My rating: 3 of 5 stars
I'll be a minority here, but what I felt when I read the book was this:
Our hero is addicted to alcohol and fucks with everything that has a hole and breathes. After all he is a rock star. Nothing new here.
Our heroine is his best friend's sister. She tries to forget him by marrying another, but she totally screwed up her life. She gets stuck in an abusive relationship until her husband hits her and then she asks for help from her brother.
The death of her brother causes our heroes to meet again.
And as always in these stories we have a manwhore hero and a heroine in need of help.
He thinks he is not good enough and she has loved him since she was a child.
I can not understand this plot where the best friend thinks he is not good enough to date his friend's sister, but everyone in the family loves him. He is the only one who does not see his own worth.
Nothing new again.
We still have a stalker that soon we already know who it is, we do not need to have high IQ to figure this out.
The heroes of the previous books appear to fill the story.
We have an HEA.
The End.
For three years, I harbored those feelings, my unrequited love slowly crushing me with every girl he brought around. And there were many.
However, being a thirteen-year-old in love with a boy who was quickly becoming a man meant I’d already been dealt a fair share of heartache.
Then I was going to need to find a woman to take home in the hopes of fucking Lyla and that goddamned dress out of my head.
“Bethany?” I asked on a ravaged whisper. “What are you… how…?” She was dressed in nothing but a Civil Corruption T-shirt. Her hair was a tangled mess around her shoulders, and her lips were red and swollen. “How could you?” “Lyla,” Mace called, drawing my attention back to him. “You know each other?” “My best friend?” I seethed, jerking out of his grasp and skewering him with a look. “You fucked my best friend?”
“You’ve already made it clear you don’t want me, and I can’t stand the fucking sight of her.”
“You see, when I dreamed of what it would be like to be with you, I never once thought you’d be such a coward.”
My alcohol consumption lately had gotten a little out of hand, I knew that. But it wasn’t like I had a problem. I could stop whenever I wanted,
I was going to bury my cock is some random bitch’s pussy. I was going to close my eyes and pretend it was my Goldie I was sinking into, that the woman beneath me didn’t fall short of what I really wanted. And when that didn’t work—which it wouldn’t, experience having taught me that much—I was going to drink myself into oblivion.
Daniel never hit me, I’d give him that. But how he treated me was just as bad, if not worse in some ways.
Everything was my fault, my fault, my fault.
I was stupid, worthless, a waste of oxygen. If it wasn’t my intellect or my homemaking skills he was insulting, he was jumping down my throat about stuff that didn’t even exist.
But I was done. Done being his punching bag, his doormat. I was just done.
When it was all finally over and done with, and my copious injuries—five cracked ribs, a broken nose, a broken hand, a concussion, and multiple lacerations and bruises—were documented and photographed, I was left alone. They’d casted my hand and were keeping me overnight to monitor me because of the concussion when all I wanted to do was go home—or to Will’s home—and sleep in a comfortable bed that wasn’t paper thin.
Worse than that night with Mace in my bedroom so many years ago. Worse than being beaten by Daniel. Worse than anything. And hours later, I’d been proved right. “I’m so sorry for your loss,”
Glancing to the side, I saw a woman passed out in the bed beside me. I didn’t even remember picking her up at the club last night, but that was nothing new. It wasn’t the first time I’d woken up beside some random one-night stand, and I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be the last.
“Oh my God,” I breathed, placing my hand on my chest. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?” “Goldie.”
“Jesus, you are!” I snapped, losing control. “We just buried my brother, and you’re fucking drunk!” “I’m not drunk,” he lied. Just like Daniel had all those times. “I just had a couple drinks, that’s all. I needed it to get through.”
“We’re so done, Mace. You’re deluded if you think you don’t have a problem, and I’m not letting another drunk asshole take anything else from me. This ends now.”
“He was a nasty drunk. He said the ugliest things when he’d been drinking. Everything was my fault. I wasn’t a good enough wife, I didn’t work hard enough, I didn’t bring in enough money to keep him in the lifestyle he felt he deserved, even though his worthless ass wouldn’t bother to find another job when he lost his. I couldn’t cook or clean to his liking. I couldn’t do anything right.”
“I finally had enough. I’d packed my shit, set on leaving, when he came home and got so pissed he decided to put me in the hospital instead of just letting me go.”
“Look, there’s one simple way to figure this out. Answer this question for me: What’s the worse outcome? That you take your shot and it doesn’t work out, or that you don’t and never know if you missed out on something amazing?”
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