevator. “You can ride with me if you want. I’m Shane, by the way. I’m the team captain.”

  I’m not sure if we’re supposed to be shaking hands or making this into an awkward, formal exchange of some sort, so I motion for him to come in and ask him to give me a minute to freshen up.

  When I emerge a moment later, Shane is standing by the fireplace, looking at all of Bryce’s framed photographs. For a guy who didn’t ever talk about family, his place is plastered with photos of himself with his dad, and a few with his mother, who passed away tragically when he was in high school.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  Shane nods, moving a wooden picture frame back into place and sticking his hands in his pockets. I lock the door as we leave and slide my bag over my shoulder. He checks his phone and fires off a text when we step into the elevator.

  “Where are we going?” I press the button for the ground floor.

  “This little bar by the arena,” he says. “It’s called Shotsky’s. Little place we all used to go after practice on Fridays.”

  “Okay.”

  Shane doesn’t have an affinity for small talk and I don’t have the energy, so we ride down in silence and trek side by side across the lobby to the waiting Uber parked beyond the black awning. He gets the door, and I slide across.

  It’s the middle of July and it’s humid, and I’m wishing I pulled my hair off my neck because it’s going to double in size by the time we get to this bar, and I’d like to make a halfway decent first impression on the last living connections I’m ever going to have with my brother.

  He gives the driver the address, and we merge into traffic.

  “We were all kind of shocked when Coach said Bryce had a sister,” Shane says, slipping his phone into his suit jacket. He angles his body to me as best he can, but the backseat of this Honda is pretty close quarters, and his knees are brushed up against the back of the passenger seat. “Where are you from?”