Don't Let Me Be Yours Read online

  Don’t Let Me Be Yours

  Dominique Laura

  Kimberly Reese

  Don’t Let Me Be Yours, Copyright © 2018 by Dominique Laura and Kimberly Reese

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Judi Perkins of Concierge Literary Designs & Photography, LLC.

  Edited and Formatted by Elevated Edits

  Women, be unapologetic and follow your soul. Life’s too short. Live it like Becky G, our lady inspo for Perrie.

  —Dominique (Perrie)

  To my fellow Paul Walker fans, we hope you enjoy the edgy, asshole version of him. The tough ones to crack always fall hardest.

  —Kimberly (Sterling)

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Dominique Laura

  Also by Kimberly Reese

  About Dominique Laura

  About Kimberly Reese

  1

  Perrie

  She’s late, per usual. I swear this B thinks I have all the spare time in the world. I tap the screen on my iPhone, checking the time, and roll my eyes at the fact that I’ve been sitting, basically twiddling my thumbs, for twenty minutes while she has made me wait.

  But I should have known better. For as long as I’ve been friends with her, I don’t think she’s ever been on time to anything. Me, on the other hand? I’m at least fifteen minutes early to any and all scheduled meetings and events. I get itchy if I’m even a minute late.

  I signal the waiter and order a drink—margarita on the rocks because I need a little boost from the tequila—and hope she shows up soon.

  Just as I pull the straw into my mouth, I see her rush into the restaurant, a look of false sincerity on her face. She can’t fool me, and she knows it, but it’s humorous to see her try.

  I take a long sip, savoring the taste of the drink before swallowing, before offering her a small smile.

  “Perrie, so sorry I’m late,” Rachel says with a wave of her perfectly manicured fingers, sitting in the seat across from mine. “Lawrence and I were...occupied.”

  I give her a tight smile, eyes narrowing playfully. “I’m sure you were.”

  I don’t even ask what they were occupied doing because I know she’ll share the details whether I act interested or not. Her ability to overshare is something I’ve never envied.

  Rachel and I have a lot of history. We’ve been friends since we were kids, and at some point she was my best friend, but during college we shifted apart and our differences were too strong to ignore. She’s materialistic, self-centered, and a lot crazy, among other things. Still, we hang out on occasion and catch up, and we keep our BFF label on because it’s comfortable, even if it isn’t true. If anything, this friendship is long overdue to end, but we’ve yet to admit that out loud. When you have that much history with someone, it’s hard to completely cut off all ties. I mean, she’s the person I cried about my first heartbreak with and the same person who plotted a revenge scheme to hurt the guy who had hurt me. As selfish and oblivious as she is, she’s had some sweet moments over the years, and although her bad outweigh her good, I can’t bring myself to completely cut our friendship. It doesn’t seem right to.

  She flips her shiny red hair over her shoulder and clasps her hands on the table, leaning forward. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s like he can’t get enough of me lately.”

  I stay silent, waiting for her to go on while also hoping she doesn’t overembellish the details. She has a way of doing that.

  “He’s so,” she pauses, for dramatic effect most likely. “He’s just so animalistic. I’m sore for days after. Even now, I can feel my muscles screaming.”

  I scrunch my nose but am careful not to show any more discomfort than that. I’ve learned over the years that when she overshares or fluffs details that the opposite actually happened, which means she and her boyfriend most likely had a fight and she’s trying to save face. Why? Who knows. I care about their relationship about as much as I care about the color blue—not much.

  “Hmm,” I hum, finishing off the contents of my drink. “Sounds exciting.”

  “You should really find someone to settle down with, you know,” Rachel muses, trying to get the waiter’s attention. “We’re almost out of our prime, and you don’t want to spend the rest of your life alone, do you?”

  “Yeah, that’s going to be a no from me,” I reply, pulling my dark, loose waves into a messy ponytail. “There’s plenty of time for that, and usually when you go searching for something, you end up with the opposite of what you thought you wanted.”

  I swear her eye twitches at my response.

  “Are you sure?” She blinks slowly, fake smile spreading across her face. “Lawrence has some really attractive, successful friends you’d hit it off with. Oh, imagine all the double dates we’d be able to go on.”

  Yeah, imagine.

  I can’t count how many times we’ve gone on group dates over the years, each one more awkward than the last. Rachel needs attention, and it never fails that she’ll spend the entire dinner talking about her and her own life without so much as a breath to let someone interject. It is one of the things I dislike most about her personality.

