Prologue: Sweet Revenge (Revenge series, #3)
The “OFFICIAL” release of Sweet Revenge is upon us. And by “us,” I mean “me.” I’m lowkey hyperventilating. Just sent out the first round of ARCs and I need someone to hold me.
Quick reminder. Sweet Revenge is my FIRST Sports Romance and the THIRD stand-alone in the Revenge series. You’ll find the same sort of formula that I love to write: mystery, action, suspense and lots of steam.
If you’re still interested in reading and reviewing Sweet Revenge, stop by my Reader’s Roundtable: bit.ly/NatalieReaders
I’m sending out special updates tomorrow!
And don’t forget to read the Prologue below:
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Prologue
To take revenge halfheartedly is to court disaster: Either condemn or crown your hatred.
– Pierre Corneille
COLTON
Thereβs only three ways to deal with the world when about half of the English-speaking people in it know your name by heart.
And Iβve failed at all three.
It was the fame. A large part of me fucking hated it.
I couldnβt ignore it. Couldnβt embrace it. And when I tried to dive dick first into it and literally fuck the world, that plan fell stale, a taste that long stopped having any flavor.
That third method of coping with international stardomβ¦ is why Iβm here right now.
At this event. In this very state. Standing in an overpriced pool house on an overcast grey May day, staring at myself. I meet my own smoky blue eyes in the rain-streaked glass as I try to shake off seven whole nights without sleep.
I can tell one thing: The Florida fucking heat isnβt helping.
But the least helpful part of it all is the woman on her knees gazing up at me, her green eyes pleading, her pink mouth pressed into an βOβ as she inches toward meβ¦like a human Eureka vacuum cleaner, ready to suck me into oblivion. I stare at her, feeling the effects of the tequila in my systemβ¦ and nothing more.
Iβd tell her to leave, but old habits die hard. Old obsessions die even harder, and despite my need to have nothing to do with the woman currently crawling to me on the tiled floor, my cock is still half solid, a dull passion stirring in me as I tell myself to get it over with.
My fuck fix. To quit it and head home.
I shouldnβt have come here anyway. I should be getting ready for the season. Not traveling a hundred miles to see a man who wants nothing to do with me, to a wedding I wasnβt even fucking invited toβ¦
Hiding out in the pool house hasnβt worked. Olβ dustbuster on her knees found me. Itβs only a matter of time before others do, including the paparazzi, whose cameras Iβve been trying to avoid for three days in the wake of another rumor about me and some stoned-out starletβa rumor that, like the recent others, are so wrong itβs laughable.
But I canβt shake the slimy bastards. And I remember when I used to eat this shit up, devour the adoration for breakfast, drink from the well of women, money and notoriety at night.
Such were the βperksβ of stardom, the tumbles on the quest for success. A success nobody ever saw for meβ¦ including my own father. I was his bastard, his dirty little secretβ¦
My mother was a convenient fuck for him, his mistress by proxy. Nothing more.
The great Victor Foxx barely acknowledged the other son he fathered, and on the few chances he did, this sonβthe brown-haired, bright-eyed boy Iβd been, had worshiped him, wondering where he went every time he stepped out of the door, not knowing for years that it was to his other childβthe one that mattered.
Being a family was something we never could beβ¦.
Not when one side of the family grew up as trash, and the other as royalty. I could never be a true Foxx like Brendon, Victorβs darling boy. The prince and the pauper story couldnβt have been more true. Only back thenβ¦ I was the pauper. And in our fatherβs eyes, Brendon would always be the prince.
We were two sides of a fucked-up coin.
I barely blinked when my publicist first mentioned how the book Iβd written might bring down my very distant brother with it because truly, if that was the case, then so be it. Itβs not like my βbrotherβ ever gave a fuck. He sneered at our side of the family, and it didnβt take being ignored for years upon years to be reminded of that fact.
The truth?
I was going to get my sweet revenge against my father, Victor Foxx, either way, and if that meant that my step-brother/half-brother/whatever-the-fuck was going to take a tumble with dear old dad, well⦠That might even make the revenge just that more sweet.
I think of the tell-all Iβve written and find my libido again, my cock finally stirring to stand straight up. I grab the girl as she finally slithers between my legs, pulling her to her feet, knowing I need to make this quick. She yelps as she starts to stand on her two heels, her eyes excited and wide, her exhales breathy as I turn her towards the back of the couch, sliding my body behind hers, trying to will my hard-on to stay up.
Fuck, Iβm out of practiceβ¦and hoping that the present will live up to my wild past. I rumble in her ear.
βSpread your legs.β And she widens her stance, shivering. Reaching for the hem of her black pencil skirt,
I slide my hands along the outside of her thighs. Iβm just skimming her hips when the sound of loud laughing pulls my attention to the door, keeping it.
Weβve got some visitors, unwelcome ones at that. A man in a black tux and bridesmaid in peach. The woman is a fucking knockout. Itβs the only thought I allow myself to have as I make a rush for the bathroom door, pinning my little blower girl behind it. I close it softly, listening to the conversation beyond it.
My breathing grows even.
βShit,β the man curses. βThat was a close one.β
βI know,β the woman breathes on a laugh. I hear rustling and couch cushions give way as the couple plops down in the main room where we just were.
βWe almost got caught boning by Foxxβs batty step-mom…β The admission makes my breathing stop completely. βBut what would have been worse,β the stranger continues, βis if Foxx had caught her there. I donβt care how many years itβs been. If Foxx caught his fatherβs other family at his wedding, heβd flip his shit.β
βBut isnβt she like a mom to him?β the woman asks.
βNo,β I hear from the other side. βShe was his fatherβs mistress. Two completely different things. Foxxβs father fucks up in his affair, has a kid. Foxxβs mother leaves his cheating bastard of a dad to head back to Bumfuck, Tennesseeβhas a total breakdown. I met his mom from time to time, when I was growing up. Fucking meltdown city. The mistress made off with a settlement to keep quietβ¦ and Foxx isnβt an easy one to forgive and forget.β He stops. βI donβt know even know what she was doing here.β
βInvited by the blushing bride, most likely,β she murmurs. βMan, my sister sure knows how to screw up a good time.β
βTell me about it.β I hear the soft, muffled sound of lips touching. βI didnβt even get to make you come yetβ¦β The voice trails off to the sounds of tittering in return. βBut thereβs still time before the reception…β The tittering turns to moans, and just when things start to get really interesting, the noises stop, followed by a crescendo of flutes and violins.
The reception is beginning.
βFuck. Fuckfuckfuck,β the blonde out there swears. βWeβve gotta go.β
βDammit, Elena,β the man in the tux grits out. βFive fucking minutes.β
βNo,β she laughs.
βThreeβ¦β he pauses. βAnd a half.β
βCome on,β she beckons. The couch cushions groan. βWeβve gotta go before weβre missed.β
The sounds of footsteps echo outwards away from the bathroom. Heavy glass slides across the floor and with my ear to the wood, I finally hear the footsteps go faint as they head down the small hall and out the door. The screen door shuts with a clang, and I listen closer. When at last I hear nothing but the music, I make my way out into the main floor, tugging my Eureka sucker behind me.
When I walk out onto the floor, the door opens once more. And this time, itβs the man of the hourβFoxx, standing there, looking at me. His white collar is undone, his tuxedo cummerbund half-hangs as he stares in my direction, his face unmoving, his jaw twitching as he clenches his elegant black bow tie. A bow tie belonging to a groom.
Looking nothing like a man whoβs just been married, I can see the anger in his eyes, his face growing hard and rigid beneath a slick blond mane that grows paler with each ticking second. His eyes flit to the woman behind me, then back at my face. He exhales with a sigh, his shoulders falling.
His voice is gritty. βHello, Colton.β
I glare back. βHelloβ¦ brother.β