  “We’ll see,” I say tersely, more to appease her than anything. “Not all of us can be as lucky as you, what with your perfect relationship and way-too-good-to-be-true boyfriend.”

  “You’re so right,” she says dreamily, ignoring the sarcasm that coats my words. “You’ll find someone though, I know you will. We’re celebrating our eighth anniversary soon, you know. I never imagined that at twenty-one I’d meet my soul mate.”

  “How many times have you two broken up?” The question slips before I can filter it, and I bite back a smile and a groan at the same time.

  Rachel’s gray eyes narrow, and her lips purse. She opens her mouth to respond, but the waiter approaches our table, forcing her to halt her response.

  Once she orders an appetizer and drink and I ask for another, she turns her attention back on me.

  “That’s beside the point, but if you must know, we’ve had this routine of breaking up every six to eight months. It never lasts long, maybe a few weeks at most,” she shares flippantly. “And he always comes back to me. Always.”

  I want to scoff at her words but instead c
hoose to offer a smile, one I know she’ll take as envy and not what it actually is: ridicule.

  The fact that she just referred to breaking up as a routine is a testament to the type of person she is. Honestly, if it wasn’t for her boyfriend’s status—or his family’s wealth, rather, which she’s boasted about on several occasions—I’m not sure they would’ve gotten back together after the first time they ended things.

  Unluckily enough, since Rachel and I have been friends for so long, I’m pretty sure I’m the closest friend she has, which is really saying something. As I mentioned before, she and I aren’t all that close. I’ve heard all about her issues with Lawrence and the men she hooks up with when they’re broken up. I wouldn’t be shocked to find out he does the same—hooking up, I mean—and I’m sure she knows about it too, though she probably convinces herself he’s moping the entire time, just counting the days until he can win her back.

  It’s weird. For as long as they’ve been dating, I’ve only been around him maybe a handful of times. It’s almost like she’s kept him in this vault or invisible bubble.

  I let out a laugh, and Rachel tilts her head, curious eyes studying my face.

  “What’s so funny?” she asks. “You’ll understand someday, if you ever find someone who wants to be with you.”

  Her not-so-subtle jab does nothing but make me want to cut this girls’ night out short. We try to meet on occasion to catch up on life and work over drinks. And when I say we, I mean it’s an opportunity for her to boast about herself and try to make me feel inadequate. Thankfully, it does the opposite. I always walk away feeling more grateful for the path I’ve paved for myself, so really it’s more like a pep boost.

  The waiter places our drinks on the table, and I gulp mine down, knowing how unladylike I probably look and that it’s probably annoying the crap out of Rachel. I make sure to slurp extra loudly toward the end, even when I know I’ve gotten every last drop.

  “So, change of topic,” Rachel states, clapping her hands together. “You’re still attending my parents’ anniversary gala, right?”

  A night of schmoozing, smiling, and walking around in a too-tight gown with caked on makeup?

  “Of course, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say with a small smile. “Thirty years definitely calls for celebration.”

  “And you know us Hartfords know how to throw a party.” Her eyes are shining with excitement, and it almost looks genuine—almost. “We have three months to prepare, so make sure you have everything fitted and appointments booked and all that.”

  “I always do,” I reply. And I do. It isn’t my first Hartford event. Her family has some sort of occasion to celebrate at least every six months. They’re good for business though, so I don’t hate them too much.

  “Maybe by then you’ll have a date, someone serious this time and less casual, hmm?”

  I fight not to roll my eyes. She’s referring to the fact that I hook up more than I date long-term.

  “I don’t know, maybe I’ll bring one of my one-night stands with me.” I shrug, slurping up the water from the melted ice.

  I look up, and sure enough her face is contorted in disgust and shock, her excitement from before no longer visible. That’s my cue. I smile, stand up, and gather my things.

  “I just remembered that I have a meeting to prep for in the morning, so I’ll see you again soon?”

  “Mmhmm, of course. I look forward to our girl time, you know that,” she says with more slime than necessary.

  I wiggle my fingers in goodbye and hightail it out of the restaurant, stopping on the way out to pay for our orders.

  I’m itching to go home and put on an oversized T-shirt. There’s a new episode of Zombie Nation waiting for me, and it’s all I’ve been able to think about all day. Most days, I prefer my own solace. A lot of that is a byproduct of my humongous family. I adore them, but it’s really made me appreciate my own company, especially since I spend my days in and out of meetings and constantly interacting with people while holding a welcoming face.

  It’s exhausting.

  So friendships are few and far between, save for a few. Fine, two at most. That’s possibly another reason why I keep my friendship—or whatever it is—with Rachel. We have a lot of good memories together, and as hard as she is to deal with, she used to be a decent human being. It’s not something I can just forget, even if the person she is now needs a reality check.

  I’m not even two steps out of the restaurant when I receive a text from her.

  Rachel: Just say the word, and I’ll have one of Lawrence’s friends ready for a double date! Tick-tock.

  Sigh.

  I send her some sort of generic response back, complete with a cute emoji, and head home.

  Someday I’ll be ballsy enough to end our friendship. I mean, what do I really have to lose? Still, that day isn’t anytime soon.

  2

  Sterling

  “Mr. Montgomery.” My secretary’s disembodied voice jars the precious silence I was enjoying. Her tone is hesitant, and I already know she’s going to relay unwelcome news. “Ms. Hartford is here to see you.”

  Fuck. The last thing I want is to see Rachel, especially at work. If I could count the number of times she’s intruded here, I’d be an even richer bastard than I am now, and that’s saying a lot.

  Holding back the groan I can feel building in the pit of my stomach, I reluctantly press down on the button to answer her. “Thank you, Iris. Please tell her I’m occupied and that she can leave me a message.”

  “Sir…” Her voice trails off, and a few seconds pass before she continues. “She’s rather insistent. She says it’s extremely important.”

  I roll my eyes and rub at my temples, the inevitable headache already starting. Why am I not surprised? My level of patience isn’t particularly high, but I might as well get this shit show over with.

  “Fine,” I sigh. “Send her in.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Montgomery,” Iris says, her voice filled with relief.

  Making a mental note to finish working at home tonight, I close out of the account I was working on, swivel my chair toward the door, and school my expression just as Rachel enters my office.

  “Lawrence, darling, I don’t understand why your secretary doesn’t just let me through,” she says indignantly, as if she owns the place. “Why on earth does she have to check with you? Does she not know who I am?”

  My jaw clenches, and I fight an eye twitch at her use of my given name. We dated on and off for almost a decade, and she still refuses to address me by my middle name since she thinks it sounds less distinguished.

  I get right to the point. “You’re no one of import here, Rachel. I’m busy. What do you want?”

  She almost falters at my blunt statement and question, and one of her eyebrows arches in censure. Instead of answering right away, she gracefully makes her way over to me. She leans down to try and kiss me, but I pull back. Her mouth thins in displeasure, and she abruptly turns and settles herself into one of the wingback chairs opposite me.

  We sit here, staring at each other across the glossy expanse of my desk, and her calculating stare is met with a blank one of my own. I look at her with the dispassionate gaze of someone assessing a statue in a museum, for that’s what she reminds me of.

  Tall and slender with alabaster skin, she’s the living, breathing example many women in California strive to emulate, minus the tan. As fiery as her hair is, it doesn’t lend her any warmth. The severe bob, while longer in the front, only serves to draw attention to her high cheekbones and slender neck. My eyes rove across the rest of her and take inventory as the silence between us grows. Long legs that lead up to what I know is a very small, very modestly endowed ass. Narrow hips and waist. Small, perky tits. Thin lips pursed in displeasure. Stony gray eyes that never look anything but calculating.

  Beautiful, yes, but cold.

  Artificial.

  Lacking any real emotion or substance, she really is like a sta
tute; someone to be admired from a distance, but not played with. After so many years, all I want to do is play, but not with her. God, never again with her.

  Our staring contest comes to an end with her huff of frustration. I try to hold back my smirk at her breaking first. It’s no surprise; I never break first.

  “I’m here to talk about us.”

  “There is no us, Rachel. We broke up a month ago. There’s nothing else to discuss. I thought I was quite clear.”

  “You didn’t mean it, Lawrence,” she presses.

  I clasp my hands together on my desk, lean forward, and gift her with a steely gaze. “I can assure you, Rachel, I meant every word.”

  She mirrors me and leans forward, her own eyes flinty with determination. “History is repeating itself, is it not? How many times must we break up for you to realize that this is happening?” She gestures between our bodies. “That we’re happening? We’re inevitable.”

  I try not to grind my teeth at her words. “We’re not inevitable.”

  “Yes, we are.” She settles back into the chair, clearly making herself comfortable. “Everyone knows it. What better way to bring together two of the most influential, powerful families in California than to marry their two children? We’re a perfect match. I mean, we break up now and then, but you always come back to me.” She smiles as if her argument has the power to change the fact that I dumped her ass.